#now there's twenty people laughing at me and I am ruminating and terrified that that post gains traction without me getting the point in the

[amayikes]

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[khunfounded]

Of Larks and Katydids

[I finally wrote words again! It feels so good to be back. I hope you like it!

Small trigger warning: Bam bites into his hand hard enough to draw blood]

Bam curled tighter into the corner of his room, burying his face in his knees. His hair was out of its ponytail. It cascaded down around him, concealing him from the outside world. Usually he hated it, this reminder that he was changed irreparably, that there were pieces of himself that he would never get back, but he took refuge in the protection it gave him now. It was a safeguard against the eyes, the voices that echoed throughout the Wolhaiksong compound.

He bit into the meat of his index finger He had had no idea that freedom from his loneliness could be so overwhelming. It made him feel horrible. Bam must be the worst kind of person to be so ungrateful for this gift he had been given, but he couldn’t help it.

It had started with the celebration of their escape from the Workshop. Everyone was laughing and hugging, joy arcing through the room like lightning. But as the night went on, Bam felt as if his lungs were giving out. After years of being alone, of having almost no one, he didn’t know what to do. It had been different when he had been a part of team Sweet and Sour, because he still had his objective, he was still unequivocally Viole. 

Now though, he didn’t know what he was, who he was allowed to be. 

It got worse with each shout of his name.

Viole.

Bam.

Viole!

Bam?

Bam. Viole. Viole. Bam. Viole. Bam. Bam. Bam. Viole. Bam. Viole. Viole. Bam. Viole. Viole. Bam. Viole. Bam. Bam. Bam. Viole. Bam. Viole. Viole. Bam. Viole. Viole. Bam. Viole. Bam. Bam. Bam. Viole. Bam. Viole. Viole. Bam. Viole.

His breath hitched. His throat felt tight. He bit into his hand a little harder. He wished that there was an easy answer, that he could be unmistakably one or the other. Instead, he felt simultaneously like a grotesque amalgamation of the two and like not enough of a person to be either. 

He had hoped that as time went on he would get better, get used to it. But each day in the compound made the pressure behind his eyes build up even more, until the only thing that kept him from blowing up was hiding away from everyone’s gazes. Bam was sure that people were noticing his increasing absences. He could see the concern in the downturn of Shibisu’s lips and the furrow of Khun’s brow. He couldn’t help it, though. There was a terrified, cornered animal part of him that just wouldn’t let go.

He began to rock back and forth, as invisible hands clung to him. They grabbed at his neck, his ankles, his very viscera. They covered his eyes, and everything started to get hazy around the edges.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door and Bam jolted. His mouth filled with the taste of copper. He took his finger away from his mouth.

“Bam,” Khun’s muffled voice called out, “You’re late for dinner. That annoying crocodile won’t stop asking where you are”.

Bam curled up tighter. His lights were off, so maybe if he stayed silent Khun would think he was somewhere else. He didn’t want his friend to see him like this, all shattered glass and torn up pages. 

“Bam, I know you’re in there. No one’s seen you anywhere around the compound all day”.

Bam kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help letting out a small whimper. He should have known better. He never was very lucky. His hand throbbed.

There was a sigh from the other side of the door.

“I’m coming in, okay?”

No, not okay. Very, absolutely, not okay. 

Bam tucked his face between his knees and covered his head with his hands. The door creaked as it opened, sending a shiver down his spine. 

He expected Khun to say something, anything, but instead a heavy silence filled the air. The hush pulled Bam’s head up. Khun was backlit from the light in the hall, giving him a golden aura. He was far too radiant to be looking so upset, especially over Bam.

Their eyes met, and Bam could see Khun processing. He had seen that face countless times before, so he knew that when Khun’s features smoothed out he had made his decision, whatever it was. 

Khun shut the door and turned on the lights.

Bam tensed as Khun made his way towards him slowly, like he was approaching a cornered animal. He kind of was, in a way. Bam certainly didn’t feel human right now.

Khun lowered himself to the floor next to him, crossing his legs. He set his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. Bam hunched in on himself even more, though he couldn’t help staring at his friend through the trellises of his hair. Khun wasn’t looking at him, keeping his gaze on the wall opposite, but his eyes were soft.

“You know,” Khun said, voice low in the throat, as if talking any louder would break the gentle aura bathing them, “When Lero Ro told us you were gone, the crocodile let out a scream that was practically a death knell. Shibisu wouldn’t stop sobbing”.

Khun turned his head. His blue, blue eyes met Bam’s own.

“I didn’t say anything, though. I just walked out of the room and threw up into the nearest toilet”.

“Khun-ssi…” Bam murmured, unable to think of how to respond. He had spent long hours late into the night thinking of what happened to his friends after he disappeared, but he hadn’t expected that they would react so strongly to his death. He could hardly imagine the snarky, collected Khun of the Test Floor broken down like that, because of him.

“When I found out you were alive, that you had been taken by FUG, I didn’t know how to react. All I knew was that I had to find you again. There was nothing else that was more important. Nothing”.

Khun was silent for a moment and Bam let his words sink in. He didn’t know what to do. This was Khun laying himself bare, giving up pieces of himself that he usually hid from the world at all costs, and he was doing it for Bam.

“It felt like waking up from the longest nightmare of my life when we got you back,” Khun’s lips lifted into a bittersweet smile, “Life finally felt real, again”.

Bam sucked in a breath. Khun turned his body towards him and gently, ever so gently, rested a hand over Bam’s injured one. Without thinking, Bam clasped their hands together tightly. Khun’s thumb rubbed soothing circles into Bam’s knuckles. Bam watched where they were connected and he felt something shift in his chest.

“What I mean to say is,” Khun said, picking each word with care, “What I mean to say is that nothing is going to change my mind about you, about how necessary you are to me. So you can talk to me, tell me what’s wrong. I’m not walking away”.

Bam’s eyes grew misty. He lifted a shaking hand to push his hair out of his face, meeting Khun’s stare. Silence reigned for several long moments as Bam ruminated. He had no idea what to say, if he should even say anything at all. Despite his assurances, Bam was terrified of how Khun would react if he knew just how broken and confused he really was.

But when Bam looked up, there was something in Khun’s eyes, in the lines of his face, that told Bam that he would stay.

Bam took a breath, clinging tighter to Khun’s hand for strength.

“I,” Bam started, shuttered, started again, “I don’t know who I am anymore. If I’m Jyu Viole Grace, or if I’m the Twenty-Fifth Bam. Everyone else seems to know but I just, I don’t. I don’t know”.

He swallowed down the aching in his throat, free hand picking at the loose threads in his pants. His eyes searched Khun’s, looking for some kind of answer to this question that plagued him.

“Who am I, Khun-ssi?”

Khun hmmed, tilting his head, before he asked, “Well, who do you want to be?”

Bam was struck. He had never thought about that before. He didn’t know that that was an option, that he could choose. Ever since he could remember there was someone else deciding for him. Rachel telling him that he was the Twenty-Fifth Bam. FUG telling him that he was Jyu Viole Grace. Everyone telling him that he was an ally, an enemy, a monster, a god.

But, who did he want to be? He wanted to be someone strong enough to protect his friends, someone brave enough to face the Tower with them. He wanted so many things. But as he looked at Khun’s warm, understanding eyes, he realized there was something more he wanted to be. He wanted to be himself.

He squeezed Khun’s hand tightly, confessing, “I think I want to be Bam. Just Bam”.

Khun’s lips quirked up, “Well, I think Just Bam is perfect”.

Bam lowered his head, cheeks heating up. His hair fell in front of his face, but Khun reached over and pushed it back behind his ears. That was the thing about Khun, he never let Bam hide, and Bam was grateful for it, no matter how scary it was. He wanted to be seen by Khun. He wanted to be known by him.

Bam looked up and whispered, “Thank you, Khun-ssi”.

“Of course,” Khun replied easily, before scrunching up his nose, “Now what are we going to do about that hair?”

Bam raised a hand to his head, “My hair?”

Khun knocked his index finger against his chin, “Your hair. I’ve noticed you don’t seem to like it very much. You avoid mirrors and you don’t maintain it at all. 

“Besides,” Khun smirked, “Long hair doesn’t seem to fit Just Bam to me”.

Bam blinked at his friend, gaping. Leave it to Khun to be able to notice something no one else did, something that Bam tried desperately not to let show. 

“I could cut it for you,” Khun offered.

“Cut it?” Bam murmured. He hadn’t thought about it before, but now that it was brought up he wanted desperately for it to happen, for this reminder of his aching loneliness to be gone, “Yes, please”.

“Your wish is my command,” Khun grinned and got up, pulling Bam with him as he headed to the ensuite bathroom. Khun didn’t let go of his hand until he sat Bam down sideways on the toilet. He rummaged through the sink drawers before he triumphantly pulled out a pair of scissors.

“Okay,” He said, moving to stand behind Bam, a soothing presence at his back, “How do you want to do this?”

Bam thought for a moment, biting his thumb, before he decided, “Can you make it short, please? Like it was before”.

“You got it”.

The first cut felt like a hallelujah, like it was more than just the physical weight of his hair that was falling away. Unbidden, a tear slipped down Bam’s cheek. He closed his eyes and smiled. 

The rest of the haircut went by in comfortable silence as more and more strands fell to the floor. Each trim unlocked chains that he didn’t even know were binding him, until he finally felt like he could breathe again.

After the last cut, Khun brushed the hair off of Bam’s shoulders and maneuvered him over to the mirror, “Here we go”.

For a long moment, all Bam could do was stare at the mirror, blinking. He brought a hand up to his mouth as tears welled up in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. 

For the first time in years, he looked into the mirror and saw himself.

“Bam? Are you okay?” Khun asked nervously, voice pitched oddly, hovering around him, “Did I do something wrong?”

Bam couldn’t bring himself to say actual words, so he channeled Miseng and turned around, hugging Khun tightly. His hands fisted in Khun’s shirt and he buried his face in his shoulder. Khun was frozen for several moments before he hesitantly relaxed and wrapped his arms around Bam.

“Thank you,” Bam whispered through his tears, sniffling.

“Anytime,” Khun replied softly, hooking his chin over Bam’s shoulder and rubbing circles into his back, “Anything”.

When Bam’s tears finally dried up, he murmured, “I’m tired. Could you stay tonight? With me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay”.

It took a while before either of them could part, but when they did, Bam grabbed Khun’s hand. They walked into the bedroom, before flicking off the light and shuffling under the covers of the bed. Khun laid flat on his back and Bam curled up next to him, resting his head against his friend's chest. 

