Author's Note:
In which I tried to write on Chapter 75 today, but my brain insists that I'm not really done with Chapter 74 yet, so much that I can't focus on the next chapter until I adjusted some things here. So, I reread and added some more stuff to this and fine-tuned some details. Dammit brain.
Also, happy belated Eid to anyone celebrating!
'-
74 Shades Long Gone
Melchior steps out of the Slytherin common room. Pendleton was certain that Melchior already knows what they're going to do on that day. A farce at the Slytherin table—which Melchior wanted no part of. Getting rained on at near-zero temperatures. Being Melchior is suffering.
'-
Melchior was the first to notice that Tom left.
The brunet remembered that there wasn't really any prefect meeting this early—for one, Mordred was right there across the Slytherin common room dutifully reading whatever it was that Emma had tasked him with.
Most of the people he knew closely were still there too. Gallus might have stood up and left because his brother had homework issues, and he was too responsible as the oldest Rosier sibling to leave Jonah alone, but everyone else was still around. Pendleton was elbow deep in yet-another-ancient-runes-tome, but even he didn't just up and left for his own dorms and continued reading and taking notes here.
It wasn't any study group, then. He supposed it might be an inter-house study group, but those were as rare as hen's teeth. He didn't think Tom had many of those. Alphard dropped in, and he started to bicker with Ves as soon as he arrived. With some effort, he tuned both of them out, and it only strengthened his resolve to get out.
Of course, he might be wrong about it. Still…he just felt uneasy. In his restlessness, Melchior stood up. Abraxas noticed him as he did so.
"Melchior?"
"I'm going out for a walk."
"Huh. I don't think the Hogwarts grounds are welcoming." the blond commented.
He snorted. "Who's crazy enough to go trudging through snow? No, just around the castle."
"Ah. Well, have a good walk."
"Yeah, I will." Melchior nodded at his friend.
Ves and Alphard waved at him in the lull between their arguments and Melchior waved back. He picked up the cashmere scarf that was draped at the headrest of his chair to put on without further ado. It was dark and detailed like the night sky with silver threads for stars—a nod to the family coat of arms that he was actually fond of. Melchior concluded that he was probably overthinking this.
Tom probably had…other appointments that he had to attend to, he thought. But his legs still carried him out of the Slytherin common room and into the chilly dungeon corridors.
He meandered on the below-ground levels for a while before his steps began to drift upwards. He hadn't said anything because he knew that Abraxas would just tell him that he was worrying too much. Ves would shrug and roll his eyes at him. The Slytherin skipped the Great Hall without a second thought; even though it offered some pastimes and tea cakes at this hour, Tom did not have the habit of snacking. The same general lack of interest could be said about the empty classrooms on the ground floor, so he'd started up on the stairs again and reached the library some ten minutes later.
A polite nod as he passed sufficed to greet the librarian, the mysterious Madam Cobb of indeterminate age.
It never hurts to be polite. He wasn't Tom, who could find any book he needed with unerring accuracy by himself—he'd have to trouble Madam Cobb for assistance when writing his essays. This was particularly important now that they're approaching the end of terms. The term tests loomed ahead all of them, and the library population have started to double—any edge he could get from most of the masses would help. He presumed that it would triple from the average within a week.
He then made his rounds for a bit.
Unusually enough, Tom wasn't there either.
As Melchior walked back towards the library's exit, he mulled over his choices. He could keep walking semi-randomly, in a rough search pattern of some sort (not that it was very effective at the castle, what with Hogwarts' changing floors and connections). Or, I could use that locator charm Tom showed in the Advanced Charms study group.
His hand paused over an inner pocket as he stepped to the side of the library's great double doors.
It would be the fastest and most convenient, but the tracking spell had been passed on with some understanding involved. The first was that they were assumed to have the prudence to mostly not use it, by gentleman's agreement. It had to be realised that tracking every other person recklessly was a good way to get people to band together and stamp down on you (hexes and jinxes are probably involved) and get some sort of anti-tracking charm precisely geared against you. That was definitely not a great thing to experience.
There was a reason that Tom didn't just teach it to everybody, or how it wasn't a part of the Hogwarts curriculum. The professors are savvier than most students recognise and realised the amount of mischief the students could get up to with it. This way, if they found it on their own, the teachers probably considered it the prize of diligent scholarship. Melchior had seen the tome that Tom got it from. It was an older book; the sentences could be three lines long or even an entire paragraph at that. Some of the sentence construction felt weird to the modern reader, not to mention the occasional spelling irregularity. The text meandered and took a long while before it finally detailed the spell.
Frankly, he was surprised that Tom even found it. If he'd been given the book to read, he'd probably fell asleep over it not far into the relevant chapter.
Tom would understand the use in an emergency.
But was this an emergency, though?
No, not quite. Yet this wasn't a random attempt either. As his thoughts progressed, his left hand had already pulled out a silver tie pin while his wand was in his right hand. Melchior held the pin in a closed fist before forcing himself to relax and shook his head as realisation settled in. He knew Abraxas was a little dense, but he should've known better in his stead. They had been casually talking about family…but Tom didn't exactly have any, did he?
The dark-haired wizard took a deep breath.
Well, here goes nothing.
