The heavy hawk-feather quill scratched its way across the page leaving a trail of black ink in its wake.

Bulgaria is cold. Abominably so.

Setting down the quill, Zane von Mecklenberg flexed his fingers and glanced toward the banked fire in the nearby pit. He shook his head and picked the quill up, continuing to pen his thoughts.

I simply cannot wait to leave this place. My duty is almost done; my dear mother should be happy. Four years at Hogwarts come and gone, and now I have suffered through several months here. The knowledge gained has been...interesting. Still, it could be more.

A drop of ink fell from the nib, staining the parchment.

Yes, it could be more. I am not satisfied with what I have learned.

I will be satisfied, however, to leave this place. Two cousins are currently here, and they seem to believe that my time in Jolly Old England has made me a fair target. I have done what I can to convince them otherwise, of course. Several trips to the school "nurse" have been the only obvious outcome, but I believe that they are beginning to understand.

A pair of younger students approached the library table. Nervous and awkward, Zane knew their game. A glance to the shadowed doorway of the library proved his point. Another...older. Likely at least Zane's age, and probably a lackey of Fredrick or Hans, the ... boy? ... was a faceless observer. His stink, however, was all over the pair in front of Zane.

One of the younger wizards, the larger of the pair, reached down to pull out the bench, his face set in a smile that combined equal parts of false friendship and arrogant willingness to do as he wished.

"Another test, and the fool boy doesn't even know that he is being used," Zane thought to himself, flicking his eyes from one boy to the next.

The bench slid away from the table with a shuddering groan, the heavy wood moving back with obvious reluctance.

"Petrificatus Totalis."

A flick of his wand and single phrase. That was all it took. The overbalanced boy, already relying on the weight of the bench to hold him upright, stiffened, his eyes widening even as the green bolt flew from under the table.

Then he fell, landing on his back, legs curiously akimbo and arm held out before him.

His ... partner? friend? ... it didn't really matter .... The other boy's eyes flew to his companion and then back to Zane. The tip of a wand met his gaze, the polished wood quivering a foot from his face.

"This seat is taken. So is that one. Perhaps you and your friend might find another place to sit?" The barest hint of a glow began to form on the wand almost seeming to wait for the other's answer.

"Da. Ve vill...go. Da." The second boy reached for his wand ... his hand halting as Zane's stabbed forward into his neck. Swallowing quietly, he bent slowly and began to drag his prone companion physically. Zane watched them go, finally shifting his eyes back to the doorway.

Of course, it was empty. No weakness from the outsider today. They would wait a bit yet.

Turning back to his book, he finished one last line.

The Voice of a Banshee and a Dead Man's Hand. I will gain these and return to England. This frozen place can fall in upon itself after that.

Zane looked over the page and then nodded.

"Evanesco."

The words disappeared as if never there. A journal such as this could be used against its author.

Silently, without sound or incantation, a ghostly flame appeared deep within the cover of the Forbidden Forest. Initially resting in Zane's palm, he set it upon the damp bark of a fallen log where the light burned without sound, smoke, or heat.

The years had passed, both at Hogwarts and Durmstrang, and he found himself changed, physically and mentally. Still the need for knowledge remained, and he had followed every road he had found to gain it. Some of those roads had been dark, indeed, and it was due to this that he had come here...to a place far from prying eyes...tonight.

Eyes closed, he raised his arms and began the call. Cold, spidery words...unnecessary to some, perhaps, but still needed by Zane -- for now ... slid through the darkness. Without pause, he repeated them a second time and then a third.

Stillness. Only the sound of his own breathing broke the night's hushed silence.

The ground before him broke open, dirt flying away, displaced by some...thing...that even now worked its way to the surface. A skeletal hand.... An arm, draped in the rotted fabric of clothing long gone to rot.... A grinning skull, eyeless and covered in the dark soil of the Forest....

Staggering to its feet, the Infernus turned to silently face its caller.

Zane studied the animated corpse, wondering at the lack of emotions that he felt he should be experiencing. Magic rarely came in darker form than what he had just done, and should proof reach the teachers, he would undoubtedly be disciplined for his actions...if not outright expelled.