“Thank you, Khun,” Bam said again, into the hushed silence.

“Like I said,” Khun replied, carding his hands through Bam’s newly shorn hair, “Anytime”.

“I know,” Bam traced nonsense patterns onto Khun’s shirt, “But I mean for more than just the haircut. For finding me, for knowing me, for being there. For everything, Khun”.

Khun’s hand clasped his, “That’s what I mean, too”.

They were quiet for a long while, just enjoying each other’s presence, before Bam asked, “Do you think birds dream, too?”

Bam felt Khun’s surprised chuckle rumble through his chest, “What brought this up?”

“I don’t know, I was just wondering”.

Khun hummed, brushing his thumb across Bam’s hand, before he said, “Well, the scientific answer is that birds exhibit signs of REM sleep, though scientists don’t know if they actually dream. The philosophical answer, I think, is that no one can stay sane in absolute reality. Even larks and katydids must dream”.

“What do you dream about?” Bam asked.

“You”.

“Oh,” Bam blushed, “Me too. I mean, I dream about you, not myself. Though obviously I’m there, too, otherwise I wouldn’t be dreaming and all and please feel free to shut me up anytime now”.

“Nah,” Khun said, scritching the base of Bam’s head, “I like hearing you talk”.

Bam buried his face in Khun’s chest and groaned. He really hoped Khun couldn’t see how red he was, “You’re no fair, Khun”.

“I never said I was. In fact, it’s my trademark not to be”.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bam huffed, “You’re a coldhearted mastermind with countless evil tricks up your sleeve”.

“You better believe it,” Khun smoothed Bam’s hair down, “Now, I think it’s time for all good Bams to go to bed”.

“Kay,” Bam mumbled, closing his eyes, “Night, Khun”.

“Goodnight, Bam”.

Bam listened absently to the lullaby of Khun’s heartbeat as he drifted off. Just as everything was fading away, he felt a soft kiss against the top of his head and for the first time in years, Bam felt content. He pressed his lips to Khun’s chest, over his heart, and let sleep take him.

He dreamt of pastel colors and soothing lights. Nothing coherent, but something that was full of joy and safety.

A soft melody played in his head, before it was interrupted by obnoxiously loud banging. Bam shot straight up as Khun rubbed his eyes groggily and complained, “Ugh, what is that?”

“Turtles!” Came a shout through the door, “What are you doing? You missed dinner!”

Rak slammed open the door and turned on the lights, much to Khun’s dismay. Bam saw that he was carrying two trays of food in his arms. Rak shoved the trays into both of their laps as he declared, “You’re not useful prey if you’re too weak to fight! Eat!”

“Thank you, Rak-ssi,” Bam smiled, grabbing his fork and following Rak’s orders.

“I keep telling you,” Khun grouched, stuffing stir fry into his mouth, “We’re not your prey, you idiotic crocodile”.

Rak jumped up onto the bed and snatched the fruit off of Khun’s tray, “Just for that, I’m taking your banana. You don’t deserve it, Blue Turtle!”

For some reason, that made Khun choke. Bam patted his back as he coughed. Rak threw the banana peel into the trashcan across the room, and ate the entire thing in one bite. Bam would have been impressed if he hadn’t seen the crocodile shove five into his mouth at once.

After Khun recovered, he muttered, “I hate you so much”.

“You say that about everyone that’s not the Black Turtle, Blue Turtle. Your words mean nothing”.

Khun sputtered again. Bam swore that one day his friend would die of asphyxiation if those two kept up with their antics, and he didn’t want that to happen. He liked Khun. Khun was his most precious friend.

“Please don’t kill each other,” Bam begged.

“No promises,” They replied simultaneously, making them glare at each other fiercely. Bam giggled, leaning into Khun’s shoulder. 

Rak turned to him and squinted his reptilian eyes, “There’s something different about you, Black Turtle. What is it?”

“Seriously?” Khun scoffed, “Are you blind? Do we need to find you an optometrist? Get you some glasses?”

Bam gently slapped Khun’s hand, but before he could move his own away, Khun grabbed it and intertwined their fingers. Bam smiled, turning to Rak.

“Khun-ssi cut my hair, Rak-ssi”.

“Oh,” Rak said, before he huffed, “Good, this is much better! Now I can see the fear in your eyes when I hunt you down!”

“Sure thing,” Bam grinned.

Bam felt warm, and he thought that maybe he didn’t need to dream, if this was his reality. He was between the two people he had missed more than anything, and they saw him, accepted him.

As his two friends bickered, he remembered a conversation in the cafeteria during the Floor of Test. Everyone was talking about the things they missed from home, food and pets and stores. Bam had been confused because he didn’t miss anything about the cave, except for Rachel, who wasn’t even there anymore. 

But now he knew. The cave wasn’t home, this was.

He tugged both of his friends into a tight hug, abruptly ending their argument. Rak was quick to hug back, squeezing the life out of him, but Khun just quirked his brow.

“What’s this all about?”

“Nothing,” Bam beamed at him, “I’m just really happy right now”.

At his reply, Khun smiled and tucked Bam’s head under his chin, pulling him (and subsequently Rak) in close.

“I’m glad” he murmured, and in that moment there was nothing more that needed to be said.

Except maybe, “Turtles, you dropped your food on the bed”.

[aidanchaser]

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: Everyone Lives AU

Table of Contents beta’d by @ageofzero, @magic713m, @ccboomer, @aubsenroute, @somebodyswatson

Chapter Twenty-Three Horcruxes

Harry climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower with less buoyancy in his step. He could feel Felix wearing off with each passing minute, and recalled Slughorn’s warning that Felix Felicis could lead to recklessness and overconfidence if taken in excess. He certainly saw the appeal, at least, of feeling like you were capable of anything all the time. He briefly wondered if he could use these last few precious minutes of it to discover what Malfoy was doing in the Room of Requirement.

But when he woke the Portrait of the Fat Lady and gave her the password, it seemed his luck had all dried up.

“The password changed at midnight,” she said, “so you’ll just have to sleep in the corridor, won’t you?”

Harry ran his hand through his hair, wishing he could have at least half of Felix’s luck for himself. “You’re joking! Why did it have to change at midnight?”

“That’s the way it is,” she said. “If you’re angry, go and take it up with the headmaster. He’s the one who tightened security.”

“Fantastic. Really brilliant. Yeah, I would go and take it up with Dumbledore if he was here, because he’s the one who wanted me to —”

“He is here,” a voice behind Harry interrupted.

Harry turned, startled to see Nearly Headless Nick gliding up the corridor.

“Professor Dumbledore returned to the school an hour ago,” Nick said. “I had it from the Bloody Baron, who saw him arrive. He appeared — according to the Baron — to be frustrated, and a little tired, of course.”

Perhaps his luck had not run out just yet. “Where is he?”

“Oh, groaning and clanking up on the Astronomy Tower. It’s a favourite pastime of his —”

“Not the Bloody Baron! Dumbledore!”

“Oh, in his office. I believe, from what the Baron said, that he had business to attend to before turning in.”

“Yeah, he has,” Harry said, and bolted down the corridor, weariness forgotten.

As soon as he reached the gargoyle guard to the stairs, he said, “Toffee éclairs,” and hurried up the spiral staircase. He knocked heavily on the thick door that led into Dumbledore’s office.

“Enter,” Dumbledore said.

Harry could hear the exhaustion in Dumbledore’s voice, but he recalled how Cedric had berated him for waiting even a day to tell him what he’d learned of Hepizbah Smith, the locket, and Voldemort’s unsuccessful job interview. He did not think that Dumbledore would like him to wait before sharing this memory, too. He also had a feeling that he’d have to scribble the memory’s contents out in a letter to Cedric before he finally went to sleep.

Harry pushed the door open and saw Dumbledore standing behind his desk. The desk was littered in maps, notes, and old photographs, and Fawkes perched on the back of Dumbledore’s chair, as if he, too, were trying to make sense of Dumbledore’s research. Harry was surprised that Dumbledore did not sweep it all away as he walked in. He was also surprised by just how exhausted Dumbledore looked. It was not just the weary expression that Harry had grown used to seeing on all members of the Order; there was something worn and frail about Dumbledore. But the exhaustion was brief, replaced quickly by surprise and worry.

“Harry,” he said, “goodness gracious, to what do I owe this very late pleasure?”

Harry pulled the small bottle from his pocket and held it up. The thick, silver liquid caught the light of the nearly full moon that poured in through the open window and bounced it around the room in fractured moonbeams that mirrored the stars in the night sky.

“I’ve got it, sir,” Harry said. “I’ve got the memory from Slughorn.”

Dumbledore smiled. It was not the serene smile that Harry was used to seeing on his Professor, nor the sad smile that he had caught on occasion. There was pure thrill in this smile, the sort of smile James had when Harry made an impressive catch of the Snitch.

“Harry, this is spectacular! Well done indeed! I knew you could do it.”

Dumbledore took the bottle from Harry and pulled the Pensieve from its cabinet.

“Sir — when I got the memory from Slughorn, he was… well, he wasn’t in his usual frame of mind.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “I should hope you did not Confound him, Harry, and tamper with the memory —”

“No, not at all, or rather, not exactly. He was drunk.”

“I am sure Horace is quite used to that.” Dumbledore chuckled. “And it should not taint the knowledge within, but we shall know in a moment.”

Harry stepped towards the Pensieve, anxiety and guilt not quite mollified. “I just meant, sir — is that alright? He won’t even remember that I asked him for it.”

Dumbledore hesitated, hands on either side of the Pensieve, and examined Harry with his piercing gaze that always seemed to see much more than one would expect. “You are not worried about the memory, but about whether what you did was right?”

“My dad and I talked about love potions, and how they take away your ability to think for yourself, and that’s terrible, isn’t it? It’s what happened to Ron — and didn’t I just do the same thing to Slughorn?”

It seemed to Harry that Dumbledore was so eager to see the contents of Slughorn’s memory that this delay was unexpected and not especially welcome. Harry swallowed down his guilt.

“Sorry, sir, I —”

“Do not apologise for wishing to do the right thing,” Dumbledore said. “You are very much like your father in that. He has always been one to agonise over the right thing to do. Your mother, however, has not found it so troubling. Do you know why that is?”

“Er — not exactly, but I think you’re about to tell me.”

Dumbledore’s expression softened into a smile. “Because Lily always put those who were in trouble first, no matter what else. She would lie to protect a friend. She would defend someone who had been unkind to her if they were hurt. She has always challenged those who did not use their power to help the powerless. Do you understand?”

“You’re saying what I did was alright, even if it was wrong, because it will help defeat Voldemort?”

