Posted for Sam. I'll tell you the same thing you told me: I sincerely hope this makes you smile… even if it is a little one.

-Of Monsters and Mysteries-

"Conscience is less an inner voice than the memory of a mother's glance." –Robert Brault

(year: 1998)

Grayish wisps of hair were pulled back into a short ponytail that curled toward the nape of her neck like a pig's tail. Compassionate, blue eyes scanned the hallway as the old woman shuffled down the narrow hallway. Her flat dress-shoes made a soft tap-tap-tap against the old wood floor. In her black suit pants and jacket, she could not have looked less like her cheerful, lighthearted self if she tried. She stopped in front of a bedroom door, knocked lightly, and in a gentle voice called, "Carmen? It's Grandma, sweetheart."

When she received no reply, the somber face pushed the door open and poked her head inside. She was met with the scene of an empty bedroom in disarray. All the drawers of the dresser were yanked open. Clothes were strewn across the floor. The pillow had been chucked off the bed, where it had landed a few feet away from the door. The chair by the desk was overturned.

Quietly shutting the door again, the woman moved down the hall to a different door. Behind this one she heard muffled sobs.

"Carmen?" she murmured again. She had to force herself to keep from pressing her ear to the door. "Sweetie? It's time to go."

Again, nothing met her ears save the insistent sobs from behind the door. This time when she opened it, she knew she would find her granddaughter behind it. Sure enough, two sock-clad feet poked out beside a porcelain, off-white toilet. As the old woman shuffled farther into the bathroom, the rest of the nine-year-old came into view. Her shoulders were hunched, her arms wrapped protectively around drawn-up knees, and tears streamed loudly down her cheeks. She wore a short-sleeve, black dress of velvet with lace at the ends of her sleeves and at the hem, which fell just below her knees. When she noticed her grandma, Carmen quickly hid her face in the small recess between her knees. Her shoulders continued to shake.

"Carmen?" the old woman crooned softly. "Carmen, you don't want to be late, sweetheart."

The girl lifted her head, only to sob, "Grandma," in a strangled tone. Tears fell from red-rimmed eyes down splotchy cheeks. Without warning the child launched herself into her grandmother's arms. "Grandma, I don't want to go," she begged, burying her head against the old lady's shoulder. "Please don't make me go."

Her grandma ran a wrinkled hand through Carmen's silky, brushed hair. Gently, she reasoned, "He would want you to be there, darling. It wouldn't be right not to go."

Carmen did not remember standing or walking toward the kitchen with one small hand tucked in the protective grip of her grandma. She recalled only a blur of vision, and finding her brothers and mother standing by the door in the kitchen, waiting on her. She remembered quite clearly, however, the defeated look that made home on Mother's face, an expression so unfamiliar to those regal features.

"Come here, Carmen," she said, beckoning to her youngest child. Carmen had never heard her mother speak so softly before. "Come here, my baby." And though Carmen and her mother had never been close, the nine-year-old willingly fell into those open arms and wept her broken heart into her mother's blouse. Feeling two arms surround her head was all she wanted, she thought; and the only regret she had was that the arms belonged to the wrong person.

(Monday, October 14, 2019)

It seemed Piper had been mistaken. After nearly two hours, they were no closer to finding the demon than before. Everyone worked busily, but they were no closer to finding or vanquishing the demon than they had been upon first entering the manor. Piper had tried to call her sisters several times with no answer, so she put her three children to hard work to compensate for the lack of their usual added firepower.

Her second child stood in the middle of the attic, a pad of paper sitting atop an open Book of Shadows. Brow furrowed, he worked intently on his summoning spell. After finding nothing in the Book about the demon, Chris had no specific traits to start him off. He didn't know how well the incantation would work without them, but he would do the best he could.

His older brother was across the room, poring over a map of San Francisco. Arm raised above the map, the seventeen-year-old swung an amethyst crystal over the street names and highways. It swung in lethargic circles that matched the bored expression in the eyes of the person who held it.