Shrugging to himself, he began casting again, enhancing the strength of the Infernus, shielding it from sight, and granting it immunities to the more mundane spells. Why do so? Just to see what would work.

Finally, his experimentation complete, Zane sent the creature back beneath the earth, releasing the spells that had called it forth. He leaned heavily on the walking stick at his side and bent to collect the silently burning flame. Then, slowly, his every motion speaking to his weariness, he walked out of the Forest, his feet carrying him back to the school.

As he entered the Entrance Hall, he saw the normal group of students sitting around the pillars, their heads lowered in conversation. He smiled at some, offered a casual wave of his hand to others, but in the end, passed them all by as he returned to the Common Room.

Sinking into one of the couches nearest the fire, he pulled out the heavily bound textbook from Durmstrang and read over several pages. Then, nodding his head casually, he closed the tome and tossed it into the flames. Leaning back into the seat, he watched the flames consume the book.

Another magic mastered, although the accomplishment might be less than impressive to some.

Looking around the room, he nodded to a pair of fifth years sitting nearby.

"Chess, anyone?"

The collection of odds and ends that poured out of the bag were truly unorganized. Several precious gems...a piece of moonstone...a sliver of mandrake root...a silver knife...and chewing gum?

Shaking his head, Zane set about better organizing the contents, casually popping the gum into his mouth as he pushed the little piles about. Other students wandered around the Entrance Hall, but he paid them little attention beyond the occasional smile or nod.

His thoughts flew about as he sorted. "Valuable items here...jewels and such..... Potion ingredients into this bag...adder fang, must be careful there..... Quills into the case with the parchments."

"Ah...and here are the deliveries from Paris." A pair of boxes, sealed with ribbons and rustling with the sound of the tissue paper inside.... "These go over here. Hrm. With this fan, I think."

He was soon done. The rewards from his wanderings were safely stashed away with some sense of order, and his mood had rarely been better. Memories of a cold night...snow falling on pale hair....

Yes, Zane von Mecklenberg was having a good day.

***********************
That class had been ... interesting. Potions always was. His own work had been, to say the least, substandard, but the interplay between the students and Snape had been far too interesting to ignore.

The candidates chosen to "demonstrate" the potion's effects ... their plight had been interesting. So few others had wanted to have anything to do with them. No offers of help.

Either Snape's reach was long or students were even less compassionate than he had expected.

He had decided to help the Brown girl. It would be interesting to see what kind of effect that had. After all, it cost so little to be "nice" in a place where so many prided themselves on being rude and snobbish.

Still, the day had dimmed, somewhat. He had hoped to see better. His expectations for his own emotional attachment remained (as usual) low, but he had indeed hoped to see better from the others.

He thought again of snowflakes in the cold night. The magic of the moment had tarnished.

Frowning, he turned on his heel and returned to the Commons, up the ladder, and to his room. Lights were turned off, and he settled into the covers of his bed, feeling the cold seeping in from the stones. It reminded him of his home far away. They would understand Snape's lesson and revel in it.

Still.....

He shrugged. All things considered, it had still been a good day.

"Gute Nacht, mein liebes Mädchen."

The thrill of victory. The adrenaline rush that comes with conflict. The rest at the end of a hard day's work. Each of these were intoxicating in their own way. Heady...breathtaking...the kind of thing that a man could grow addicted to quite easily.

Zane slumped across the arms of the chair, his legs hanging over the seat and an arm. The rasping sound of his wand dancing through his fingers harmonized with the crackling of the fire. And in that fire, he saw things.

He still had no idea what had...caused...the situation in Borgin and Burkes. An argument. Memories shattered with execution precision. A monumental show of disrespect for good ice cream.

He chuckled quietly at that thought.

And he had been asked to watch her. To watch out for Priggo Seville.... To watch as if the man might show at any moment, spitting fire and fury towards the girl.

It explained so very many things.

He had done it. Seville had broken her. He had done it very well. What remained was a shattered, worthless doll. Full of spite and venom, to be sure, but as toothless as a newborn. It was easy to see the hate and anger glowing in her eyes, but that flame was banked. Old coals, still hot, but not a danger.

Zane had decided to be gasoline.

He had been cruel. He had been bitter, mean, insulting, and humiliating. That he had never spoken words more true in his life was the most amusing thing.