'-
"Tom?"
Tom had been walking away and down from Dumbledore's office with more thoughts in his head, passing what he'd surmised was one set of Transfigurations classroom. The corridor wasn't one oft-traversed outside of class hours, and it wasn't strange to see him regard the call with mild surprise.
"Melchior. You were heading to consult about transfigurations, I suppose?"
It was Melchior's turn to be a little baffled now. "Transfigurations?"
"This hallway is mostly just classes and the other turns from it also led to more classes. Follow it until the end and go up, though, and you'll reach Dumbledore's office."
"What, oh no. You know I don't even take Advanced Transfigurations." He didn't hide his slight shudder at that. "But then…you had something to discuss about transfigurations, huh?"
Tom's forehead started to furrow before he rubbed his brows.
"…something like that."
It was an oddly non-specific answer. He took that as a sign to simply move on. "Anyway, I was looking for you, wondering if you end up finding a good idea for Hermione's gift."
"I've visited Slughorn earlier, and well, Dumbledore. Not a lot of very helpful advice there," Tom muttered, "but when it comes to missing people there's something to be said about memories, or things that remind you of said memories."
Melchior almost tripped over his own shoes. Dumbledore? Tom mentioned about looking for gifts to Dumbledore and not just Slughorn? It didn't make sense. His sideways glance told him that Tom was clearly not enthusiastic about it either, if the way he was pinching the bridge of his nose was any indication.
He didn't mention it and simply found another subject.
"Memories, huh? Well, I can understand why that's difficult for Hermione. If she'd been any other pureblood witch, it wouldn't be that hard to respectfully request for memorable photographs from her parents or siblings to enlarge and frame, for example. Maybe you can get a collection about some pleasant past event. Hermione's though…" he mused.
Melchior sighed and his gaze wandered to the ceiling.
"There's not exactly a home we can visit though, is there?"
A pause. The steps beside him came to a stop.
"That's exactly it." Tom suddenly said.
"Uh, pardon?"
The prefect had turned around to face him now, his dark eyes now lit with an inner fire. "You made a good point. You're in Advanced Charms, so you would have a good grasp on how visualisation affects the breadth of a spell's effects and their limitations. We could have gone today if it wasn't for the possible paperwork that we'd need to deal with beforehand. Never mind. I'm sure Pendleton can handle it for this weekend."
Tom gave his shoulder a solid clap and walked at a faster rate than before. Slightly bemused, Melchior only trailed in his wake. It wasn't any different than what he usually did, anyway. He might not know what exactly Tom was pulling him into, but it couldn't have been that bad. It was just about finding a gift for Hermione. (It was probably just Tom's perfectionist streak kicking in and making it overly complicated as usual, he was sure of it).
As Tom turned to a small closet that he wasn't even aware of, he knocked on the door and opened it easily. There was a very narrow stairs there, one that almost made him claustrophobic, but Melchior understood their utility later. When they exited, they were instantly in a ground floor hallway, one that lead to the Great Hall. That was at least three stories down using just one set of stairs.
"So, you've been gathering various advice and opinions for Hermione's possible gifts, right?" Melchior asked, now that Tom seemed to be in a more amiable mood.
"Quite."
"What suggestion did Dexter made?" he asked warmly.
Tom paused and glanced at him sideways, and Melchior felt a pressing need to clarify under the look. "Well, you know, since he's the Head of her House. She took Advanced Astronomy too, and they seem to be quite close. He might have some ideas and…"
From the way Tom's expression morphed into irritated realisation, Melchior wisely let his explanation trail off and made no further mention of that either. His mood had improved slightly at this point.
I think this interest of his is still a good thing, he mused.
He'd never thought to see Tom actually showing that he could be concerned about someone else's happiness. It felt…unfamiliar, but for him, it was a welcome change compared to the possibility of him showing his latest innovation in pain-inflicting spells.
'-
The plan seemed to begin with Pendleton asking him during breakfast on Friday morning.
"Would you rather leave this afternoon, or Sunday morning and thus take the half of your weekend?"
Melchior's answer was, "What, in seven hels, are you talking about?"
To be fair, it was clearly not Melchior's plan. It was probably Tom's again, as usual. Pendleton blinked slowly at his vexed answer, trying to adjust something in his mind.
"You know."
The brunet let a quiet moment stand as he took a steady breath.
"No, I don't. Even if I know, I don't think I can just…read your mind without any other details, Pendleton." It was hard to keep the exasperation away from his voice, but he managed somehow.
"Tom said that you were the one who gave him the idea," Pendleton eyed him quizzically, pinning him with glacial blue eyes. "You certainly passed the information that made it easier to check—regulations-wise, that is."
Melchior opened his mouth for a moment before he closed it again immediately. He was about to tell Pendleton that the last time he gave Tom an idea, he was simply telling him about how he was going to visit Jemima from time to time to make sure she was doing well. Tom actually looked enlightened and told him that it was an excellent idea—besides, it would only help if the Averys knew that one of them was always watching them, right? Right.
That would ruin the idea of helping her recovery completely! He certainly had no intention of adding more pressure on Irwin when he was well and truly cowed. Of course, it's not as if he'd say that out loud. The best he could do was to smile and say nothing, and leave Tom with his own perception.