Together, Piper and Prue worked on what they hoped would become a successful vanquishing potion. Without a piece of his flesh or a guaranteed recipe from their ancient tome, though, they could not be certain it would work until they tried. Piper threw in a sprig of basil as Prue stirred the brew with a wooden mixing spoon. Dark liquid sloshed noiselessly inside the cauldron. Pieces of ingredients, indistinguishable after their soak, occasionally floated to the top of the brew. When they emerged, Prue immediately dunked them back beneath the surface with the mixer. She watched carefully for any such occurrences while continuing to stir counterclockwise in a smooth rhythm. At length, she ceased the fluid, continuous motion. Her lips moved almost imperceptibly, counting in silence. When she reached seven and a third, she removed the spoon and tapped it against the rim to get rid of any excess liquid.

Leaning over her shoulder, Piper tipped a white, powdery substance into the cauldron, an ingredient she insisted was powdered fairy wings but which Chris and Wyatt refused to believe was anything other than cocaine. Prue rolled her eyes whenever they cracked such juvenile remarks (but secretly thought they were quite amusing).

The powder settled on top for a moment before sinking beneath the murky surface of the potion, which began to hiss in anticipation. A couple of seconds later the liquid turned a milky shade of green. The two brewers watched with satisfaction as indigo plumes of smoke rose from the brew, curling around their cheeks and stinging their eyes. Prue allowed herself only a slight smile before returning to business.

She always had a knack for potions and took the craft very seriously, a fact that made her the target of brotherly ridicule on many an occasion. She refused to allow her natural-born talent to fall to the wayside and nurtured it every chance that presented. Besides, the first half of the potion-making process was always the easiest part. If she got cocky now and ruined the brew, she would have to throw away the whole batch and begin afresh. They didn't have that kind of time, especially when she and her mom were making this one up as they went along. Once Piper had taught her the basics a few years back, improvising had become a specialty. All she had to do was focus.

With renewed determination, Prue turned to analyze her ingredients, debating which would imbue the potion with the greatest potency. Meanwhile, Wyatt sighed heavily into the stagnant air and Chris scribbled out the third line of his spell. The quiet busyness continued with a sense of muted urgency. The threat of an attack was certainly on their minds, but it was difficult to feel the extent of that looming danger when in the comfort of silent company, each carrying out his or her own task with the assurance of a familiar chore.

Wyatt broke the silence first. Yawning purposefully, he let his arm and the crystal drop onto the table. Chris glanced up only long enough to see if his brother had found the demon before he returned all focus to his task at hand. "Mom," the oldest child groaned, "my arm is killing me, and the crystal isn't dropping anywhere." Piper looked up with one raised eyebrow that Wyatt, in all his impatience, neglected to notice. "Can't we call it quits yet?"

Piper refused to deign her son's whining with a response. Instead, ignoring him completely, she turned to ask Prue, "What do you think about adding basil leaves?"

Prue bit her lip thoughtfully, brow furrowed in concentration, before replying, "I was thinking about that, but then I thought asphodel root would go better with the pig's foot we added earlier. Basil and pig tend to cancel each other out, right?"

"I completely forgot we added that," Piper exclaimed. Her eyes glimmered with deep pride. "Add the roots, then." As Prue reached across the table for the ingredient, Piper sighed, "You'll be the best if you keep at it like this, Prue; you mark my words. You're a total natural." Blushing, Prue averted her gaze, though a pleased smile crept across her cheeks. She mumbled something incoherent as her fingers fumbled to tear the white flowers' roots into small enough pieces.

From his stance beside the map Wyatt pleaded, "How about just five minutes, then? What's the harm in five lousy minutes?" He watched his mother through the hopeful eyes of someone who honestly believed he would be granted his desire.

Piper's subsequent glare was one she had years as the Halliwell matriarch to perfect. "No," she said sharply with a tone that brooked no argument, save that of a fool. While Wyatt acted dim-witted often enough, that was more for show than anything deeper. A fool he most certainly was not.

"Prue?" Piper continued as if not interruption had occurred, "Pass me those roots, would you?"

Prue finished tearing the last stem and set the pieces on the tabletop with the others. Nodding agreeably, she scooped up the pile and dumped it into her mother's cupped palms. Piper began to feed them to the potion one by one. She was so completely absorbed in her work that even Wyatt had to admit she had probably already forgotten about his request. Sighing extra loudly, he picked up the discarded crystal from the table and resumed his magical search. He set one elbow down on the table and rested his cheek on his fist.