“In short, yes. But I’m afraid, Harry, that we do not have time for you to ruminate on this philosophy just now. If this memory reveals what I believe it will, we may yet have a longer night ahead of us.”

“Right.”

Harry placed his hands on the basin of the Pensieve and followed Dumbledore into the memory.

They returned to Slughorn’s old office, which Harry had seen when Dumbledore had shown him the tainted memory. Harry could already see the difference in clarity within this memory. The colours were brighter, and the decor on the walls was in sharp relief, not fuzzy and faded as it had been before. That memory had looked as if it had been through several aggressive washings; this one was fresh. If Harry had been worried about wine staining the memory, his worry would have been assuaged immediately.

Slughorn was younger, as he had been in the memory before. The grey, wispy hair that Harry was used to was instead thick and blonde, and his mustache was shiny and auburn in the firelight. He settled back into his plush chair and propped his feet on the footstool. In one hand he held a wine glass, in the other a box of crystalized pineapple.

The Tom Riddle that Harry remembered from the diary sat on a chair at Slughorn’s right hand. He was not the disfigured and terrifying man that would interview for a position as a professor at Hogwarts in just over ten years’ time. He was young, attractive even, with thick, smooth hair and a firm jawline. On his finger was Marvolo Gaunt’s ring, reminding Harry that by the time this memory took place, Riddle had already killed his father.

This time, Harry also knew that Tom Riddle had already created at least one of his Horcruxes.

“Sir,” Tom Riddle asked, “is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?”

Slughorn shook his head, but he was smiling as he picked out another piece of candied pineapple. “Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you.” He winked, though, which seemed to be all the answer Riddle needed. “I must say, I’d like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.”

Riddle’s lips curved into a smile, and the others in the circle laughed. A few of them looked at Riddle with a surprising amount of adoration. Riddle had worked hard to win them all, and even this conversation was part of keeping them under his power.

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t,” Slughorn continued, “and your careful flattery of the people who matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you’re quite right, it is my favourite — I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple. I have excellent contacts at the Ministry.”

The group laughed again. Riddle waited for the laughter to fall away before speaking again. It was clear to Harry that he enjoyed the attention from Slughorn and the other students, however Harry recalled what Dumbledore had said about Riddle never truly having friends. These were not people Riddle trusted; these were people Riddle used.

“I don’t know that politics would suit me, sir,” Riddle said. “I don’t have the right kind of background, for one thing.” But he ran his finger over the heavy black stone of his grandfather’s ring as he said it.

“Nonsense,” Slughorn said, “couldn’t be plainer that you come from decent Wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you’ll go far, Tom, I’ve never been wrong about a student yet.”

A gentle chime marked the hour as eleven, not quite as late as Harry had stayed with Professor Slughorn in the present, but there was far less wine at this gathering than at the wake Harry had just attended. Slughorn stood to dismiss his company.

“Good gracious, is it that time already? You’d better get going, boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow, or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.”

Each student left — except for Riddle. He stayed by the fire, even as Slughorn went to return his empty glass to his table of crystal decanters and wine bottles.

“Look sharp, Tom,” Slughorn said, and filled his glass once more. “You don’t want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect.”

But this did not seem to concern Riddle. He hesitated a moment, a movement that seemed to Harry incredibly calculated. “Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away, then m’boy, ask away.”

“Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?”

Slughorn set his wine glass down on the table. “Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?” Clearly, however, even Slughorn did not believe this to be the case. And Riddle did not bother to lie.

“Not exactly, sir. I came across the term while reading and I didn’t fully understand it.”

Harry watched Riddle run his hand over the ring and knew instantly that the question was unnecessary. Tom had already murdered his father and must have turned this ring into his Horcrux. But Harry did not understand why he was revealing his knowledge to Slughorn.

“No,” Slughorn licked his lips, and Harry could feel through the memory that Slughorn’s mouth had gone dry. “You’d be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that’ll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom, that’s very Dark stuff, very Dark stuff indeed.”

“But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you — sorry, I mean, if you can’t tell me, obviously — I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could — so I just thought I’d ask —”

Harry, having spent months trying to get this very information out of Slughorn found Riddle’s persuasion tactics impressive. Harry had so rarely bothered with careful flattery and false hesitation. He had been taught to ask for what he needed, and most often, it was given to him. Riddle had clearly learned the art of manipulating others into getting what he wanted, and Slughorn was easy prey.

“Well…” Slughorn no longer watched Riddle. He had returned his gaze to the box of pineapple, still in his hand, and was concentrating very hard, as if choosing which piece to eat next required all of his focus. “Well, it can’t hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed a part of their soul.”

Though Riddle worked hard to contain it, Harry could see how pleased he was that Slughorn was so knowledgeable. “I don’t quite understand how that works, though, sir.”

“Well, you split your soul, you see, and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form… few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”

Harry recalled Voldemort’s speech to his Death Eaters in the graveyard, where Harry had been an unwilling audience, bound and gagged against a headstone. Voldemort had described an existence that was little more than a ghost, flitting from animal body to animal body. Voldemort’s soul had been torn from his body on the night that he had gone to Godric’s Hollow to kill Harry, but it had remained bound to the earth nonetheless.

“And how do you split your soul?” Riddle asked. It was more difficult for him, now, to conceal the greedy glint in his eyes.

Slughorn hesitated. “Well, you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature.”

“But how do you do it?”

“By an act of evil — the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn portion —”

“Encase? But how — ?”

“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don’t know! Do I look as though I have tried it — do I look like a killer?”

“No, sir, of course not,” Riddle amended. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to offend…”

“Not at all, not at all, not offended.” Just as Riddle had reconsidered his approach, Slughorn reconsidered his outburst. Clearly, despite the inquiries, he was still fond of his favourite student. “It’s natural to feel some curiosity about these things. Wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic.”

“Yes, sir. What I don’t understand, though — just out of curiosity — I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn’t seven — ?”

“Merlin’s beard, Tom! Seven! Isn’t it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case, bad enough to divide the soul — but to rip it into seven pieces…” Slughorn frowned, and Harry felt weak.

Cedric had suggested the possibility of one Horcrux, and that this memory of Slughorn’s would identify the object they needed to destroy in order to end Voldemort for good. Harry thought this memory rightly pointed to the ring. It was the ring Harry had seen in his very first lesson with Dumbledore, the ring that was already cracked and in Dumbledore’s possession. And if the diary was also a Horcrux, as Harry had guessed while sitting in the common room with Neville, then that piece of Tom Riddle had already been destroyed as well.

Harry was willing to entertain the possibility of a third Horcrux, something else that Dumbledore had spent months searching for each time he was away from Hogwarts, something that Malfoy was searching for in the castle, but the idea of seven Horcruxes was overwhelming.

It was overwhelming even for Slughorn, who looked very much like he wished Riddle would leave him alone with his pineapple and wine.

“Of course,” Slughorn said, “this is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic.”

“Yes, sir,” Riddle assured him. “Of course.”

“But all the same, Tom, keep it quiet. What I’ve told — that’s to say, what we’ve discussed. People wouldn’t like to think we’ve been chatting about Horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know. Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it.”

“I won’t say a word, sir. Good night.”

As Riddle left, both Harry and Slughorn saw the glee on his face. It was terrifying in a mad sort of way, reminding Harry very much of the eleven-year-old boy who had sat on a cot in an orphanage and been told that he was a wizard. It was not just excitement; it was a lust for power that made Harry extremely uneasy.

“Thank you, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Let us go.”

They returned to Dumbledore’s office, where Harry very quickly stumbled his way into the chair beside the desk. Dumbledore, too, took a seat, and did not speak for a long moment. Harry did not have the words for the all-consuming fear and anxieties spinning in his mind, so he could only wait for Dumbledore to speak.

“I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a very long time,” Dumbledore finally said. “It confirms the theory on which I have been working. It tells me that I am right, and also how very far there is still to go.”

Harry looked up at Dumbledore. He vaguely noticed the portraits behind Dumbledore were not doing their usual performance of feigning sleep. They were all listening intensely. One had even lifted an ear trumpet.

“Is that where you’ve been going, sir?” Harry asked. “All those times you’ve gone away? You’re trying to find all of the pieces?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, and I am sorry to tell you that I have not been having much luck. While there have been many things that have gone in our favour in this hunt, a recent setback has made things rather difficult.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, unable to bring himself to discuss just how many pieces of Voldemort’s soul had to be destroyed, “why he asked Slughorn about Horcruxes when he had already made one.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Before I answer your question, Harry, perhaps you could enlighten me as to why you are so certain he had already made one by the time he and Professor Slughorn had this discussion.”

“You said he killed his father when he was sixteen and he stole that ring from his uncle. The way he kept touching the ring — it was already a Horcrux, wasn’t it? He knew how to make them, so why would he reveal his interest in them to Slughorn?”

Dumbledore seemed impressed by Harry’s assessment, which gave Harry a sense of pride. Impressing Dumbledore was not an easy task.

“I think,” Dumbledore said, “that he was less interested in how to create a Horcrux than he was in the idea of creating multiple Horcruxes. What he particularly wanted from Horace was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard who created more than one Horcrux, what would happen to the wizard so determined to evade death that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip his soul repeatedly, so as to store it in many, separately concealed Horcruxes. No book would have given him that information. As far as I know — as far as, I am sure, Voldemort knew — no wizard had ever done more than tear his soul in two. But I believe, by the time Voldemort spoke about this with Slughorn, he had already created two Horcruxes.”

Harry was sixteen, hardly older than Voldemort could have been in Slughorn’s memory, and yet by that age, Voldemort had already torn his soul twice. He’d already murdered two people.

“The diary?” Harry asked. “When he killed Moaning Myrtle?”

Dumbledore, again, appeared impressed. “Myrtle Elizabeth Warren was Voldemort’s first victim, yes. The diary was what I believed to be the first evidence that Voldemort had split his soul. Although I did not see the Riddle who came out of the diary, what you described to me was a phenomenon that I had never witnessed. A mere memory starting to act and think for itself? A mere memory, sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had fallen? No, something much more sinister had lived inside that book… a fragment of soul, I was almost sure of it. The diary had been a Horcrux. However, even before I had discovered Marvolo Gaunt’s ring, I was convinced of the possibility of multiple Horcruxes.”

Harry, who was still trying to come to terms with seven Horcruxes, and had only recently considered the possibility of two because of Cedric’s suggestion that one might be hidden in the castle, did not understand.

“But how could you have known?”