Half of intelligence, he realised, was just having enough tact to shut up.
Melchior ran his left hand slowly through his dark curls while he recalled something else.
"Do you remember that time last year when I said that it's not a bad idea to help the younger years when they're having problems, whether in class or outside it?" the Nott heir said instead, his tone amiable once more.
"Ah, because they would be more familiar with us and more open if we ask for their assistance, isn't it?"
"Well, I was focusing more to let them associate our presence with a helping hand and a presence that help removes problems from their lives, yes." The dark-haired Slytherin restated his opinion back then.
Pendleton raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"
"Tom said that he appreciated my initiative…"
"I'm still not seeing anything—"
"…and that getting them to start owing us favours was a solid beginning,"
"—I suppose it is—"
"—and if I can also start giving encouragement of loyalty to him and add ways to acclimatise them into viewing him positively in general, he'd be happier!" Melchior finished in a tone that was aggressively cheery and he stared Pendleton down. "So, you see, if he said I gave him an idea, I can frankly say that I have not the slightest inkling of what he actually meant."
They exchanged looks for a moment; Melchior with his rather strained smile and Pendleton with a dawning understanding. The hint of amused schadenfreude, of 'better you than me' feeling was not appreciated, though.
"It's still somewhat related to your initial idea, though," Pendleton opined. "And you gave me a heads up of the possible permit snarls we might cross."
Melchior's gaze turned flatter at that. "But would you have guessed what I inspired in him if I didn't tell you?"
"…ah." Pendleton said.
"Yes, 'ah'. So, if you can actually tell me what this is about, I'll actually be pleased."
"Well, you know, it's the expedition to that island in the North Sea?"
This time, Melchior didn't bother restraining himself; he rubbed his temples and sighed. No, that did not clarify anything either. He might be working through a lot of Wizengamot's docket to provide Orion with the meat of the issues, as well as the possible solutions. Having House Black's partiality to them would be a great boon, sure.
He was 100% certain that he did not read anything that would require adventuring in the North Sea!
"What 'expedition'?"
The blond quietly glanced at his surroundings with a watchfulness that Melchior considered completely unnecessary.
"The one to that little-known and little-heard place?"
Melchior took a deep breath and held it, counting to five before he exhaled. Elbow on the table, he rested his forehead on his left palm.
The thing about Pendleton was that he was sometimes too good at piecing clues and little details together into a larger story. He was one of the few who could keep up with the scope of Tom's plans. One downside of that is that some things that seemed obvious to the pale blond would easily escape the grasp of most people. He also tended to miss that not everyone looked up the related details of a particular topic after a meeting or conversation that they can then recall them in-depth afterwards.
When he thinks he's being subtle, he's absolutely being incomprehensible.
Pendleton shrugged, oblivious to his thoughts. "I'm sure you'll figure it out easily."
'-
They agreed on this (Friday) afternoon. Melchior would rather have his Sunday rather free for his own personal schedule.
In the interest of not being roped into some suspicious-looking activity he barely understood, Melchior decided that he could at least try to figure out what Tom was thinking as he sat at lunch. Admittedly, it went as well as a random's foolhardy dwarf's attempt to outsmart Loki, and by his pathetic lonesome at that. Yet not trying at all would only leave him even more unprepared for whatever thrilling voyage was ahead.
So…it was best that he would at least try to prepare himself.
Abraxas had started talking to Pendleton since Melchior hadn't been responding much to whatever it was that he was exuberantly telling stories about. The other blond looked reluctant to be parted from his book, but gamely gave Abraxas an ear. Melchior sniffed inwardly. He was the one who'd been obstruse this morning—he could stand to bear Abraxas' attention for one meal.
Alright, when was the last time that Tom seemed 'inspired' by what I said?
The Slytherin prefect had been rather obsessed with getting Hermione the perfect gift lately. That was something Melchior remembered. It was just yesterday afternoon that he'd gone out looking for Tom, worried that their dense Housemates had unknowingly said something to set him off. Tom was…somewhere unexpected (Dumbledore's corner of Hogwarts, really?) He hadn't quite gotten the full story on that one yet, but that was something he could catch up with later. Then, Tom was…
Melchior blinked as the memory came to him.
…huh, he seemed more positive afterwards.
They talked about memories and…he drew a blank. What does that have to do to braving the bloody North Sea in winter, though?
Memories, reminders, mementos… well, there wasn't much use thinking about that since Hermione's parents were already gone, was it? He was at a dead end here.
Trying to force yourself to remember something you've forgotten was a pretty useless endeavour, and the same can be said of forcing yourself to solve a problem when you were feeling uninspired. He shook his head and returned his attention to the portion of kedgeree he'd taken. Abraxas had taken his contemplative position to mean that he can swipe some choice haddock cuts from his plate from Melchior's right.
The brunet let him. Not long after that came the yelp he was waiting for.
"What the heck is that?" Abraxas protested.
Melchior gave him an amused glance. "Kedgeree. I thought you've seen it served from time to time in Hogwarts?"
"Pffftt! That's not kedgeree!" Melchior didn't hide his smirk this time. "My family's house elfs definitely knows kedgeree and this is not it, you cockwomble!"