"Why am I always the one stuck with the scrying?" he lamented to nobody in particular.

He didn't expect an answer and was somewhat surprised to receive one; apparently someone was listening, which pleased him a tad to know. In a falsely cheerful tone, Chris offered, "Wanna trade?"

"Writing poems?" Wyatt visibly shuddered. "I'll pass." Chris smirked at the expected response and, stifling a snort, returned to his spell.

Her own job done, Prue turned to face her brother and his colossal bad mood. "The only reason you get scrying duty is because you can't write a decent spell or brew a decent potion. Can't do everything," she remarked, her tone sounding almost bitter to someone who didn't know her better.

When he grumbled, "Still isn't fair," she rolled her eyes. Boys could be so immature sometimes.

Without looking up from the potion she had begun to stir, Piper called, "How's that spell coming?"

"Great," Chris answered, "I'm almost finished."

"Excellent. Wyatt?" Her tone was both questioning and warning in a perfect combination only she could accomplish. Wyatt did not dare test her again.

"The fish just aren't biting today," he mourned, resigned to his pitiful fate. Switching the pendant to his left hand, he shook the numb tingling out of his right. "I think I lost circulation in my fingers," he whined. "You know, if anyone cares or anything." Conveniently, Piper ignored him.

"Well," she said instead, leaning forward to analyze the now-fuchsia contents of her potion. She tapped her spoon against the rim and set it down beside the cauldron. A few rivulets of emerald still swirled around the outer rim of the brew, but what remained was fast vanishing in the all-consuming pink. "I don't think there's anything more Prue and I can do here."

"Me either," Prue offered.

"Great. Go get some vials so we can bottle this thing," she instructed, motioning toward the cauldron. She dried her hands on the dishtowel she had snatched from the kitchen when they first arrived home. As she started towards the attic door, she explained over her shoulder, "I'm going to try to reach your aunts ag—"

Three unified cries of "Mom!" made her duck instinctively, which was all that stopped a fireball from melting off the skin of her face. Instead, it careened harmlessly over her left shoulder; she felt the heat as it barreled past. Second nature had her whirl around and lift her hands to activate her powers; then, she checked on the safety of her children. She was met with a mixed expression of horror and relief duplicated on all three faces. Wyatt's crystal had finally dropped, the mother noticed amid her other spinning thoughts, on what she could guess blindly was their own address.

The creature frozen in the middle of the attic stood between her and her children. Its shoulders were thrown back in premature triumph, towering over Piper's five-feet-two-inches by at least half a foot. It had one hand outstretched towards her, the charred nails of its fingers curling over a leathery palm. Lacking pupils or irises, its eyes were two sucking, black holes of void. On its face was a hideously warped sneer, cut in half by a scar that ran from the bridge of its sharp nose to its curled upper lip. The teeth bared below it were jagged and discolored.

They stood without movement—four witches and a frozen demon—until one voice spurred them into motion. It was Wyatt's. "Mom, what are you doing?" he breathed, his tone laced with the unwelcome twist of fear that he so rarely experienced. When he saw the hurled fireball spin towards his mother, instant panic had him clench his fists and bare his teeth, as if warding off the pain of a physical blow. Now, once his heart had begun to beat again, he slowly unfurled his left hand. He felt it sting and glanced down to watch as the skin of his palm peeled away from the crystal he had clutched in his grasp. Pronounced indentations gave proof to his sudden bout of helplessness, a brand on his skin.

He heard Chris ask, "Why didn't you blow him up?" in a reasonably calmer voice. Somehow, though Wyatt had meant to ask the very same question, his own query had come out sounding slightly altered.

"If I could do that," she countered in exasperation, "do you really think I would have pulled the three of you out of school for this?" She loved her boys dearly, but sometimes they refused to use the brains she knew they had somewhere within those thick skulls of theirs.

Her eyes darted quickly from the unmoving form of the attacker to her youngest child, who had frozen in terror the instant the demon arrived. She had stopped with one hand on the ladle while the other clutched an empty vial. Both eyes, impossibly wide, were trained on the demon so that she did not notice the brew slowly dribbling from her spoon. Perhaps Piper should not have taken her daughter from school. She wanted the girl to get practice and hone her potion-brewing skills, but maybe she was still a bit young for this, even if there were two siblings and an overprotective mother there to look after her. Prue certainly fought the stray chameleon or rat demon that attacked the manor, but she had never truly faced anything more powerful than the average bounty hunter.