“What intrigued and alarmed me most was that that diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Well, it worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work — in other words, the fragment of soul concealed inside it was kept safe and had undoubtedly played its part in preventing the death of its owner. But there could be no doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read, wanted the piece of his soul to inhabit or possess somebody else, so that Slytherin’s monster would be unleashed again.”

“He didn’t want his hard work to be wasted. He wanted people to know that he was Slytherin’s heir, because he couldn’t take credit at the time.”

“Quite correct. But don’t you see, Harry, that if he intended the diary to be passed to, or planted on, some future Hogwarts student, he was being remarkably blasé about that precious fragment of his soul concealed within it. The point of a Horcrux is, as Professor Slughorn explained, to keep part of the self hidden and safe, not to fling it into somebody else’s path and run the risk that they might destroy it, as indeed happened: that particular fragment of soul is no more; you saw to that. The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this Horcrux seemed most ominous to me. It suggested that he must have made — or been planning to make — more Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but nothing else seemed to make sense. And then I found proof in an unusual place.”

“You found the ring?”

“No. I was given Slytherin’s locket.” Dumbledore pulled open a drawer and removed the large, golden locket decorated with an ornate, serpentine S. “And the person who gave me this locket insisted that it contained a piece of Voldemort’s soul.”

Harry frowned at Dumbledore. “But who gave you this locket? Where did they find it?”

“It was given to me by Regulus Black.”

“Voldemort gave one of his Horcruxes to Regulus Black?”

“No. In fact, Regulus Black went through a good deal of trouble to retrieve this Horcrux. The task very nearly killed him. Truthfully, I believe he expected it to kill him, but we know that it did not, and instead he had only faked his death and allowed himself to be sent to Azkaban in order to conceal his betrayal of Voldemort. Then, when he returned to Hogwarts three years ago to kill Barty Crouch, Jr. and was arrested with the help of Professor Snape, I took the chance to speak with him. Miss Granger had told me everything that had happened between Regulus Black and Barty Crouch, and I thought it would be worth hearing Regulus Black’s version of events myself. He was less interested in a conversation about his possible freedom and much more insistent that I retrieve this locket from his family home, or find out if the house-elf Kreacher had been able to destroy it.”

Harry recalled the ring, and how the large black stone had been cracked down its centre. He looked down at the locket, and wondered why, if Dumbledore had destroyed the ring, he had not destroyed the locket in the three years since it had been given to him.

“Then you told me,” Dumbledore continued, “a year later, that on the night that Voldemort returned to his body, he made a most illuminating and alarming statement to his Death Eaters. ‘I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality.’ That was what you told me he said. ‘Further than anybody,’ and I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death Eaters did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes. Horcruxes in the plural, Harry, which I do not believe any other wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord Voldemort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he has undergone seemed to me to be only explicable if his soul was mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call usual evil.”

“So he’s made himself impossible to kill by murdering other people? Why couldn’t he make a Philosopher’s Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in immortality?”

“Well, we know that he tried to do just that, five years ago. But there are several reasons why, I think, a Philosopher’s Stone would appeal less than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort. While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain their immortality. Therefore, Voldemort would be entirely dependent on the Elixir, and if it ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was stolen, he would die just like any other man. Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable. Of course he was prepared to drink it if it would take him out of the horrible part-life to which he was condemned after attacking you, but only to regain a body. Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to continue to rely on his Horcruxes: He would need nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already immortal, you see… or as close to immortal as any man can be. But now, Harry, armed with this information, the crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord Voldemort than anyone has ever been before. You heard him, Harry: ‘Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces… isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number…’ Yes, I think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly appeal to Lord Voldemort.”

Harry ran both hands through his hair. “But seven horcruxes — they could be anywhere, anything! They could be invisible — I thought the idea of two was bad enough…”

“I am glad to see you appreciate the magnitude of the problem, but firstly, no, Harry, not seven Horcruxes: six. The seventh part of his soul, however maimed, resides inside his regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many years during his exile; without that, he has no self at all. That seventh piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to kill Voldemort must attack — the piece that lives in his body.”

“But the six Horcruxes, then,” said Harry, a little desperately, “how are we supposed to find them all?”

“You are forgetting — you have already destroyed one of them. And I have destroyed another.”

“You mean the diary and the ring?” Harry asked.

“Yes indeed.” Dumbledore raised his injured, blackened hand. “Had it not been — forgive me the lack of seemly modesty — for my own prodigious skill, and for Professor Snape’s timely action when I returned to Hogwarts, desperately injured, I might not have lived to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of Voldemort’s soul. The ring is no longer a Horcrux.”

Harry shook his head. “But the diary almost killed Ginny, the locket almost killed Regulus, and the ring almost killed you — how are we supposed to find and destroy three more objects like that?”

“You are correct. It will not be an easy task. But it is not as impossible as you might think. Remember what I have shown you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, and he preferred objects with a powerful magical history. His pride, his belief in his own superiority, his determination to carve for himself a startling place in magical history; these things suggest to me that Voldemort would have chosen his Horcruxes with some care, favouring objects worthy of the honour. He will also store these trophies in well-protected places. For example, I stumbled across the ring hidden in the ruin of the Gaunts’ house. It seems that once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of his soul inside it, he did not want to wear it anymore. He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, in the shack where his ancestors had once lived, after Morfin had been carted off to Azkaban, of course, never guessing that I might one day take the trouble to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical concealment.”

“The diary wasn’t very special — not like the ring or the locket,” said Harry. “And he didn’t seem too interested in protecting it.”

“The diary, as you have said yourself, was proof that he was the Heir of Slytherin; I am sure that Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance. And I do not believe that Malfoy was ever meant to get rid of it so hastily. Certainly he knew it was important, but had he known what it was truly, I am not sure he would have cast it aside so readily.”

Harry considered this. “So, the other Horcruxes? Do you think you know what they are, sir?”

“I can only guess that, for the reasons I have already given, Lord Voldemort would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a certain grandeur. I have therefore trawled back through Voldemort’s past to see if I can find evidence that such artifacts have disappeared around him.”

“Like the locket — and the cup! They’re both Horcruxes.”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I would be willing to bet — perhaps not my other hand — but a couple of fingers that Helga Hufflepuff’s cup became the fourth of Voldemort’s horcruxes. The remaining two, assuming again that he created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will hazard a guess that, having secured objects from Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he set out to track down objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have exerted a powerful pull over Voldemort’s imagination. I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find anything of Ravenclaw’s. I am confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor remains safe.”

At this, Dumbledore stood, and approached a glass case behind his desk. From this case, he removed the sword of Godric Gryffindor, gleaming silver with a hilt set in rubies, and placed it on his desk.

Harry stared at the sword that he had held four years ago and used to slay the basilisk before it could kill him and his mother. It had seemed so grand and large when he was twelve. It was still grand to him now, but not quite so large as he recalled.

“So the fifth Horcrux will be something related to Ravenclaw?”

“My thoughts precisely,” said Dumbledore. “I believe his true intention when he visited the school to request a teaching position was to search for one of these objects, but unfortunately, that does not advance us much further, for he was turned away without the chance to search the school. I am forced to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of collecting four founders’ objects. He definitely had two — he may have found three — that is the best we can do for now.”

Harry frowned, eyes still on the sword. “What if… instead of searching the school for a Horcrux, he came to hide one he had already made?”

“An interesting conclusion,” Dumbledore said. “After the terrible destruction the diary wreaked on this school, you believe that there is another Horcrux still hidden inside Hogwarts?”

“It’s possible,” Harry shrugged. “I thought maybe — well, I thought perhaps Malfoy was sent to find it, to replace the diary his father lost.” Harry glanced up at Dumbledore, but was unable to determine what Dumbledore thought of this theory.

“I do not believe that Voldemort, who trusts no one at all, would have asked such a task of a Hogwarts student. However, I do recall asking you to set aside your inquiries into Malfoy’s activities. I understand that you are worried, but there are plenty of capable people already at the task.”

“I just thought —”

“I understand what you thought, but I do not believe Malfoy has any knowledge of Horcruxes. I am confident that knowledge is contained to you, myself, Regulus Black, and of course I imagine you have mentioned the subject to Ms Granger, Mr Weasley, and Mr Longbottom?”

“Yeah — er — and to Cedric Diggory.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “Interesting. You have a way of communicating with Mr Diggory privately, then?”

“Yes. We have a secret code for our letters, so no one can read them but us. He’s actually the one who suggested that Voldemort might have hidden a Horcrux in the castle.”

“If there is a Horcrux in this castle, Harry, I have seen no sign of it. It would be most convenient if there was one, for the sake of our hunt, but I do not believe something so powerful could go unnoticed for so long.”

“Yeah… that’s what Neville said. I’m sure you’re right.” Harry closed his eyes and counted. The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, something of Ravenclaw’s, possibly Gryffindor’s — “Sir, what’s the sixth item, then, if you don’t think he found something of Gryffindor’s?”

Dumbledore hesitated. “I wonder what you will say when I confess that I have been curious for a while about the behaviour of the snake, Nagini?”

“The snake? You can use animals as Horcruxes?”

“Well, it is inadvisable to do so, because to confide a part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously a very risky business. However, if my calculations are correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short of his goal of six when he entered your parents’ house with the intention of killing you. He seems to have reserved the process of making Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You would certainly have been that. He believed that in killing you, he was destroying the danger the prophecy had outlined. He believed he was making himself invincible. I am sure that he was intending to make his final Horcrux with your death. As we know, he failed. After an interval of some years, however, he used Nagini to kill Igor Karkaroff, and it might then have occurred to him to turn her into his last Horcrux. She underlines the Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord Voldemort’s mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of her as he can be of anything; he certainly likes to keep her close, and he seems to have an unusual amount of control over her, even for a Parselmouth.”

“So then really, all we need to find is the cup, and something that used to belong to Gryffindor or Ravenclaw? And then make sure the snake is destroyed before Voldemort is killed?”

“A succinct summary — however, you are forgetting one very important step.”

Harry frowned. “What’s that, sir?”

“The locket has not yet been destroyed.”

Harry looked down at the beautiful golden snake with emerald eyes set at the head of the S. “How did you destroy the ring?”

“With this.” Dumbledore rested his hand on the hilt of the sword.

“And… why haven’t you done that to the locket yet?”

A tiny smile quirked in Dumbledore’s beard. “Give it a try.”

Harry stood uncertainly, but took the sword of Godric Gryffindor from Dumbledore. It had seemed much heavier when he was twelve. He took a step back from the desk, afraid he might hit Dumbledore if he was too close. He tested the distance and angle to make sure he had it right — the locket was so small, and he was afraid to leave a dent on Dumbledore’s desk — and then he swung.