Her "friends" just didn't understand her. They were blind because they cared. Scorn and self-hate. She was full of it, and Zane had done his near best to rub it into her face. Let her hate so long as she healed. She had had enough of nursemaids and grooms. Steel must be tempered in order to be strong. Talking lovingly to it did not hammer out dents or straighten blades. He had torn away the blindfold and then slapped her across the face with it. And, oh dear oh dear, had she been mad.

The wand stopped its dance, snapping into his fingers. Like a maestro directing his orchestra, Zane let the slender piece of wood rise and fall, guiding his thoughts in time with the fire.

She had stormed out after showing the first signs of a life of anger returned. She had taken the wand. She had made violent promises of pain...that he almost believed.

His last words to her hopefully still rang in her ears. If they did, she would find a way to be strong again. If not, then she would fall and shatter on the rocks. He had respected her. Few things disappointed him so much as to be wrong. If she could not heal then let her destroy herself and be done.

Still, he knew what to expect. She was too insulted to die. She was too angry to fail.

"Get better, dear," he had said to the limping wreck that did its best to stomp from the Cauldron.

He glanced up at his wand and sent it once again spinning across his knuckles.

The next time they met, he would be ready to burn her down. He expected her to heal. If she did, he was in danger.

Another chuckle as he rolled out of the chair and headed to his room.

"My goodness. Me...in danger...from her. However shall I survive? I do hope that she will at least blow me a kiss."

Wood shavings hung in the frigid air, flying for a moment before landing lightly on the snow. It was a cold night, but here, so near Durmstrang, all nights were cold.

He had found the shapeless lump of wood while walking through the woods, and something in it had called to him. "Free me!" it cried. "Show me!" it called. And so, settling upon a tree stump, Zane had drawn his knife and began to try.

The knife was, to be honest, a poor implement for this work. Heavy bladed and straight, it was a cruel weapon, but a very bad tool. Still...he had time to go slowly.

He had always enjoyed carving wood. Layer by layer and chip by chip, he could penetrate the shrouds. Carefully and methodically, he could strip the carving of all its protections...of all its lies. Under the blade of the knife, the wood could hide nothing. He could shape it and twist it, never too far of course, to his will. The inner shape would always be there, and it was near-impossible to force the wood away from that. The subtle changes were just as important, and a tool that was mostly true to its purpose would always work better than one that was at odds with itself.

To be able to change that shape, however...ah...now that was the thing that crept in his dreams. Alas, it was also an effort for another day. He was closer than he had been, but it was still so far away.

There. Done.

Resting in his palm was a small bird, seemingly caught - frozen - in the wood at the moment when it was taking flight. Neither kept nor free, it hung in that most fragile moment between them. Would it decide to stay earthbound or would it push the ground away with those frantically beating little wings?

That was the Game of the Broken Road. Everything ended up where it was due to a series of choices and circumstances. It rarely did any good to try to predict how something would behave unless one could control those paths. But a nudge here and a push there.... A word of caution and a nod of encouragement....

***********

"Let me tell you a story, dear girl. Sometimes, a single grain of sand finds its way into an oyster. Now then, the oyster, of course, sees this grain as nothing more than an annoyance...a thing to be, at best, ignored and, at worst, given that minimum consideration needed to dull it into a minor irritation. And so...it takes steps to make the annoying little speck...go away.

The amusing thing is, you see, that in doing so, the grain becomes larger and, usually, all the more beautiful. It grows and grows, this annoying little thing until, in some cases, it becomes so large that the oyster suddenly finds itself too crowded to live. In other times, the little grain has become so beautiful to others that they will kill the oyster to free it for themselves.

In the end, the oyster still dies. The pearl, however, remains."

In the flickering light, a single black pearl had rolled across a table.

***********

Zane put away his knife and lifted his wand from where it rested on the stump beside him. Calming his mind with a practiced ease, he let the slender stick of wood, bone, and silver rise and fall.

The little bird of wood was gone. In its place was a small black and gray sparrow like the ones that had lived outside his window in their mud nests while he had studied here.

The bird continued to remain, hung in that eternal instant ... and then it was gone. Wings beating, it strained for the sky. Zane's wand rose with it, tracking it, and emitting a dull reddish glow from its tip.