"Oh, this is still it, as you put it. You just missed the yoghurt you're supposed to eat it with, and the raita."
Abraxas inhaled half a small bowl of yoghurt, ignoring a sixth-year who gave him the evil eye for taking so much of it to himself. After all, if the house elfs were on the busy side, it usually took them a while to refill the dishes.
"Alright, helps a bit, but not much. Now you can stop being a grinning tosser and explain."
It was at this point that Abraxas clearly remembered he was a top-of-the-line potioneer of their year, and had a variety of potions prepared precisely for these types of dinner mishaps. With a roll of his eye and a muttered curse at himself, he pulled out a vial of milky, mint-coloured liquid from his mokeskin bag and downed that in one go, relieving himself of any spiciness completely.
Melchior grinned when he saw that.
"It's masala khichdi, just with the usual British kedgeree variation of having fish in it. I thought you'd notice how spicy it was from the smell of the spices used, actually, that was why I didn't say anything." Melchior said with a friendly tone. Well, that, and because you were lifting fish off my plate instead of just asking.
"If you were looking for the milder kedgeree, that would be that one over there."
The brunet pointed to across the table, to the large rice dish that Pendleton was clearly serving himself from next to Gallus. The pale Slytherin clearly knew the limits of his spice tolerance, unlike the other blond.
"Why are there even two of the same bloody things anyway?" Abraxas was complaining to no one in particular.
"Because when either one is served, there'd always been someone grousing about the lack of the other." Gallus replied, annoyance clear in his voice, directly across the table from Melchior. "Ramanujan was complaining about it on Monday when there was just kedgeree available. I complained the last time there was just the khichdi. I guess someone finally had the bright idea to just ask the kitchen to make both when necessary."
"Huh." he mused out loud.
That was a Slytherin Melchior only vaguely knew by sight, and personally not at all. Sixth-year, I think?
Huh, indeed. Melchior remembered that sometime earlier this week, he saw Chakravarty stalking out of the Ravenclaw table and outright pulled several other students with her out of the Great Hall during lunch (it was rather hard to miss her figure—his eyes certainly found her as she moved faster than his brain did). This was probably due to her efforts, then. I owe her some thanks.
"Well, next time, you could always just ask first instead of putting random things into your mouth." Melchior added lightly.
"How are you not having any trouble eating, that, anyway?" Abraxas asked.
Melchior continued his meal in a blasé manner. "Because I've visited various related families since I was young and my mother exchanged recipes all the time. I get used to all their dishes."
"The old Notts land were from Orkney way up there. Not exactly the hub of the spice trade or civilisation, that."
Melchior rolled his eyes. "Right, because the Malfoys established themselves from the court wizards of the Carolingian Kings and had never moved anywhere else from the Frankish lands since. Nor did they marry anyone else from outside the area either."
"Not really, even before we moved to England—"
Melchior gave him a deadpan stare. Abraxas blinked before his mind actually caught his sarcastic tone.
"Ah, I see what you mean. I didn't really read up the far-off links of other families in detail. Seems like I need to brush up on it. There's a lot more families in Hogwarts these days, and newer ones like the Orpingtons too."
Melchior politely refrained from mentioning that the Notts didn't actually stay in place most of the time, their end-of-the-world demesne notwithstanding—they'd been well-travelled even in the time when muggles still wrote 'here be dragons' on their maps, or when the Malfoys were content with being Carolingian hatchet men in armour. Their links to the old kingdoms on the eastern African coast were many. These were kingdoms who had trade accounts with Old Egypt, if not those who had held the Upper Nile and its life-giving black soil at different parts of history.
And what had been established in Gaul just then?
Still, he knew that Abraxas wasn't that interested in history—and he could recognise a flimsy excuse when he heard it. He let it go.
"Well, yeah. History is right important, innit?" Ves suddenly piped in from across the table.
Melchior almost choked as he stopped an impromptu surprised laugh. Abraxas rolled his eyes. "I don't want to hear that from you."
"Wot?"
"You didn't even know half of Verrault's family was Dutch!" Abraxas retorted.
"Well, not obvious, is it?"
"His first name was a blaring clue!"
Ves shrugged, unconcerned. "Well, he ain't from our House. Not like he's from a potion-making family either, or one in astronomy."
That earned a loud scoff from Alphard, across the table and to the left of Gallus (from Melchior's perspective). The Black wizard continued shovelling food into his mouth, albeit with unbelievably precise table manners for one who was going through food with the speed of a wolf through deer guts. Melchior could understand why—Ves' disinterest in things outside his family's specialties were rather legendary in their year, or his general disinterest in socialising back in first year. If it wasn't for Pendleton and Tom…
Ves gave Alphard a look, which the Black wizard easily ignored.
"You thought Camellia Lee was from America. Camellia Lee." It was Gallus who piped up in disbelief first, as Orion wasn't quite done swallowing his food yet. Gallus even leaned forward to be able to turn towards Starkey, 'how much of a dolt are you?' clear on his face. Melchior understood his complaint, because even during last year's Christmas ball, it was quite clear from the dress she chose that her family didn't come from anywhere near Europe, or the mishmash of part-European styles that the Americans were usually more known for.