It was as if he had struck one of his mother’s own Shield Charms. Harry was thrown backward and something pounded in his head. He stumbled into the chair he had been sitting in, knocking it to the floor. Gryffindor’s sword hung heavy in his hands and the locket remained on the table, pristine and undamaged.

Harry stepped forward and swung again, this time as hard as he could, thinking perhaps he had been too shy in his first attempt. The result, however, was the same. He fell backwards, tripping over the chair this time. He ran one hand over his scar, surprised to feel a dull ache that he hadn’t felt since last summer.

“I had the same problem,” said Dumbledore, as Harry pulled himself to his feet.

“Then how are we supposed to destroy it?” Harry asked. He shook his head, clearing away the pain, at least for the moment.

“I may be wrong, but I believe it needs to be opened first.”

Harry, though he was certain Dumbledore had tried to open the locket already, picked it up and examined the clasp. It seemed simple enough, but the fastener would not budge. Harry did his best to pry the locket open with his hands and found himself unable to shift it, any more than Gryffindor’s sword had been able to make a dent.

He dropped it back on the table. “I assume you’ve tried Alohomora, sir?” Harry asked.

“Yes, I have, Harry. And Portaberto and Open Sesame, but alas, none of them have worked. And yet I believe that you are the only one, besides Voldemort himself, who can open it.”

“You want me to try Open Sesame?”

“Perhaps not in those words.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore, and then at the locket. The snake’s green eyes seemed to be winking at him in the light of the nearly full moon.

“You want me to try Parseltongue.” As Harry said this, the pendant rattled on the table, and Harry took a step back.

“Yes, Harry, but before you do, I suggest you prepare yourself.”

“What?”

“Remember what you pointed out, that the diary nearly killed Ginny, and it very nearly took you and your mother as well. You have not been pouring your heart into this locket the way Ginny wrote her hopes and fears into the diary, but this locket has been in this room for some time, and has heard many of our conversations, not just over these lessons, but over the last three years. Perhaps my office was not the wisest place to keep such an object, but there were few other places I felt were as protected as this. I do not know what the locket will do when you open it, but I want you to be ready.”

“Me?” His scar throbbed painfully. Harry extended the hilt of the sword to Dumbledore. “No, I’ll open it, but you should destroy it.”

Dumbledore gestured to his blackened hand. “I could hold the sword, yes, but I do not think I would have the strength needed to destroy the locket. It should be you.”

“Isn’t Regulus Black down in the dungeons watching Malfoy? If he’s the one who found it in the first place….”

“Harry, I am quite certain that as you have already destroyed one Horcrux, you are more than capable of destroying this one.”

Harry looked down at the locket. It was rattling violently now, and he wondered if he even needed to open it, or if it was about to fall open of its own accord. He wished he felt as confident as Dumbledore did. He wished there was still some of Felix Felicis left in him, but that had run out long ago. Harry could not even fathom how late into the night it must be.

He remembered how he had trusted the diary, and how easy it had been for Tom Riddle to convince Ginny to pour herself out to him. That had been the first Horcrux of Voldemort’s creation. What would happen with Voldemort’s third?

He tightened his grip around the hilt of Gryffindor’s sword. He leveled the blade against the trembling locket. He took in a deep breath, and whispered, “Open,” in Parseltongue. His scar burned sharply as the catch on the locket released, and the golden snake opened, revealing a pair of eyes inside the locket, one in each window. They were not like the scarlet eyes that Voldemort had when Harry had fought him in the graveyard and the Ministry; they were much more like the eyes of the charming young man who had conned and murdered Hepzibah Smith.

Harry lifted the sword, but before he could bring the blade down, a voice hissed from the locket and he froze, scar throbbing. He could hardly think as his head pounded, and through the pain a voice hissed in his ear.

Harry Potter, the Chosen One, who has put his faith in a foolish old man.

Harry froze, sword half-raised. He could not tell if the locket was speaking in Parseltongue or not. He did not know if Dumbledore could understand what the voice was saying. But he pushed through the pain in his head, shook his hesitation aside, and lifted the sword.

You did not want to do this Harry, and yet he asked it of you.

“Harry,” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the hissing of the locket. It was calm and clear.

Harry heard Dumbledore, and wanted to follow through, to finish the swing of his sword, but the dark eyes were mesmerising, the words entrancing.

Consider how much has he asked you to do. Consider how much more he will ask of you. Do you know what this old man has sacrificed in his quest for justice?

“Harry,” Dumbledore’s voice was slightly more urgent now, but the locket seemed to speak over him.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, because of someone else’s sacrifice. Because others are braver than you, more powerful than you. You trust them to protect you, Harry, and to what end? They know… They know this quest will end in your death —

Harry struck.

There was a clang this time as Gryffindor’s sword struck Salazar Slytherin’s locket. The glass inside shattered and thick red blood oozed from the cracks and onto Dumbledore’s desk. The pain in his head faded.

“Sorry about the mess, Professor,” Harry said. He looked at Dumbledore and saw that Dumbledore had stood and drawn his wand. He looked poised to attack, and Harry wondered what he had expected the locket to do.

Dumbledore stowed his wand back in his robes. “That was well done Harry. Your second Horcrux destroyed.”

“Only three to go.”

[sirkkasnow]

04 Advance Planning Is For Sissies

Ao3 link

07/07/13 Sunday

Clary finally started to bust the bicycle out on a regular basis after the excitement of the Fourth. Stan and Dipper helped her swap out the nubby mountain tires for hybrid slicks. She cut a trim, handsome figure in close-fitted shorts, jersey, bandana and helmet when she cruised into town to explore. Stan had overheard Ford giving her a stern albeit somewhat edited lecture on the hazards of Gravity Falls’ woodland trails, and she hadn’t risked the forest yet, which was probably wise.

The bits of conversation he picked up while running his own errands indicated that she was plenty busy as it was, hitting up every farmstand, the museum and Greasy’s within a couple of days. She was already ‘that tourist staying with the Pines’ and the object of bored midsummer curiosity in town.

A tiny aluminum bike trailer had been unearthed from the Fairlane’s wayback. Clary used that to haul all manner of cargo, mostly provisions, as they were mowing through eggs and everything else at a terrifying pace. She’d brought back some odd bits and pieces of costume jewelry and scarves from the thrift store, too, and had promised Mabel a run to the swap meet the next weekend.

Soos had in fact dug the ‘midnight mink’ and was happily working up a new display - ‘Dreaming Denizens,’ or ‘Northwest Nightmares,’ or something else alliterative. Sketches laying out one of the exhibit spaces as a blackout room were scattered across the desk in the office. Stan admitted to himself that it might be fun. Technology had come a long way since the days of glow-in-the-dark paint and twinkle lights.

But what that meant was a new assortment of oddities, and that meant assembly work, and that meant parts, of which the Shack had next to nothing at this point. Stan walked the showroom in late afternoon, taking mental note of what could be repurposed and what they’d need to patch in.

For that matter, he needed parts of another sort for Clary’s station wagon.

“Am I interrupting something important between you and the Goosurkey?” Clary padded up alongside him, hands in pockets. Today’s kerchief was songbirds on pale blue.

“Nope, just thinkin’ ahead. Soos is on a bit of a tear as I’m sure you know.”

“He offered me a job...in case I get stranded here for good. Imaginating Consultant and Staff Accountant.”

Stan half choked before he laughed full-throated. “Thought he had more faith in my repair skills than that.”

“I’m sure he does. He wanted to make sure I felt welcome, that’s all. What are you up to this afternoon? I find myself at loose ends if you could use a spare pair of hands.”

He thought that one over, assessing her through the corner of one eye, piecing together the beginnings of a plan. “…I’ve got a couple errands t’run. You wanna tag along?”

“Depends on what kind of errands you have in mind.”

“The usual weeknight stops. I need a getaway driver and the kids aren’t legal.”

It was her turn to splutter through a laugh. “As if you’d let me lay hands on your precious classic wheels!”

“I don’t know, kid, haven’t you already proven that you’ve got a steady touch?” Watching her go pink with pique was an absolute pleasure. Yeah, this had the potential to be both entertaining and useful. “I’m headin’ out around end of day. Wear black – somethin’ you don’t mind gettin’ dirty.”

To her credit Clary squinted at him with instant suspicion. “You want me to bring extra bobby pins while I’m at it?”

“I’ve got that covered, don’t sweat it.” He winked cheerfully and left her in his wake, mentally plotting out the night’s route.

He’d gathered up all the kit he’d need by the time daylight was winding down into dusk. Stan stepped out onto the porch and nearly tripped over Clary, perched on the top step, tapping who-knew-what into her phone. He yelped, she yelped back and jerked out of the way, and he looked her over critically as he regained his balance. Somewhere in that duffel bag she’d managed to rummage up black jeans, long sleeves and sensible running shoes. The scarves snug at her throat and sleeking back her pinned-up hair were mismatched shades of navy blue, but close enough.

“Wasn’t sure you’d be coming,” he said, though really he’d been pretty sure.

“Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a private late-night tour of Gravity Falls with local legend Mr. Mystery? I can’t pass that up.” Clary rose, toggling the phone to silent and slipping it into her back pocket. “What’s on the itinerary?”

“You’ll see.” She rolled eyes at him but tagged along amiably enough, dropping into the passenger side of the El Diablo and draping a lazy arm along the top edge of the seat while he tossed the backpack of tools and a few other oddments into the trunk. They cruised out into the gathering dark with bad 80s pop for a soundtrack and a mutually-appraising silence.

She pointed an idle thumb down towards Gravity Falls proper as they passed the turnoff. “Not a grocery run.”

“Nope.”

“How far out?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe.”

Her laugh was low and brief as she studied him. “All right. Hobbies?”

“Really?” Stan smiled a little as he drove, his eyes cutting to hers in the mirror.

“I could start singing, but hair metal is really not my bag. I’ll trade mine for yours.”

“Yours‘re probably boring.”

“Ouch. The least you can do is give me a chance to prove otherwise. Besides, didn’t you bring me along to interrogate me in private?”

He did chuckle at that. “Maybe. So, yeah, I make one-of-a-kind art pieces - “ The fingers at the steering wheel’s edge went up in sketchy air quotes. “Fishin’. Monster huntin’ and general explorin’ with Ford, though that’s more the day job these days, I guess.” The quiet weight of her regard didn’t lift and he shifted in his seat. “Boxin’, long time ago. You?”