His chuckle was low and dark in the night. The wand waved....and then dropped to his side.

"Fly, little bird. You've been set free, hrm? All the lies revealed. Fly."

((Conversation recorded from memory, so I'm sure I got some of it wrong. All the same, hats off to Terry and Joki for the fun!))

"Be damned, you annoying things," he thought as he moved his head to avoid the flapping book ... again.

A pair of first years scampered across the library. The boy supported the girl, holding the her arm like some fragile thing. Based on the smoke rising from her robes, Zane assumed that she had just been introduced to the Restricted Section. His eyes tracked them as they half-ran to the door, their eyes constantly darting around the room, expecting another attack at any moment.

"They are still young...and in so, wise. They'll grow...older...more calloused...less observant...foolishly unafraid. If only we could all remain so aware.... How did Wilde..." The chuckle escaped him -- the irony was amusing. "How did he put it? Hrm...ah yes. 'I am not young enough to know everything.' That was it."

His thoughts trailing away, Zane began to smile. The left side of his mouth rose, twisting into the mocking, crooked grin so often seen.

Resisting the urge to think, plot, and plan, Zane allowed his memories to flow. The girl was ever so intriguing. Dancing with the devils she knew and praying that they would arrive wearing their dress robes. He did not know all of the history, of course, but the wheels and cogs were easily seen.

The temptation was so great. Another push or two.... Words twisted easily, and the gears that made her tick must do the same.

Unnoticed, the fingers of his left hand twitched on the surface of the desk. His wand began its slow dance through the fingers of his right.

But...no.

That was not the goal. He had promised otherwise...if only to himself. He could continue to shape but no further.

"Only play with your food after you have eaten your toys." His chuckle was low and mocking. Madame Pince shot him a glare from across the room, but he never even saw it.

So...yes...not to break. Bend and twist perhaps but with the best of intentions, of course.

That made him chuckle again.

He pulled an old book from his bag, its leather surface long worn smooth from countless fingers. Opening it to the beginning, he trailed his finger down the table of contents, smiling as he found his goal. Pages rustled as they were turned to finally rest, exposing their content to all who would look.

He pulled a quill, ink, and parchment from his bag and began to copy from the book. Slowly and laboriously he transfered the words from one page to the other. The quill made its way down the page, "skitching" and "shrasping" as it went. Finally, its work complete, the feather was set aside. A sprinkling of fine sand followed, soaking up the excess ink.

His eyes wandered the page, the smile returning to his face as he read.

"Yes," he thought, "this will certainly do."

The last lines of the words brought the thrill back. The hunt continued. That it might have some useful purpose to someone other than himself was both exciting...and somewhat saddening.

Still, he had promised. Such things were owed. And she was SO very intriguing.

".....Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

A rather interesting book lay open on the desk. Its construction seemed too perfect. The shiny pages and exact print made it look almost like a dead thing. The pictures inside, a flayed corpse with chest opened bare, did nothing to contradict the idea. They were still. Completely so.... Everything about the tome simply screamed "Muggle."

Zane's wand traced the various veins and arteries that led to the human heart. Red and blue, these narrow little tubes ascended and descended. Each was a work of art in its own right, albeit a rather .... Zane chuckled quietly. A rather visceral work of art. The irony of that phrase was humorous. They lay there before him -- the right and left pulmonary arteries, the superior and inferior vena cava, the descending aorta, the brachiocephalic trunk, the left subclavian artery, and the left common carotid artery.

Only last night, he had seen those same things, although they had been limp and still in death.

"Snick, snick snick...she cut you so quick," he murmured quietly as he drug the end of his wand across each of them.

Shaking his head, he leaned back in his chair, eyes still focused on the image before him.

"Why oh why, Little Wing do you fly...a girl so focused and smart, to play with a dead man's heart?" The rhyme flowed in a child-like cadence.

To control an Infernus.... That was an art long mastered by Zane. He had told her as much.



But to simply...cut them apart? With such care and precision?

He shook his head. This was a mystery indeed. It made little sense to him, but that was due to a lack of proper focus, he was sure. As always, he must see it through HER eyes.

Even as she sliced the veins and arteries to release that long-dead heart, he would have to tear away the cobwebs that hid her thoughts.