"Prue," she said at length, lips pursed and barely moving as she spoke. Prue's eyes darted to her mother. "Maybe you should go wait dow—" she began.

Immediately, Prue shook her head. "No," she said once to convince her mother, and then repeated, "No," a second time as if to convince herself of the very same thing. "I want to help."

Eyes once again returning to the demon, Piper said, "Okay. Fill the vials, then. Quickly." They really did not have enough time to argue the subject. Besides, she trusted her daughter's judgment.

Prue jumped to do as she was told. She dipped the ladle back into the cooling brew (because by that point nearly all of the original spoonful had been emptied onto the table) and extracted it once again filled. She held the vial level with her eyes so she could measure precisely and then tipped the ladle into it. When it was halfway done, a movement in the corner of her eye made her pause in apprehension.

She looked up, heedless of her mom's call to hurry up and finish, to see both her brothers tensed for a fight. She followed the direction of their gaze to the motion that had originally caught her attention. The demon's arm had begun to move, slowly at first, like a mixing spoon in a botched potion that had turned to sludge, before gaining momentum.

"Prue," Piper hissed, "the potion!"

The girl's breath caught sharply in her throat but, swallowing painfully around it, she returned her gaze to the vial. Some of the potion has spilled down the sides in her moment of distraction. With shaking hands, she finished pouring and reached for a cork.

A roar of fury made her balk. The vial slipped from her loosened grasp and shattered on the floor. Smoke rose from the shards and curled up around the preteen's ankles before swirling back into itself, gone and unused. She barely noticed, eyes glued to the demon that had finally broken through Piper's powers. At the sound of breaking glass, it spun to face her. The girl let out a stifled, "Eep," which was all her voice would allow. Eyes narrowed, the demon sneered, lip curling, and opened the palm of his right hand. Fire crackled to life between his gnarled fingers, glowing and alight. It rotated in his open palm, and his empty eyes rose from the power to its target. When his eyeless gaze leveled on the youngest witch in the room, she shrunk back in wide-eyed fear. Her shoulders rose almost defensively, as if in doing so she would somehow protect herself from the demon's calculating stare.

And then, suddenly, the fireball was spinning towards her face and she saw nothing save a violent tornado of red and orange. She clenched her fists against the wood of the table, her heart screamed against her ribcage, her breath caught brutally in her throat, but all she could do as the fireball came hurtling toward her face was close her eyes and wait for agony.

"Prue!" Piper cried.

Once again, Wyatt froze—until Chris snapped him from his stupor. The younger teen had always been the sibling best able to think on his feet, and he utilized the ability now. Wyatt was closer to their sister, standing only a few feet away. "Wyatt, orb her out of here!" Chris instructed sharply.

Instinctively, the blonde jumped to respond to the order. Lunging for his sister, his body already began to melt into orbs. By the time he reached her, only milliseconds before the fireball collided with flesh, he had nearly disappeared altogether. His hand closed around her elbow and in moments she was gone, too. Blue light dotted where they had just stood. It spun swiftly before spiraling downward and vanishing through the floor. The fireball careened past the place Prue had been standing and exploded into the table that had been behind her. It collapsed in a crash of splintered wood and, with it, the just-ready potion splashed to the floor. On its side the cauldron rolled across the floor in circles until it came to a stop in a puddle of its own brew. The two remaining witches watched in dismay as their carefully-created potion leaked out along the floorboards in all directions.

Wyatt and Prue reappeared in the living room just in time to hear a crash that made the younger of the two wince. Her hands, which had been balled into fists, slowly unfurled when she realized she was still breathing. Tentatively, one eyelid peeled open; then the other a few seconds later. It took her significantly longer to find her voice, until which point brother and sister remained in thick, worried silence.

When she finally spoke, it was so quietly that even Wyatt's sensitive ears had trouble catching the words: "Did—I—what… happened?" Her face was still drawn and pale, her hands still trembling.