“Thought you must have been in some kind of sport as a kid. Me, you’ve seen the bike. I read a lot. Thrift store diving, I like vintage stuff. Museums.” One splayed hand obscured her smile as she turned to look out the windshield at the darkening green blur of rural scenery. “Dance, sometimes. Haven’t had much time the last couple of years.”

The likely reasons for that were fairly obvious so he didn’t pry. “There’s not a ton to do out here in the off-season, y’know, so now and then I used t’host somethin’ for the locals. I’ve been gettin’ pestered for a dance party since I got back. You want in?”

“Absolutely. Let me know if I can help out.”

“Maybe we take a turn in the ring while we’re at it. Dipper asked me to show him a few things, might as well teach you too. You’re tall enough to be a decent sparrin’ partner.” Stan spun the wheel easily with one hand, heading down a familiar long gravel drive. “With Dipper I’ve practically got to be on my knees. And I am not that flexible these days.”

There was a hesitation before she responded. “Sure. Though I’m pretty sure I’m better with my feet than my fists.”

The El Diablo eventually pulled up in a little clearing populated by battered sheds, a well-worn pickup and a trailer home that he knew hadn’t budged in decades. Clary took a wary look around, mouth drawing tight in doubt.

“Supplies,” he rumbled, setting the car in park and unbuckling. “Since it looks like Soos is determined to do an overhaul while he’s got me around to help out. Make yourself comfortable. Won’t be long.” He chuckled at her open apprehension. “Relax, kid. Nothin’s gonna pop out of the woods t’drag you screamin’ out of the car. That only happens on new moon and that’s tomorrow.” Stan tapped his chin in mock rumination. “I think.”

“Very funny.”

“You’ll be fine, promise, I’ll be right back.” He was still laughing under his breath as he headed up to the front door.

It was a quick exchange - he’d called ahead and so there was a boxload of stuff waiting for him, cash for critter bits, easy enough. Stan struggled a bit with the driver’s side back door and Clary tucked legs under to kneel on the seat, reaching clear across to pop the door latch. She grabbed the edge of the box once it hit the seat and tugged it over into the middle, peering in at the contents under the wan illumination of the dome light. “Ooh. New skulls!”

“Soos is gonna need a few more mink things, yeah. What is it with you and weasels?”

“Professional courtesy.”

He snorted softly as the car rolled along. “Just how many of those do you know?”

“All of them.” His glance of disbelief was met with her mild smile. “All right, here’s the thing, we tax types are well known as the most humorless beings on the planet. Intimate acquaintance with the IRS, unhealthy obsession with spreadsheets, all that. I figured out pretty early on that people made assumptions. I read up a little. I got to know some of the other folks on the professional circuit in Baltimore...which is a company town, believe me, everyone there is either in government, education or crime….”

“Go on.” He had an inkling where this was going, a slow smile starting to curl.

“I thought I might as well leverage those assumptions.”

“You conned your fellow ambulance chasers.”

“Hey. I am no ambulance chaser and don’t you forget it.” She levelled a fierce glare and an accusing index finger his way. “All I did was win an occasional bar bet by outlasting every loudmouth who thought I was a pushover. If I felt merciful I’d order a glass of the best brandy in the joint and nurse it all night. If I felt less merciful….” Her shoulders rolled in a careless shrug. “There was enough turnover every couple of years that I always had marks.”

“So y’think I can’t keep up?”

“I know for a fact that you’re starting to run out of stuff you can crack in front of the kids.”

Which was true. He coughed into his knuckles as she arched an amused brow at him. “Well,” he said slowly. “Kids aren’t here.”

“Bring it, Pines.”

They batted terrible jokes back and forth for nearly ten minutes as he piloted along the highway to the next destination, dipping into blacker and blacker humor as they went.

“What can a goose do, a duck can’t, and a lawyer should?”

“Stick his bill up his ass. What’s the difference between a lawyer and a rooster?”

“When a rooster wakes up in the mornin’, his primal urge is to cluck defiance! Why do they bury lawyers under twenty feet of dirt?”

“Because deep down, they’re really good people. You know the problem with lawyer jokes?”

This one was so open-ended as to give no clue at all, and Stan cocked his head at her in question.

“Lawyers don’t think they’re funny, and no one else thinks they’re jokes.”

Clary’s smile was a little wry, and he felt an embarrassed flush creep up his neck. “Time for a change of subject, huh?”

“Tell me the best one you’ve got that has nothing to do with lawyers.”

“Oh ho, that’s easy.”

Once they were past the competitive call-and-response - she had definitely won that one, he’d been right on the verge of running dry, but like hell was he admitting to that - they both unspooled longer, loopier jokes, and Stan took real pleasure in coaxing a good laugh out of her. She had a nice laugh, he decided, deep and fearless, growing a little huskier as the drive wore on and she kept talking.

They cruised down one of the more remote county roads, driving nearly on autopilot until they reached the right turnoff. She was still chuckling over his last crack when he pulled over onto the shoulder and killed the engine. Clary frowned over at the tree-screened porch light up the hill. “Wow, okay, this is the middle of nowhere. More parts?”

“Not quite.” Stan drew breath, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he tried to frame what he wanted to say.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Ah. Is this the morally questionable portion of tonight’s program?”

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it. Listen for a minute?”

Clary settled back, attentive, mouth smoothing into a sober line.

“So I’m a collector. I’ve got a thing. For art.” She nodded and he went on. “This jackass up here nabbed a Gustav Klouneng out from under me at auction, he’s rejected all my completely reasonable offers for the thing, and he’s been rubbin’ my nose in it for years now. Pure spite. I’m out here to, ah.” Stan held out both hands palm up, miming the balancing of scales.

“Steal it.”

“Pretty much. I’ve been waitin’ on him to leave town for months.”

She mulled it over, then nodded and cracked her door open. “All right. Show me how it’s done.”

Stan felt a corner of his mouth twitch up. “You sure? You can wait here, if you wanna.”

“I knew we’d be getting into trouble the minute you said ‘wear black’, so let’s get into some trouble.”

They both slid out of the car, Stan chuckling to himself, heading back around to the trunk. He reached in to fish out the gear they’d need, then tossed the spare set of gloves at Clary. She caught them against her chest and tugged them on, wriggling fingers in approval. “You’re pretty light-footed, so just point the light where I need it and stay close, got it?”

“Got it.”

There was no way in hell they were going to make it up to the house in complete silence and the place was unoccupied anyway, so Stan led her the long way around through underbrush to the basement door at a brisk walk. Clary accepted the heavy little black flashlight and aimed it as directed, leaning in to watch the delicate process of coaxing the lock open.

Having an audience was new, but the lock was child’s play. Stan nudged the door open and ushered her in with a flourish. She quirked him a half-impressed grin as she passed, angling the light into a dusty storage room.

“Wait ‘til you see this,” he murmured, deftly picking the lock on the next door under the light’s beam. Clary stepped in after him, silent on the thick carpet, and he cautiously flicked up the switches.

Stan had been here in person with time to look around only once, on what he thought of sourly as the ‘I’ve got all these great paintings and you don’t, sucker’ tour, but the impact was still the same. Perfect lighting, perfect framing, walls and drapery and paneling fit for a professional gallery. The owner might have been a colossal jerk but he had taste. He took a moment to soak it in with a low sigh of enjoyment, then checked on Clary.

She had an arm folded across her midsection, flashlight loose in her fingers, one hand at her chin, expression neutral save for a faint crease of the brow as her eyes flicked from painting to painting.

“Can you believe this hillbilly chump has a collection like this?”

Her head shook fractionally. “No.”

“Overwhelmed, huh. C’mon, lemme show you the one we’re here to get.” Stan chuckled to himself, padding softly down towards their objective.

Clary’s arms relaxed once she’d taken it all in and she came along after him, voice low. “I will say that these are, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best clown paintings I have ever seen. This is a very carefully curated collection.”

“One day these’ll all be mine, but this’s what we came for.” He dragged a fingertip along the edge of the carved frame, grinning up into the mournful eyes of his Klouneng, all slate blues and velvet blacks and white splashed red. “What d’you think?”

“This is the best one here,” she said without hesitation, stepping in alongside him. “Brave use of color, intelligent framing. Lovely brushwork. The shapes and lighting are pared down into something elegant and stark, which is nice, sort of playing on the underlying theme of life on the edge of the spotlight...this is an artist on a mission.” Her expression finally eased into a faint, thoughtful smile. “Though I wonder why he’s so sad.”

“Y’really do like it?”

“Not sure I’d be brave enough to hang it over my bed, but I can respect anything created with such passion.”

“Afraid of clowns?” he tossed off in her general direction as he reached up behind the canvas to find the wall anchor.

“Of course not. I’m just a sucker for landscapes.”

Stan worked quickly, coaxing the canvas out of its bulky frame and setting it delicately against the wall. Clary had wandered off to take a closer look at the rest; she’d found the closest thing to a landscape in the place, a shadowed Paris alley with a dejected mime slumped against the wall. She didn’t seem afraid, but he crept up as softly as he could and leaned in close to her ear, hands hovering a moment before seizing her shoulders.

“Boo.”

Clary made a strangled, startled noise that wasn’t quite a shout, twisted out of his grip and latched onto his forearm with a downward yank that threw him well off balance. He staggered, she jerked back, then grabbed at him for support as she teetered.

“Stanley, what the hell - “

“Cripes, lady, you tryin’ t’dump me on the floor here - “

They were still trying to disentangle themselves, Clary reddening as she finally let go of his arm and shoved free, when a soft creak from overhead made them both freeze.

Shit, thought Stan, then I know damn well he’s out of town, then time to go. Clary stared at him for a flat second of naked betrayal. They both jolted into motion, Clary flipping down the light switches with a single swipe of her palm, Stan snatching up the Klouneng.

“Who’s down there?”

Yeah, he maybe might’ve miscalculated on the ‘out of town’ bit.

“Pines, if that’s you, I swear to God I’m really gonna shoot you this time.”

The door at the top of the inside stairs slowly swung open, casting a shadow - bathrobe, slippers and a rifle, damn it all - along the wall. Clary’s eyes were saucer-wide as she edged towards the still-ajar gallery door. Stan nudged her out into the dusty basement, half stumbling in haste as he followed. As cautious steps turned into a slapping, hurried stampede downstairs, punctuated by curses, Stan set himself up and at just the right moment kicked the inside door to make hard contact with the owner’s face.

Clary’s fingers hooked into his and she dragged him up the basement steps and outside. They both bolted for the relative shelter of the woods. “Head for the car,” she hissed as they hit the treeline.