"Well, yeah. We got that seventh-year Lee 'ere. Whatshisname…ah, Beauregard Lee. Thought they were from the same family." Ves commented with the same easy aplomb. He scoffed at Pendleton's kedgeree and went for the masala khichdi in front of Melchior. Vespasian's disdainful gaze rolled off Pendleton like water off a duck's back, probably from the ease of long practice.
Melchior simply passed the khichdi to Ves without a word, not even reacting to this newest farce he was starting.
"I think you're expecting too much for him to keep up—she's not even Slytherin," Alphard piped up. His comment might seem harmless (and Melchior reluctantly admitted as true), but there was a crafty look in his eyes. "Why not try asking him about one of our Housemates?"
"Sure," Gallus groused. "Like who?"
"Seventh-year…hmm, lemme see." Alphard made a point of rubbing his chin as he stared at the rolling white clouds that were the Great Hall's ceilings. He picked a random Slytherin. "Seventh-year, Kallan."
"Callahan? Sounds Irish." Ves commented.
Alphard's eyes were bright, the only reaction he was showing on his otherwise politely-even face (though he looked like he was biting his cheeks). Gallus, on the other hand, groaned and thumped his head on the table.
"Really? Well, maybe you'd change your mind if you know his first name." Alphard's tone was a tad too-cheerful.
"Yeah? What's it, then?"
"Kamatchi, Kamatchi Kallan."
"What, half-Chinese? Chinese-Irish?" There was a louder knocking sound as Gallus hit his head against the table harder. Ves frowned in thought. "Wait, no, not Chinese! It's just…some other Asian country. That's it! Half-Asian."
Abraxas nodded after a while. "Technically he's not wrong. Kallan is at least half-Asian."
"HAHAHAHAHAHA…"
Alphard had lost his battle against laughter and was guffawing uncontrollably. Ves, as usual, looked supremely unconcerned that it had anything to do with him. Melchior wasn't inclined to have anything to do with dealing with that nutter's contextual provinciality either that he'd already forced himself not to reply to him. At all.
"Seriously, he's still somewhat right," Abraxas repeated.
Melchior rolled his eyes at Brax. Of all the times he was trying to be politely nice…
"Sure—might as well point to a random wizard or witch here with eyes closed and insist that he knows the person is at least half-European. Great! Very accurate! A great psychic of our times!" The dark-haired Slytherin sighed and pushed two folded napkins underneath Gallus' head the next time he pulled up. "Gallus, come on. Ves isn't worth bruising your forehead."
There was an unintelligible muttering from the Rosier heir.
"Just give up now if you value your sanity." Pendleton noted dryly to the still-frustrated Slytherin. "I know I did. If a dog bites you, are you going to get mad and bite back?"
Melchior's food went down the wrong pipe, and he had to look for a drink even as he laughed-coughed. Pendleton had the gall to only smirk when he glared at him. Gallus groaned again, still face down, before finally raising his head nodded in agreeable defeat (and more importantly to Melchior, stopped trying to drive his head through the wood).
"Why wouldn't you bite back? The dog ain't going t' learn the lesson on its own!" Ves replied gleefully. Gallus quietly dropped his reddened forehead once more in surrender (against the napkin this time, thankfully).
A glance at Starkey's gleeful expression made it unclear whether he was unaware of what Pendleton implied, or if he was messing with all of them—that was something he wouldn't put past Ves either. Melchior only drank more of his glass of warm water to help clear his throat and shook his head. He had better things he needed to think about than the idiocy of his Housemates.
'-
Once Advanced DADA was done and over with on Friday afternoon, Melchior set off towards the Ancient Runes class to find Pendleton.
Just as he'd expected, the blond hadn't started to move anywhere, caught up in a discussion with Hufflepuff's Ms. Lee. His obsession with Ancient Runes were pretty well known among his friends now. It was mildly impressive how the other Slytherin managed to ignore all the stink eye her coterie was sending him. A tap on the shoulder was enough to make Pendleton realise that they have other things to do on their schedule.
Melchior only pinched the bridge of his nose when Pendleton took the effort to bow politely over Camellia Lee's right hand as he took his leave. He already had too much in his hands, he was not going to deal with inter-House relationships. Tom could handle that, considering that he chose Hermione. Besides, Camellia didn't have the usual polite-and-reserved expression he was used to seeing by now; she actually seemed…flattered? Huh.
He shook his head. Really, he was not going to make it his business. Melchior also took his leave with a much simpler polite bow, and soon they walked back towards the dungeons.
"Are we seriously going to somewhere in the North Sea?" he asked Pendleton for the fifth time that day while putting on his gloves. He saw the blond had already worn his. Seriously, what sort of permit was Pendleton talking about earlier? There was nothing like excavating a barrow or tomb, or any sort of dungeoneering involved that he'd passed on (yet he had the suspicion it was something they'd have to do)
"Yes?"
He rubbed his forehead and groaned. "Then we're underdressed for this!"
"Well, we're in our winter coats…"
"Which wouldn't do anything for the sodding pouring rain. Seriously, if you think Britain was bad, you need to adjust your standards once you're out in the North Sea. If you don't have a sealskin coat or other waterproof what-have-you, it wouldn't be comfortable at all." He stared the blond down. Between the two of them, he was the one with an ancestral home in the north.