Instead of an answer, Wyatt set his free hand on his sister's shoulder and carefully led her to the couch, where he guided her into the seat. She allowed him to push her onto the cushions without complaint, saying nothing when he sat down beside her. Right now her mind could barely process the idea of what to do herself. She had to actively remind herself to breathe, and at the moment that alone took all the willpower she possessed.

"Prue, are you okay?" The concern in Wyatt's tone somehow wormed past the ringing in her ears. A couple of moments later, her brain actually drew a connection between the words and their definitions. Still, understanding his comment was a far cry from forming one of her own. She looked up at him with a hodgepodge of so many emotions that he was hard-pressed to identify a single one. "I…" She paused, swallowed thickly, and tried again. "I…"

Patting her shoulder warmly, Wyatt offered, "Here, let me get you a drink of—"

"No!" Prue cried suddenly. Her hand shot out to grab a fistful of her brother's shirt, clinging as if her very life depended on him. Wyatt, who had gotten up to move toward the kitchen, stopped and looked down at the hunched form that was his little sister. When she said nothing more, he watched her for a few seconds and then returned to his seat beside her on the couch.

"Prue…?"

She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to ignore the concerned gaze that she could feel scrutinizing her face. In response to his unasked query she whispered only, "Please don't leave me alone."

Sighing, Wyatt sat down beside his sister on the couch and snaked his arm around her shoulder. As he pulled her to his side, he promised, "Relax, Prue, everything will be fine."

She sniffed loudly, leaning into his shoulder for support. "I feel like a complete idiot," she admitted. "It was just a lousy fireball, but I completely freaked out and froze up." When Wyatt looked down, he saw her glaring at the wall, fists clenched in self-resentment.

"Hey, hey, hey," he said, pulling away to look her in the eye. "You can't be this hard on yourself, missy. It was a fireball coming at your face in case you forgot." Though she snorted, the girl said nothing. "The first time that happened to me," Wyatt continued, and then winked, "Well, I didn't have an awesome big brother to orb me out of there." Wincing, he added, "I still remember what it felt like."

I thought my skin was melting off my face. Of course, that he had no reason to tell. Why senselessly scare his sister even more?

"Aunt Paige healed me, of course; but I was still sore for weeks after." Chuckling, he said, "Chris thought the whole thing was royally funny—an absolute riot."

"Chris would," Prue remarked dryly. Silent for a moment, she finally peered into her brother's eyes. Reflected in them was her face, looking much calmer now. Softly, she said, "Thanks, Wyatt."

Grinning, her brother replied, "Hey, kiddo, what are brothers for, right?"

The girl's eyes strayed towards the ceiling, where the muted sound of battle emerged. Nervously, she asked, "Do you think they're okay?"

Wyatt followed her gaze. He could picture the attack in his mind, just one of the many he and his family so frequently had to face. "They'll be fine. Mom and Chris know how to take care of demons," he assured.

Meanwhile, the attic quickly filled with dust and debris. Honestly, when this was all over, Piper decided she would clean up this old room once and for all.

The matriarch summoned all her power and threw her hands outward. The only indication that she had used her powers was the way the demons stumbled backwards slightly. Steadying itself, it shot a cocky sneer in her direction. Inside, her mind spun: what could she do? The potion had been their only chance. Now, with it spilled all over the floor… How could they vanquish the demon now?

In the moment that she let her mind wander, the demon caught her off guard. Her feet left the floor. She found herself suspended in midair, and then she was soaring through the stale air. When she threw out her hands to catch herself, a searing pain exploded in her wrist. She had hit the bookshelf. She cradled her right hand to her chest and, through the haze of pain, tried to assess the damage. Not broken—just bruised, then, or badly sprained.

Then more pain, this time washing over her spine as she descended from her short-lived flight. Something—floor? table? wall?—splintered and dizziness swept over her. It left her vision swimming. Through the fog she heard Chris cry, "Mom!" as if from far away.

Chris. His image gave her a momentary strength that cleared the haze before her eyes. She had to protect her son. But without the potion, how could she poss…

Wait… they did still have the potion. Just because it had splattered all over the floor did not make it useless. After all, Paige orbed liquids all the time. Chris's telekinesis worked differently than his aunt's to be sure, but Piper knew the determination in him would not let that be cause for failure.