Suddenly his hand was free and she took off like a panicked gazelle, dodging shrubs, leaping over roots, waving the flashlight around and generally making an attractive nuisance of herself as she angled off roughly towards the road. She was fast. Apparently all that time on the bike had paid off. Stan bulled straight on through, crashing over a stand of huckleberry. He had the painting jammed protectively under one arm and kept half an eye on the trajectory of the light.

When the gunshot went off Stan nearly went ass-over-teakettle through another clump of underbrush. It wasn’t aimed at him, he could tell that much, but his heart was a lump of ice in his chest as he frantically scanned over in Clary’s general direction. She’d stopped – then he heard a distant hngh! of effort and saw the flashlight go up in a long arc, spinning, the beam slicing at tree trunks until a thwack and an infuriated shout of “Damn you, Pines!” indicated that she’d hit her target.

Clary got there first, silhouette matte black against the vague midnight glint of the El Diablo, diving right through the open passenger window to skid across the front seat and slap the driver’s door open. Stan shoved the painting at her, she pivoted to stash it in the back, and gravel was spitting out from under the tires before she’d even turned around again.

They whipped through a three-point turn that tapped the back bumper against a juvenile pine, setting off a rustle in the forest canopy. Stan nearly floored it all the way back to the county road. Clary was curled up at the far edge of the bench seat, both hands over her face. For a long few minutes there was nothing to listen to but the low drone of the radio and the slowly steadying rhythm of both their breathing.

“Fuck,” she finally gritted through bared teeth, and Stan had to bite his lip near to bleeding not to crack up.

“You all right over there?” By the time he dared to check over to her side of the car she’d uncoiled a little, dragging the seatbelt down and shoving the buckle home with a heavy click.

“Peachy. So, thanks, Stan, that was educational, but I must say my estimation of you as some kind of backwoods Oregon criminal mastermind has taken a total nosedive.” Clary settled back against the seat and draped an arm along the window ledge, eyes half closed. “Holy hell. Never again.”

Stan tried, but this time the laughter won out. He tossed his head back and cackled with glee. She reached across to swat at his shoulder, but her lips were pinched against a grudging smile. “You’d better really love that painting.”

“After all that I swear it’s gonna be the eternal jewel of my collection.”

There wasn’t much to say as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. Stan finally took a moment to latch his own seatbelt as he guided the car back in the general direction of town, humming absently under his breath. The minutes ticked past in companionable silence and occasional, wary checks of the rearview mirror.

Clary’s brows rose as they took the turnoff towards Gleeful’s dealership. “What, we’re not done yet? That wasn’t enough excitement for one night?”

“One last errand...this’s a little one, promise, just need to collect some odds and ends for your vintage rattletrap.”

“You be nice to that car. It was more or less in mint condition before it got intimate with your tourist trap.”

“And it’ll be nice again once we figure out the bodywork, but in the meantime the engine needs help.” Stan pulled up on the roadside forty yards or so down from the dealership, cars and mylar fringe glinting and still under the lot’s lights. He levered himself up and out, stretching muscles that twanged in protest. Clary unfolded herself from the far side and half stumbled, supporting herself on the El Diablo’s hood as she came around to join him.

“I’ve never run that hard in my life. My knees are still jelly.”

“Nice afterburners on you, kid. Nice grip, too.” Stan fished the trimmed end of his most recent cigar out of his breast pocket and raised brows at her in question as she settled against the fender; she nodded and he struck a match, taking his time to wake the tobacco up to a slow burn. Ten minutes left on this one, maybe.

“I had incentive. What’re we here for?” Clary folded arms and looked up to the star-dense sky, her dark figure limned in subtle silver and the sodium gold of the dealership lamps. Stan studied her sharp profile at the edge of his vision.

“Drive belt. Spark plugs. Other bits not worth explainin’.”

“I can pay for the parts, Stan.”

He huffed out a chuckle, angling the smoke away. “Yeah, about that. Gleeful an’ I don’t exactly get along, y’see, he’ll tell you to stuff it purely ‘cause you’re under my roof right now.”

Pfft, she went, eyes closing for a pensive moment. “Nothing else local I imagine.”

“Nope. Portland’s a full day round trip. Bud’s got a nice little assortment of older stuff back there he’s never gonna sell, we nip in, snag what you need, nip out. No one’s even gonna notice. Hour, hour and a half tops. All you’ve gotta do is kill the main power at the office. Fuse box, big switch, cake.” He tipped a thumb over at the cinderblock-and-plate-glass structure that anchored the lot, tucked inside the fence.

“You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

“Been hearin’ it all my life.”

He let her think it over while he worked his way through the last bit of his cigar, smoke dissipating peacefully on the warm night air. Maybe she’d bite, maybe she wouldn’t. Eventually he ground the stub out at his feet and went around to the trunk to retrieve his kit bag. Clary followed, extending a hand, and he dropped a set of pliers into her gloved palm.

“Fine. Your turf, your people, your judgment call. I trust you.” He flinched in surprise at the phrase, covering with the low thunk of the trunk’s closure. “Prove me right.”

The urge to catch her arm and suggest the day trip to Portland instead was sudden and strong - hell, she was decent company and she’d be good for the gas - but it was already too late as she pivoted and jogged off down along the lot line, choosing a badly-lit spot near the office and scaling the fence with scrabbling feet. Less than a minute later the lights went out with a distant clunk.

Stan shouldered his tools and headed in, tamping down vague apprehension as his eyes adjusted to the faint ambient light. He didn’t bring out the spare flashlight until heavy shadow made it risky to go further. The lot was a maze of gleaming hulks, the footing treacherous on thin, irregular gravel. Clary he eventually picked out by the soft crunch of her cautious steps and an occasional ow as she bumped into one car or another, slowly homing in.

“Gonna take this up as a sideline? You got decent instincts for a glorified accountant.”

Clary snorted softly. “Not on your life. I usually deal with a different caliber of crime.”

Stan grinned to himself. “See anythin’ the same make as yours before you killed the lights?”

“There’s a Fairlane sedan at the back. Not in spectacular shape, but it looked like the right vintage.”

“That’ll work. Here y’go, lead on.” He passed off the flashlight. She kept her head and the light’s beam low, creeping along with complete focus, so serious and so careful that the urge to indulge in a cheap startle eventually became irresistible.

Stan caught up with two silent strides and reached out to clasp her low on the ribs. “Gotcha.”

She didn’t even make a sound this time, convulsing in his grip, the flashlight hitting the ground right about as her elbow caught him smack in the face. Stan tucked and hit the dirt more or less completely on reflex, half stunned - there’d been some real force behind that - and she was almost a carlength away before he could even see straight.

The dim fringe of the light gave him just enough of a read on her expression, flickering through fear to fury and finally settling on horrified contrition as he lifted a hand and found himself stemming a tidal rush of blood from his bruised nose. “Holy smokes, kid.”

“Shit.” She hustled back, dropping to her knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly as he rummaged up a handkerchief and jammed it in place to stanch the flow. “I am so sorry.” A pause. “Please never do that again.”

“Not a chance. I want to keep my head on, thanks.” Stan tipped his chin up, sniffling faintly as he waited for the broken blood vessel to calm the hell down. “Quit lookin’ at me like that, I deserved to end up flat on my ass. Nice solid hit, for a girl, with a desk job.” Budding indignation was definitely an improvement over the guilt and concern twisting her features - he didn’t much want to deal with either of those. “I really could show you how t’do somethin’ with that, y’know.”

Clary seemed reassured that he wasn’t going to die on the spot, at least, as she turned and stretched way out to retrieve the flashlight. “Only if next week is a lot more boring than this one has been. You sure you’re all right.”

He pinched his nose with the hanky, wincing as he tested the bridge, then dabbed with a clean corner which stayed clean. “Not broken. I’ve gotten worse beatings than that, believe me.”

The flicker of concern came and went again, but she kept her mouth shut and stood gracefully, extending a hand down to him. “We’d better wrap up.” Clary leaned back to counterbalance his greater weight and pulled him easily to his feet; Stan snagged the backpack and refrained from any further shenanigans as they came up on the car she’d picked out.

It wasn’t pretty - the color some kind of faded bronze that she called “Sauterne Gold” in passing disgust, chrome pitted along the bumper’s lower edge - but the hood came up quietly. The internals were mostly familiar and more importantly intact.

“Hold the flashlight steady for me an’ keep an eye out.” Stan unzipped his pack, the sound muffled by a liberal coating of beeswax on the teeth, and reached in to feel for the right tools in their flannel wraps. Clary bent for a fleeting moment to squint in and hummed in amusement as she straightened up.

“Pink bunnies?”

“Old PJs of Mabel’s, cut me some slack already. Pliers?” She passed them over, propped her elbow to keep the light roughly aligned, and kept her attention on the road while he set to work. Nothing too complicated. The drive belt was the worst of it, the spark plugs were easy. Clary glanced down at him every now and then as he became absorbed in the process.

He had dumped the tools and miscellaneous bits into the pack and was softly latching the hood when the light cut out and she hissed a warning, dropping into the shelter of the fender as a distant, watery beam raked the lot.

And, inevitably, zeroed in on him. “Hey, what’s going on over there? That you, Bud?”

Blubs. “Pete’s sake,” he spat under his breath, and nudged the backpack with one foot towards Clary’s hiding spot. “Zip that, run for it, toss it over the fence.” Her hand darted out to catch a strap as he half turned. “Uh, yeah?”

“Pines? What the heck happened to your face? And what’re you doin’ here at - Hey, are you stealing parts again?”

“....No?” Clary was inching away deeper into the shadows of the lot. He couldn’t even make her out, but started strolling towards Blubs to cover up the faint crunch of her steps, hands turned out and empty. “You know we got a guest with a busted car, right? Bud an’ I still aren’t speakin’ politely, so I’m here lookin’ for somethin’ trustworthy she can use ‘til she’s fixed.”

“After one in the morning?” Blubs was one to talk; Stan could make out the perpetual sunglasses over the regulation flashlight’s beam.

“D’you really want me crossin’ paths with Bud again?” Somewhere behind him there was a distant rustle of branches, good, then Durland’s voice, far enough off to sound tinny.

“Hey! Where you going, burglar? Yer under arrest - for burglary!”

There was a scuffle, and a sharp, high yelp like a rabbit snatched by an ambitious owl. “Hey!” Stan spun on one heel, and made it about three lengthening steps in the right direction before Blubs full-out tackled him by the knees. One of the car alarms went off, squeep squeep squeep, as he crashed into a door on the way down. “Ah, c’mon, Blubs, I saved the town from an interdimensional demon, gimme a break!”

“Sorry, Stan, we got a job to do.”