The words brought Pendleton to a pause. "Well, we better find something better, then."
"You do that. I'm finding Tom first."
'-
Melchior didn't blink when Pendleton passed him some language lozenges and he ate that easily.
Sure, those would only work for a day, but he doubted they'd even spend the night in wherever it was they were going to. His basic grasp of Norn might be mutually comprehensible enough with something spoken by any other North Sea islander, but he supposed Pendleton and Tom wouldn't even have that.
First came the polite chat with Slughorn, who kindly lent them his fireplace. He and Tom didn't immediately leave and made some small talk first, both more-or-less leading to the same purpose. When they finally managed to get the professor to cough up which of his potion ingredients were running low, they promised to make a stop at his favoured apothecary at Diagon Alley on their way back to get them.
That was one favour efficiently repaid within one trip.
Stepping out into Leaky Cauldron was to be expected. He had to pick up his pace into a light run as Tom was light on his feet as he located the underground station closest to them. The next step to St. Pancras wasn't that unexpected, and he wasn't surprised when Pendleton told him that the next stop after that would be Dover. As one of the larger cities of the Cinque Ports, Dover was one of the few locations in Britain where access to intercontinental floo travel was still periodically opened and not blocked. London, both the City proper and the other boroughs had international floo barred from even before Grindelwald's attack. Now? Only a few cities allowed international floo access.
There was barely a line in front of them and Tom soon threw floo powder into a St. Pancras fireplace.
"Peverell House, Dover Castle."
Something seemed…odd, though. Even as he and Pendleton followed Tom's upright figure into the green flames and out of their next fireplace, he couldn't bring himself to take in the bright floor mosaic. There, several triremes with colourful sails glided from one end of the ocean-coloured floor to the other. It was an interesting example of Roman Britain decoration, and ordinarily, he would've been interested, even if the details were rather low (the smallest mosaic size was a half-inch square, at most). Yet now, he was distracted as he walked behind Tom out of the reception hall.
The sky was grey and miserable while the coastal, early December winds scraped against his cheeks, prompting him to cast a warming charm by reflex. The prefect weaved with confident strides past the smaller crowds of intercontinental travellers ahead of them. It was a good thing that their coats were their most water-resistant ones, because light rain poured down the moment that they were outside. Melchior corrected the position of his hat and he saw Pendleton had just finished doing the same.
Something still niggled at the back of his mind.
If he was about to go home…he wouldn't really need to go to Dover, would he? No, he'd go north. He'd have headed to Glasgow or Edinburgh, because one can travel to any of the other northern isles from the two primary northern ports—
"Wait a second—"
Tom took a turn to the right, and he felt Pendleton's slight tug on his elbow. Tom, can you please not use marching speed? He cursed inwardly. In his hurry, he barely had any time to care about the old castle they could see atop a nearby hill (it was smaller than it looked in photographs and paintings). The door he entered had continental departures carved on top, dancing imps and gargoyles included in the corner as decorations and one blew a raspberry at him. Pendleton ducked from a series of stone acorns thrown by another imp and scared it away by sending some sparklers back, but Melchior almost lost his footing when he saw the words.
What in hel?
"Melchior."
It was Pendleton again, gently pulling on him.
"I'm fine." He moved, first with the crowd, and afterwards towards a fireplace that Pendleton pointed at. He saw an impatient Tom waiting for them already and he picked up his pace. The moment Tom saw them catching up to him, he threw the floo powder he was already holding into the large fireplace next to him.
"Avaldsnes Kirke, Karmøy."
Pendleton was already moving. Melchior managed a curse before he followed the two of them this time.
"Salazar's balls."
Avaldnes Church? Yeah, that's definitely a northern place name.
'-
The name of their destination was only vaguely familiar to him, and the simple wooden hall they arrived at did not give many clues either. Tom walked out of the chamber, greeted the clerk manning the front desk with a 'good evening' and proceeded to the exit with the same purposeful stride he'd had before as the two of them caught up to him.
Frigid air blasted their faces. It was colder here, even if it wasn't Hogwarts-grounds-freezing. That was his first clue. The ancient church nearby was smaller and simpler than he'd expected. Well, it's not Lindisfarne, though he supposed it wasn't a ruin, which was more than what Lindisfarne could claim.
Where it had only been sunset in Dover, the sky over them was a purplish hue. If the weather wasn't enough, this was another sign showing that they'd moved farther north than before. Looking up, there was no moon to be seen. A recall on when the next full moon would be (the 22nd), and he realised that this was just a few days before new moon. Damn, this is going to be as dark as a ruddy underworld trip. He was not enjoying the parallels.
At least we're not trying to retrieve anyone's soul right now.
"Walking is going to take too long, isn't it?" Pendleton finally spoke up. Tom glanced back at the blond.
"Why yes. Which was why I asked you to bring a broom in your mokeskin bag."
"We can't just floo there?" Melchior asked, even as he followed suit in taking his mokeskin bag out.
"That would be possible if there was an active fireplace. There wasn't, and this was the closest floo terminus I could find." Tom answered.