"'Curiouser and curiouser' cried Alice."

He would continue his work. She trusted him more and more. And, even as he had told her, he needed no collar or leash to keep his pets in line.

That brought another laugh. No, he needed no stays or bindings for her any longer. Her own curiosity would serve better than any chain.

But the darling girl did still have teeth...and they had flesh from the grave stuck between them.

He twirled his wand through across his right hand and rested the fingers of his left against the side of his face. Memories flowed still.



Shaking his head, the ghost of his smile still playing about his lips, he pulled quill and parchment from his bag and began to write.

"Call in thy death’s head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.”
But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,
Methoughts I heard one calling “Child!”
And I replied “My Lord”.

Walking through the door to his room with his usual bouncing stride and crooked smile, Zane pulled his cloak from around his shoulders and tossed it onto his bed. A wave of his wand and the door shut behind him, its lock clicking into place.

With the sealing of the room, the abundance of energy drained from the red-haired young man. He leaned against his bed for a moment as if pausing to catch his breath, and then he walked to his dresser.

A rather plain bowl filled with water sat on the top of the heavy piece of furniture. Zane pulled it to him and looked into the shimmering surface with a sigh.

Tapping the rim of the bowl with his wand, he muttered "Aquas Reflectum" and watched as the liquid darkened first to black and then to an calm silver that reflected his face back to his searching eyes.

Silent spells were never easy, and the one he had been forced to use had proven difficult even for a young wizard with his skills in Transfiguration. With a sigh that was equal parts relief and exhaustion, he let the working fade. Like a mirage over the desert, his face wavered and then changed.

Blood crept over the left side of his face like some red shadow. An open cut split the skin of his forehead, a rapidly advancing bruise had already spread to hang heavily under his eye. A minor wound at worst. Still, hiding it had taken a considerable amount of his energy...especially given what had followed.

Touching the wound gingerly, he suddenly broke into a chuckle and launched into a childhood rhyme, throwing his arms wide and spinning in a circle.

"Ring around the rosies,
a pocketful of posies.
Ashes, ashes,
we all fall down!"

As he finished, Zane tossed himself backwards onto his bed, the quiet laughter continuing.

"Ah, my Little Wing...we all fall down."

Silence.

Then a single word, carrying more than a hint of laughter --

"Episkey."

It was only a room. A secretive one, to be sure, but still...just a room. The shelves lining its walls contained many things. Books, bottles, bags, and other, more difficult to identify, objects. They were illuminated by the flames of a fire set on the stone floor nearby.

A cauldron hung over the flames, its contents bubbling softly as they had been for the last hour. The table set beside it was covered in small piles of powders and jars, a single book lying open in the center. A box, dull silver and still holding the smallest remnants of frost, sat open beside the book, empty but for the red stain and smell of blood. Smears of the same stained a corner of the table and the silver knife that lay there.

In the shadows between the table and fire, Zane waited. He watched the bubbling broth with an intense glare, unwilling to turn his attention from his studies...almost frantically unwilling.

This was the new night. New answers were a-brewing, and he had sought after them for quite some time.

Yes, tonight was the night. His wand spun across his fingers, and he waited silently. A wonderful time...one to be remembered.

But from time to time, with a furtive glance that seemed to anger more than satisfy....

He would look at the cushions in the corner and sigh.

He sat in the dark room, the massive bookshelves looming in the shadows thrown by the fire crackling under his cauldron. From time to time, he rose from his writings to look into the bubbling pot. A stir...a smell...and most often a frown.... Then back to his notes.

His studies progressed...slowly. Elementary transfiguration could explain partial changes. The enhancements in strength...speed...endurance.... Even the physical resistance to damage, not to mention magic, could be explained through minor workings. How to explain them as a single effort, though? How were they done? It was a disease, they said, this lycanthropy. A disease? Bah. It was magic. Diseases made your nose run. This was fully corporeal transfiguration and system augmentation. Involuntary and irresistible. And the degradation of the mental abilities...why? Physical power at the cost of mental? Isolated pieces, he understood, but the whole process was ever so....

"Fascinating."

Setting down his quill, Zane turned his chair to face the quietly burning fire. A rest. Yes, his mind needed that. He'd been at this piece of work for days now. Ruddy light flickered across his face as he stared, his mind already moving on to other topics.