She fought off the darkness crowding in on her. With all her fleeing energy, she yelled, "Chris!" The witch could only hope she was speaking aloud. "Chris, use your powers!"

Chris watched his mother's body crumple to the ground. His heart skipped a few beats, but other than that he remained surprisingly calm. He worked well under pressure; he could do this. Right now he wanted to forget everything and run to his mom, but reason held him in place. Instead, he watched her weakly raise her head and give a strangled cry. "Chris… Chris," she croaked, barely audible, "use your powers…" She said nothing more, leaving Chris to wonder at the seemingly cryptic phrase. If her own powers did not work on this demon, how could she expect her son's to cause any damage?

She must have an idea, he told himself firmly; she wouldn't have said it if she didn't think I had a chance. His mind spun with possibilities, but each was less likely than its predecessor. Whatever it was, he had to think fast. Time was fast running out.

With one witch down, the demon turned to the second with a sneer. When it took a step in Chris's direction, the teen through out his hand in a wide arc. A leg from the broken potions table splintered and snapped; it flew from its position straight toward the demon. Lazily—laughing, even—the creature sent it clattering to the floor.

Chris's mind worked furiously as he tried to decipher his mother's message. Why are my powers better than Mom's? he mused. He took a step back and threw another slab of wood to buy himself some time. Mom can make things explode… Suddenly, it clicked.

Mom makes things blow up from the outside. His eyes narrowed to mere slits as the revelation crept around his shoulders. Aloud, he concluded triumphantly, "I can kill him from the inside out."

Now that he knew what had to happen, determination surged through his veins. He took a few quick steps forward, jaw set. The demon hesitated, confusion spreading across its face. What had this kid so cocky when he was so close to death? Bewilderment only enraged the demon. With a snarl, it conjured a fireball.

Chris, however, remained calm as he stared the power in the face. Unmoving, he brought his hand up to his chest. He pictured the demon's insides, dark and hot with blood. Sort of vaguely, he recalled human anatomy as he had learned it in seventh grade. Did demons' bodies look the same on the inside?

Focus, Chris. So not the time. Staring at the demon's chest, he carefully cupped his hand. Suddenly, the witch could feel a mass weighing between his empty fingers. It pumped black blood through the demon's veins, blissfully ignorant of the imminent danger that lay ahead: its heart. Chris would never have guessed the monster even possessed one.

Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Unintentionally, Chris found himself closing and opening his fist in time with the heartbeats. He stared down at his hand and could almost see the throbbing muscle sitting there on his palm. Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Openshut. Openshut.

His eyes returned to the demon's face, unaware. He gave a squeeze, felt the muscle fight against his grip. Suddenly, the smirk fell from the creature's face. With a sharp gasp, its hands flew to its bare chest, claws digging into the place where its heart pumped futilely against the palm of Chris's fist. The fireball extinguished itself in the demon's hand; smoke rose from its palm. As Chris closed his fist fully, the creature brought one hand to scrabble uselessly at its throat. A low gargle emitted from its lips.

Through everything, Chris heard only a heavy throbbing in his ears. His own heart pounded loudly against his ribcage so that he gasped for breath himself. In his closed fist, the heart beat faster and faster, weaker and weaker… he could almost hear it screaming, crying, pleading for mercy… he could feel its blood seep between his fingertips, rolling down the back of his hand… down his wrists… trickling off his elbow and onto the floor… drip-drip-drop, drip-drip-drop… the demon's eyes grew wider as it choked uselessly for air… its eyes glossed over—

The heart stilled in Chris's palm.

Suddenly, the demon's fingers went slack against its chest. For a few seconds, its knees wobbled before they fell out from under the body. It landed face up on the attic floor, glossy eyes wide as if still fighting for survival.

Trembling, Chris took a step towards the demon. From this perspective, it didn't look as intimidating or threatening as the witch had originally imagined. In fact, without taking into account the ebony eyes, it looked almost human. Slack, its mouth hung open; Chris had sucked the breath right out of it. As he stared, the teen felt goose bumps erupt along his arms. He was still shaking.

Numbly, he thought, No mess… Mom will like that… no blood… no nothing. No one will ever know I did this… When the body began to melt, Chris was too dazed by his deed to feel any sort of shock or disgust. In only seconds the dead demon had vanished completely. Not a speck of crimson on the floor. Chris glanced at his hand. He expected a coat of slick blood but no—he had only imagined the heart pumping in the power of his fingertips.