Even as he settled himself over his broom, Melchior was still unsure as to why he was here. Sure, Pendleton seemed to have figured out some of the plan and helped it along at some points, that was why he was here. But Abraxas was the better flyer if they had to be on the broom for a while. It didn't help that it started raining not long after they took off. His hands might not be cold, but it was always more annoying to fly with gloves on than without.
He supposed that even without completely figuring out their destination yet, he could shut his mouth, unlike Ves (his curiosity would probably have gotten the best of him at this point, and he'd shout questions if he had to). Gallus could fly just as well but disliked flying more, so not choosing him to go with Tom now would be kinder…
…but it wasn't like Tom to do something simply because it was kind.
At least he didn't have to navigate for all of them like Tom. The prefect paused at some parts of their routes, content to hover with his broom as he floated a waterproofed map open next to him. Tom consulted it with a Lumos lighting the end of his wand while the wind and rain continued to batter them. Why he could look as placid as if he did this every other day, Melchior had no idea.
The lightning he could see flashing in the sky wasn't helping his mood any. Dammit, what did the Flight Mistress said about avoiding lightning? Shit, he couldn't remember, other than 'don't fly in a bloody storm'.
"We're going down at the clearing ahead." Tom announced, before Melchior needed to say anything.
Tom had lit several lantern spheres and floated them around him before he landed. It was convenient, because Melchior could now see the open grounds he had chosen. Pendleton had entered a dive already, and the brunet followed in his wake—literally, in this case. Why would he want to go headlong into the wind when he could coast right behind Pendleton?
They landed on packed earth. Melchior pulled out several of his own lantern spheres out of his mokeskin bag to increase the lighting and he lit each of them with his Lumos. He could see a few paths on the field—this wasn't the wilderness that they were visiting, not to mention that it wasn't that far from the old church that was the floo terminus. A village? What would Tom want with a village in the middle of nowhere?
Something was unusual, though. As they walked on, silhouettes of buildings rose in front of them, dark forms against the indigo sky. Melchior didn't really expect to be able to hear much with the rain muffling the entire place with its shroud of falling raindrops pattering over everything.
"Where's the light, though?" He muttered. That was one of the oddities, he'd just realised.
Pendleton's gaze to him had a hint of pity in it for an inexplicable reason, but he only shook his head and explained nothing, walking on from Melchior. Tom only glanced back at him once, but said nothing either, more focused on his own tasks.
What am I missing?
Lightning lit the sky, for a few seconds it was as if they were there in full daylight. Thunder boomed after.
That was when Melchior realised that they weren't exactly in a village—they were in the carcass of one.
What he'd thought was the silhouettes of a few buildings were the only standing wall or two of them. Most were burnt down to their foundations, the skeletal outline of rectangles here and there hinting of where the buildings would have stood before, full of life. The few walls were mostly black with soot, the ground intermixed with detritus of ashy grey and brick red.
Even now he could still catch the scent of smoke, the (illusionary?) echoes of a fire crackle. A passing wave of heat that disappeared as if it had never been there.
(The stench of blood rose in the air, along with the crackling sound of burning thatch.)
He took a wary step back. The place had been burned down by high-intensity magical fire.
It had to be; nothing else would leave such a strong echo in its surroundings, one that a wizard (or witch) would easily perceive. They were ghosts of one singular moment, saturated by magic until it bled over that they were imprinted in the environment as fragments.
He was familiar with it because magical saturation was basically how charms, how spells work. Even curses saturate the target with rotting or corrosive energy. For all his young age, Flitwick was still a competent professor and Melchior absorbed the knowledge he passed on easily.
"I suppose the next step is to find Hermione's house." Tom said, his level tone felt peculiar in the scene of such tragedy.
(Screams far off to his front right.)
Even Pendleton was more subdued than usual—the blond was startled once by who-knows-what before shaking his head, as if he could loosen mental cobwebs that way. Or ignore the echoes.
"A locator charm might work," Melchior found himself answering without thinking. "It's not as strong as it would be if it detected Hermione's actual presence, but well…like calls to like, echoes—of the same subject—tend to drift towards each other. There's some degree of attraction between them."
The other two wizards listened to him fully.
"Even if the echoes are weak enough to wobble in direction, we can take the time and mark out the wand's movement drift with each casting of the spell. There'd still be a general direction that all of them agree on if some connection is present."
He'd silently avoided mentioning the actual first line of that quote, or all the way to the end, for that matter. Blood sings to blood, bone will always find bone. It was a little too…pagan for the modern world. Too close to subjects forbidden by the Ministry, even if many old families still have tomes upon tomes on them.
Families like his own.
Advanced Charm, he finally remembered something Tom had said. The prefect had been looking for someone who'd also taken Advanced Charm. More than that, he'd read up not a little of his family's texts on the subject too—the Hogwarts library did not always have a copy of those books either. That was why he was here and not anyone else.
There was the sound of running feet to his back left, even as Tom and Pendleton both stood to his front right and left respectively. Melchior didn't even try to turn around and trace that noise.
Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it…
Tom took several objects from his pocket. The first was a Ravenclaw tie, the second was a brooch, and the last one was a cheap locket. He kept the tie but handed the other two to them. The weighted glance he gave them was enough to tell that he expected them to take very good care of the objects he lent them. Melchior gingerly held the brooch in his left hand, his wand in his right.