"To threaten.... Why? Knowledge, motive, and desire. Those are always the keys. Always. How to harm, why to harm, and what to gain."

His wand, forgotten until now, spun across his knuckles and through his fingers. He spun the slender shaft of wood once more before grasping it in his hand and staring at it. It was a threat, as well. An attack, a tool, and a promise all rolled into a single device. It didn't have to be such. A wand could be used to heal just as simply as destroy. To free a mind as easily as to enthrall one.... Did it fit the same rules? Knowledge, motive, and desire?

It did, he decided. Only recently, he had taken a risk and learned that by giving up that threat, he had gained his desired results just as effectively. By surrendering his ability to do harm...and to protect himself...he had gained much. It was a fascinating thought and one that he must consider further.

If the other one learned this lesson as well...if he gave away the threat and the ability to do harm...would he too grow stronger from it? Could he? Yes, the paths were there on the Broken Road. Convoluted and twisting, to be sure, but they were there.

And so...if he gave away the threat, Zane might very well have to intercept it...understand it...and finally own it. Even like unto the lycanthropes, perhaps he could learn to twist the thing into a stronger, faster, and more enduring weapon.

His mother had always forced him to cut his own switches and place them in her hand. "If you must give a weapon to another, you foolish boy, KNOW the thing from top to bottom. Then you know how much it can hurt."

He'd learned that lesson across her knee. Time to pass the learning on, perhaps.

A low chuckle filled the room, joining the crackling of the flames.

"Fascinating."

And in his mind, he began to shift the paths.

_________________
You go your way
I'll go your way too

"Mobilicultrius."

Something glimmered in the dimness of the room. At the call of the slender wand, the knife rose into the air, spinning slowly. What light there was flashed along the blade, setting the dual edges aflame and then shifting into darkness.

The wand rose and dipped, and the blade did likewise, moving through the air and finally coming to a halt. It was not a heavy weapon. The slender blade and a short haft proclaimed it to be a tool meant for lighter use. Still, the point was needlelike and the blade sharpened to a razor edge. Perhaps it not meant for open conflict, but it was a dangerous thing all the same.

He had hunted well today. Several loose ends had been tied off, and new workings started. Things that he had predicted were coming to pass, and little in this world made him happier than that.

Well, perhaps not happy. Content.

The first girl had listened to him. Intentionally vague, he had planted the seeds to a poison crop in her ears. It was necessary. Perhaps she could still guide the boy away from his foolishness. He actually hoped this was true. For the sake of both women, this needed to come to a peaceful end. If it could not, however.... Well, there were other plans for that. Zane had done what he could to play nicely. Now others would decide if the game was to become full contact.

The other...ah, what a vexing creature. His feelings had gone from accommodating to near-violent. Focused, she was a force of nature. Given two moments of peace, she would undermine her own success, spiraling into a self-pitying abyss. Much progress had been made, though. There was more than hope. He would ensure that such continued, even if he must use the knife before him to pin her upright to a wall. He was invested in her. Tied, perhaps. It was showing. Just tonight she had taken her first steps as a guide on the Road, to what seemed to be a great success. He would have been proud, but he remembered having to drag her to her feet only hours earlier. Hopefully, his words had found a home as she had listened.

Yes, they had both listened. Now he just had to wonder if they had both heard.

His eyes focused on the point of the blade. Ever so slowly, it rose until it pointed directly at his eyes. Floating closer and closer, it finally halted mere inches from his skin.

He had used this knife earlier to make a point. He was not to be trusted, but he could be distracted. He could be used. It was his nature, and he was true to it.

Zane reached up and plucked the knife from the air, hefting it in his left hand. It felt proper there. The left hand path was, after all, more his nature. He slid it into its sheath in the small of his back.

Let them have listened.

His own words came back to him, ringing in his ears.

"Give me a goal...a way that I may help you. Keep me focused upon your enemies....real or imagined....and I will have no time to turn against you."

_________________
You go your way
I'll go your way too

The two figures waited in the nighttime darkness of the autumn evening. In the village square below, the festivities rang through the air, even as far as the pair stood. They had come to the area to seek out a werwulf in the dark forests, but the drama that had unfolded in the little town had distracted them completely.