Durland herded Clary past him, her back straight, wrists cuffed, expressionless. She caught his eyes for the barest moment - she was pale, a smudge on her cheek, but seemed to be in one piece. Stan let Blubs slap the cuffs on him with an internal groan of resignation. They made a sad little parade out towards the street, the sheriff and his deputy arguing quietly.

“....aw, shoot, Durland, we don’t have the cruiser. Me and my ideas for romantic midnight strolls!”

“Well, why don’t we just commander Stan’s car?”

“Do you mean commandeer?”

“I dunno!”

“Edwin Durland, you are an absolute delight, and I cherish having you as my life partner.”

At least someone was having a good night. Blubs rummaged the car keys out of Stan’s pocket and stuffed him in behind the driver’s seat. Clary ended up on the passenger side, wedged in next to the box of pelts and bones. The Klouneng stayed precariously jammed between his knee and hers. Stan gritted his teeth as Blubs fiddled with the seat back and finally got the El Diablo going.

She stared out into the night the whole way. He could all but hear the mental gears spinning over there and was loathe to interrupt, but finally spoke up, quiet. “You okay, Clary?”

“I’m fine, Stan.” It was the first unambiguous lie she’d told him, smooth as glass. Stan left it at that, letting his temple rest against the window’s chilly surface while he tried to figure a way out of this one.

The station was a bit of a blur as he trudged in, head down, watching Clary’s feet ahead of him. They ended up uncuffed and unceremoniously dumped in one of the cells together. The door closed with a familiar, heavy clang. “You two better get comfortable. We’ll get your prints in the morning.” Blubs really did do a decent job of being intimidating when you didn’t know him.

Stan flopped onto one of the cots. Clary folded her arms, settling against the wall near the bars, angling herself so that she had half a bead on Durland and Blubs talking at the end of the hall. “How do we get out of here?” she whispered after a minute or two.

“Don’t think we can, kid.” Stan settled back onto the thin mattress with a sigh, propping up a knee. “I think I can convince ‘em that you got hypnotized into comin’ along with me or somethin’. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’ve heard this year or hell even this summer.”

Her mouth twitched faintly. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“I don’t have to tell you that you don’t wanna get in trouble with the law. This isn’t my first night in jail, not by a long shot.” He rolled his head a little, the better to catch her eye. “I’ve been in an’ out of this one so many times the cot’s got a dent to fit my butt.” No laugh, but at least she ducked her head to hide the ghost of a smile. “I’ve done time in worse places than this. Whatever they come up with to throw at me, this’s a cakewalk.”

Her fingers were tapping a soft rhythm against her sleeve. “And if we can get past the lock?”

“Then we slip out a window and they forget this ever happened, most likely.”

Clary’s features went carefully neutral as she fished something out of her back pocket, then leaned against the bars, hands hanging just through. “Excuse me, fellas?” Her voice smoothed out into a warm dark-caramel register that wouldn’t do a damned thing for the sheriff or the deputy but struck a pleasant thrum in Stan’s chest. “You dropped your car keys.”

Durland wandered back after a minute, squinting. “Where’d you get my keepsake key fob? I’ve been lookin’ for that.”

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t even realize I’d picked it up. Thought they were my keys in the dark.”

“Thank you kindly, miss.” She handed the fob off to the deputy, endured a long, scrutinizing stare, then settled back against the wall. Stan stared at the ceiling and listened to the slow retreat of Durland’s feet, settling in for an uncomfortable night.

“Hsst.”

“What.”

He could practically hear her eyes rolling. “Hst,” again, softer, and he turned his head to look over. Clary had one palm tilted towards him, a glint carefully contained by silencing fingers - the cell keys, how the fuck - expression equal measures smug and profoundly ashamed. Her hands were shaking.

Stan bounced upright in pure shock, feet hitting the floor with a thud. He slapped a hand over his mouth in time to muffle an involuntary laugh. “Holy - you sure you don’t have experience with this kinda thing?”

“Shh,” Clary hissed. She pressed her brow to the bars for a better angle on the hallway, both hands cradling the keys as though they’d evaporate any second. Her trembling fingers set off tiny clinks as she tried them in succession until one finally clicked. The bolt slid back with a faint thunk that made both of them flinch. Stan hovered at her side as she pulled one shuddering breath, two, then carefully, carefully opened the door.

They slipped out into the hall and crept down to the station office. Blubs snored peacefully, sprawled across the front desk. Clary leaned over and pulled a neat little switch, plucking up the Stanleymobile keys and leaving the cell keys in their place.

“Hold on,” Stan whispered as she inched towards the outside door. She held in place and watched in outraged astonishment as he sidestepped into what passed for the evidence room, then reemerged with the precious Klouneng tucked under one arm.

The El Diablo was right out front. Stan matter-of-factly unlocked the passenger side, opened it for Clary, handed her the painting - she pivoted and stashed it in the back again - then slid into his own seat, adjusted it to the proper position, and pulled out smoothly down the road.

Both of them were all but holding their breath for the better part of ten minutes. Flashing lights and sirens failed to materialize behind them.

“You know where the pack went down?”

“Yes. I counted fenceposts.”

“Let’s grab that, then, don’t know how we can get into more trouble tonight.”

Clary knocked on the dashboard in lieu of anything actually wooden. “Please don’t tempt fate any further.”

Stan pulled into the former Tent of Telepathy lot next to Gleeful’s and angled the headlamps in the general direction Clary indicated, since they were officially out of flashlights. She hopped out and delved into the underbrush. His fingertips were drumming impatiently on the steering wheel’s edge by the time she reemerged, pack slung over one shoulder.

He picked a circuitous route out of town for no real reason other than his own peace of mind.

Clary tucked herself against the passenger door, arms defensively folded. Her expression gradually wound tighter and tighter into a frown. “You know, he got it wrong, that wasn’t even burglary. At least he didn’t know we’d already done that bit.”

“Pffft.” It wasn’t even that funny, but all the same Stan propped his head in one hand, fingers splayed so he could see, and started to laugh quietly. She joined him after a few moments. There was a hysterical edge to her staccato giggles but it was better than dead silence.

“I cannot believe I did that.”

“Oh, you did, kid. Pretty professional too.” It was damned near three in the morning and exhaustion weighed down his limbs. The drive home was mercifully uneventful, the Shack dark and silent under a moonless sky. He scooped up the painting and she collected the backpack from where she’d dumped it in the footwell. Stan didn’t bother to flick on any lights until they made it to the kitchen, feet dragging, and they both had to squeeze dark-adapted eyes shut against the sudden glare of the overhead lamp.

Stan propped the Klouneng up on the table and sank heavily into a kitchen chair. Clary paced the floor, hands to hips, the mental gears spinning again. "That was a wild night. Let's see. Breaking and entering, burglary, trespassing, petty larceny, escaping custody. How much do Klounengs go for?" Stan winced; she blinked, lips parting in dismay, and burst into a fresh round of low incredulous laughter. "Grand larceny."

"He's not gonna report anythin'," Stan said, a little wounded. "Half of what he has on the walls down there is already stolen. There's, ah, kind of a runnin' rivalry among collectors of these things."

"Lost any of yours?" She padded over to the sink, turning the tap and waiting on the water to warm up.

"Hell, no, I have mine better hidden than that. None of ‘em are dumb enough to mess with the Shack."

"So that leaves a couple hundred in car parts, and we didn't leave any real traces there. Except, you know, being in physical custody for under an hour. They didn't even book us." Clary drew a long breath through her cupped hands, then let it go slowly. "Screw it," she murmured. "We got out alive. The rest is just details."

She tucked her gloves into a back pocket and scrubbed both hands and face while Stan glared at his interlaced fingers and stewed. This night had not gone as planned and really, none of that was on her.

“Want a drink?” Clary reached up into a cupboard.

“Water, sure.” She set a glass in front of him, then paused to study him carefully before pacing back to the sink. “You did good, y’know. Nerves of steel for a rookie.”

“Baltimore being Baltimore, you develop those nerves or you move someplace a lot more peaceful.” Clary returned with a damp paper towel and an air of quiet determination. “Your face is still kind of a mess. Hold still a moment, let me clean you up and then I’ll get an ice pack.”

“Don’t need ice, I can take a couple aspirin - “ She tilted her head at him a little, brows rising, and Stan heaved a resigned sigh.

Clary rested a cool palm along his jaw and tipped him up until he was looking into her eyes. She wasn’t looking into his. Instead her focus was tight and worried as she swabbed along his upper lip. “Cannot believe I tagged you this hard. I am so damned sorry.” Tiny corkscrew tendrils of her hair escaped the bandana, ash brown washed out to silvered threads by the light bulb’s corona. “You sure you feel all right?”

“’m fine.” There was a flush rising along his neck and it wasn’t embarrassment this time. Stan couldn’t tear his gaze away. He’d seen that shade of grey in her troubled eyes before, somewhere. Maybe in the glint of a tern’s wing or the glimmer of the sea at the edge of dawn. “Like I said, I deserved that one.”

"I hit you, Stan, that is not okay." With one last pass of the paper towel along the edge of his lower lip she stepped back to survey her handiwork. The grey eyes flicked up to meet his, and she seemed at last to realize how close she’d been as she withdrew. “You don’t deserve that. Just - no more grabbing me from behind, clear?”

“Crystal.”

She wrapped a familiar bag of frozen peas in a dishtowel and handed it off. A moment’s rifling through a drawer turned up a bottle of ibuprofen, which she opened and set on the table. “Anything else before I go collapse? You guys are wearing me out so completely that I’m sleeping better than I have in years.”

“Why’d you come along?”

He hadn’t meant to ask that - it slipped out unbidden. Stan pressed the improvised icepack to his forehead, peering out at her from under daisy-patterned terrycloth. She looked as surprised as he felt. “I mean - you knew it’d be trouble.”

“I made a promise,” Clary said after a wary pause, “that I’d take some real chances this year. Stick my neck out for other people.”

“How’s that workin’ out for you so far?”

A tiny smile warmed her weary features. “Mixed bag. Right now, from where I’m standing, I think things might be looking up.” Her palm pressed his shoulder in brief reassurance. “Good night, Stan.”

“G’night, Clary.” She shot him a last oblique glance as she headed out into the hall.

Stan washed down three ibuprofen with water, settled back in the chair and let his eyes slip half closed for a thoughtful while, listening to the distant song of crickets.

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She hovers uselessly at your side, wide eyes flicking between your bleeding nose and the backpack you dropped. “I am so sorry.”

Want to learn how to really hit?

Play for sympathy.

Get indignant.