"Well, let's get going, gentlemen. We don't want to miss supper if we don't have to." Tom stated.
Pendleton handed Melchior a map of the place, already helpfully annotated by his handwriting. The map's title was right on top, translated with ease by the Language Lozenge he'd taken earlier as the letters shift after a few seconds in his eyes.
Map of British Wizarding Enclave in Kopervik
It only hit him then that they were in German-occupied Norway, in a ghost town not far from Kopervik getting absolutely rained on in winter because Tom was looking for the perfect gift for Hermione.
Pendleton had been correct too, even if he'd been obtuse about it—Melchior had passed on what little Mordred could glean about the place from his mother to the other Walpurgis Knight. But that was dry and technical! Supremely uninteresting. Not…not worth this.
He couldn't imagine why Tom thought it would be important to journey to a ruined research outpost, of all places.
Lightning struck not far from them again, thunder booming soon afterwards. Melchior saw a blood-soaked human outline on the soil not far from him. Fortunately, there was no dead body on top of it. Rain didn't touch him, but his fingers felt cold all the same. The occasional magical echoes didn't help with his darkening mood. He was really regretting making the underworld-journey-comparisons earlier.
Somewhere, a shout was cut off into a dying gurgle. The distant cry of a small child. They stopped abruptly, as if a great invisible door had shut them out and silence fell again, absolute and unnatural, as if they'd stepped underground. Even when he knew what they were, he couldn't stop goosebumps from rising.
Why did I think Tom's behaviour was an improvement, again?
Melchior felt like laughing and crying at the same time.
'-
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End Notes:
Tom has a highly analytical mind, but frankly, Melchior has a higher EQ. Also, I put "being Melchior is suffering" in the summary for a good reason.
Technically, the animated floor mosaic would seem pixelated to modern eyes, but I can't use that word since Melchior would've been unfamiliar with digital screens, much less pixels. Plus, barely anybody is working with digital screens in the 1940s. Did you guys know that white noise as a term was coined in 1965? There goes another term I told myself I couldn't use.
'-
Random lists of terms and stuff:
Carolingian Dynasty: (history, French History), also known as Carlovingians, Karolinger, etc. French dynasty arising from two rival Frankish noble families in the early 600s (613-645). They supported the Merovingian Dynasty for a while, and eventually turning the positions they held hereditary (such as Dux et princeps Francorum which had originally been one assigned by the king and could be removed at his behest). In 751, they finally held the throne in their own name, instead of mostly nudging the king as their puppet like before. The dynasty reached its peak with the crowning of Charlemagne as the first Emperor of the Romans in the West over three centuries. That, unfortunately, was also the beginning of their end as the empire would start fragmenting after his death.
Cinque Ports: (history, geographic) The Confederation of Cinque Ports and Two Ancient Towns, is a historic group of (originally) five coastal towns formed originally for military and trade purposes (though it is mostly ceremonial in modern times). The root of this confederation can be traced to Anglo-Saxon times. The five initial towns are Hastings, New Romney, Hythe, Dover and Sandwich. Rye was raised into full status as a cinque port town when New Romney was damaged by the 1287 storm, its harbour silted, and the river Rother shifting closer to Rye. Rye is the first of the 'two ancient towns' mentioned. The other 'ancient town' is Winchelsea. Other towns are also included in the confederation as 'limbs' of previous towns as it evolved.
In return for their responsibility for providing the ships and men for the coastal defence of their part of England (for a particular length of time out of a whole year—there's a lot of details in the fine print), the confederation was exempted from tax and tallage (they get to charge and manage their own). They are also given the privilege to judge and punish several categories of crimes that would usually be administered by a local lord (they're not beholden to some local lord here, just the king). So, kinda like the Imperial Cities in the Holy Roman Empire.
Norn: (linguistic) a West Scandinavian language spoken in the Northern Isles (Orkney, Shetland) off the North Coast of Scotland and in Caithness, far north of the Scottish mainland. It is supposed to have branched off from Old West Norse or Old Norwegian. Thought to become extinct in 1850, I theorised that the longer-lived generations of the magical world (as opposed to the non-magical one) and the ease that they can travel and meet co-linguists would've retained it among themselves for far longer.
Nott: (linguistic, Old Norse) I'm assuming that the word came from Old Norse nǫ́tt, nótt, nátt, which came from the Proto-Germanic *nahts, which is cognate with the Latin nox, which meant 'night'. This is why I surmised that the Notts came to the British Isles with the wave of the Viking invasion. I simply chose the particular wave to be the ones that brought Orkney and Shetland under the King of Norway.
(If anyone is trying to track down the etymology of certain words like I managed with Melchior's last name, Wiktionary is your friend, folks.)
'-
Additional Notes:
Kallan is a south Indian name, if you really want to know.
'Peverell House, Dover Castle.': In 1088, there were eight knights appointed (tenure) to guard Dover Castle, and one of them was named Geoffrey Peverell. I wasn't going to let such a convenient coincidence in naming go to waste. As such, the present public floo terminal at Dover Castle is the old Peverell House presumably built by Geoffrey who's a cadet branch of the famous magical Peverells.
'-