Closing his eyes, Chris tried to expel the scene from his mind. He had never killed—vanquished, he corrected himself quickly—a demon that way before; it felt so… real, so powerful. Shuddering, he swallowed back the bile that had risen to his throat.

He stood, eyes running along the floor towards Piper. They paused on a crumpled piece of paper caught between the broken table and the floor. When he took a step toward it, his knees buckled. He fell heavily to the floor without bothering to cushion his own descent. He barely noticed his fallen position and merely continued forward by crawling. He picked up the paper gingerly in his hands, smoothed it out, and tried to read. It took a while to focus his eyes and to read with such trembling hands.

"Summoning spell," he murmured without realizing how parched he sounded. "Guess we won't be needing that." He meant it as a joke, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. They lingered in the air long after he spoke them—an accusation. But of what? He had done nothing wrong. Nothing wrong.

Though he felt feint, Chris forced his nausea away and closed the distance between himself and his mother. Her eyes were still open, though clouded in pain. When he reached out to clasp her hand, she shrunk away from him as if frightened. Confusion colored his pale face. Voice splintered, he croaked, "Mom—?"

She closed her eyes; turned her face away in blatant disgust.

Piper watched with an emotion akin to horror that twisted deep in her gut. She saw Chris, eyes hard with grim determination, squeeze his hand into a callous fist. The long-time mother searched desperately for a hint of hesitation in her son's movements, but he showed not even a flicker of doubt. His expression was closed and unreadable as he watched the demon falter, stumble, collapse. She watched Chris stop the beating of the demon's heart, saw his face flush as he looked on emotionlessly, breath released in shallow gasps—

—and suddenly her son was gone. Suddenly, all Piper could see was a man she had known fifteen years ago: a twenty-two-year-old boy who had forced his way into her heart. A man she had come to love so deeply, a man she wished she never had to see again—not because she didn't miss him terribly but because she knew that she would be to blame for his return. Chris Perry, as she had once known him, was a man hardened by death and the hell that had been his life. If her son became that man, it was because she had failed as a mother to both of her boys. No, it could not happen.

And yet here, as hard as she had tried to protect her child, in this moment he had seemed to fall so naturally into the vanquish in a way only Chris Perry could. For years she and Leo had argued over how to raise their children. She had let Leo convince her in the end that their powers were a gift and to bind their babies' magic would be to deny them their heritage. At times like these, however, she despised herself for ever conceding.

What had her little boy become—a boy who could take the life of another creature, however evil, without a moment's doubt in his smooth action? She had done that to him. By raising him in this environment, she had turned him into that.

When he reached out to touch her hand, the callousness in his eyes was gone, but the memory of it still remained etched into Piper's mind like a brand: evidence of the damage she had caused to her child's innocence. Chris Perry had traveled to the past to change what he had become, and here she had turned him into the very thing he himself had fought to avoid. He would have hated her.

In anguish, she shrunk away from his touch. If Chris knew the truth, he would loath to touch her.

Chris backed away, stunned. In a harsh whisper he questioned, "Mom…?" but she refused to respond to his despairing voice. She gave a sharp, mute jerk of her head and closed her eyes to stinging tears.

She forced shaky feet beneath without the offered assistance and stumbled towards the door. Behind her, Chris remained frozen as she exited the room. He was left kneeling on the floor in a puddle of spilt potion, alone and confused.

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Ariex – Does Piper take them out of school frequently? I wouldn't say so frequently, no. Often enough that Chris would know to make up an excuse when she does come, though. After all, why else would she have come, if not for a demon? Otherwise, he would have known beforehand, wouldn't he? Could Chris just "lose" his book if he doesn't want to read it? Technically, yes. But then – what fun would that be for the readers? (wink) Besides, then he will again have nothing to do and Piper will come after him the moment he tries to complain.

Pinkphoenix1985 – Don't worry, in this story Wyatt is good. When he says he's vanquishing demons, he is doing just that. However, feel free to worry for his safety. (wink) And yes, a number of people have pointed out the random "F"s. I'm trying to fix that for the next chapter. It's been annoying.