******************

When the pair had first arrived the sounds of singing had greeted them. The loud pop of their apparation had gone unnoticed and unheard, so the man had assumed that the singers could not have been too close. He and his companion had pulled their cloaks tightly about themselves and walked toward the sound. What greeted them had been unexpected and yet still engaging. It had been a funeral.

A long line of villagers weaving their way from the Church, the priest leading the way with a crucifix held high in the air before him. In the middle of the procession, carried upon the shoulders of several men, was a small coffin. The visitors had watched, hidden amongst the dark trees, as the procession had passed them and then waded across a running stream to a small cemetery some distance from the town. It was a strange place, that boneyard. There were far too few graves for it to serve a village of even this size, and most of the tombstones showed the signs of extreme age. No fence surrounded it, and no bridge spanned the cold water that threatened to sweep away those that crossed it. It was, indeed, quite strange.

And it became stranger still.... When the procession came to a halt, two men wielding shovels began to attack the cold, dark earth. Each scoop of soil was carefully placed onto a pile, as if it were of great value. Individual minutes stretched into dozens before their labors were finished and a dark hole stood ready to receive the casket. The men raised themselves from the pit and moved to the coffin, their dirty faces smudged with both sweat and tears. But they did not lift the wooden box and lower it into the grave.... No, they did not. Instead, they staggeringly opened the coffin, moving slowly, as if stuporous or weighed down by invisible chains. The older of the two men reached inside and raised a small shrouded form, its features invisible from the distance that the visitors watched. Turning, the man presented the body to the priest, his shoulders shaking in obvious grief as he did so.

The priest nodded his balding head and began to speak, a combination of German and Latin that traveled the distance from the village poorly. Regardless of his words, however, his actions began to spread light upon the mystery. First, he pulled a rosary from the sash around his waist, wrapping the blessed beads around the hands of the dead child ... to restrain, it seemed, more than comfort. From a bottle in his hand, the man then splashed the body with a clear liquid.

"Holy Water," thought the observer. "It must be."

And lastly, the body was inverted and placed, face-down, back into its coffin. Several small objects...toys from their appearance ... were placed in as well. Then, the lid was shut and the coffin lowered into the cold earth. Scoop by scoop, the dark soil was returned to the hole, each one packed down with the same care that it had been removed. All the while, the priest sang and chanted, the others of the procession joining in from time to time.

And then...it was done. A mound of disturbed soil was all that marked the grave. The shovels were stacked against a nearby tree. Each member of the procession turned back to the stream, stepping into the cold water and pausing momentarily to dip their hands in it...as if washing. Back upon the opposite shore, each man and woman walked, several looking behind and sweeping away tracks that had been left.

"Look, my dear girl, did you see? That was simply amazing."

"What was amazing, my sweet? That your kind tossed a shell into the dirt? Don't you all do so?" The woman's voice was low and sultry, lust defined by form.

"No, darling Chelise.... Did you see the ritual? I should never have expected to see such...in this day and age. Unless I am quite mistaken, they believe that little one to have been killed by a vampir. How very fascinating! Running water to bar the path.... Apotropaics in plenty...the rosary...holy water...all to ward away the evil. Burial face down to confuse and with the toys of life to distract." He chuckled quietly. "And no path back to the living.... It was truly quite well done!"

"These are a people who remember the old ways then." The woman shrugged, even that simply motion seeming to expose her shrouded figure enticingly. "What of it, Beast?" The last was said teasingly, a silent laughter felt in her words more than heard.

The man turned to her, a slender wand of pale wood rising slightly. "Be you wary, my vicious, soul-stealing dear.... I may indeed love you, but there are things you should not mock, hrm?" His tone was joking, but the dark light showed eyes that were certainly not.

She made no reply, simply raising an eyebrow and smiling a smile that was too white...too perfect...too enticing.

"Veela!" the man exclaimed to the darkness.

Looking back at the village, he traced the path back to the grave. He had been fortunate to arrive when he had. It would have been so very easy to have missed the entire thing. They had suffered a loss to an uncertain cause. Their reactions were those of superstitious peasants...though many a monster had met their end due to such ritualistic practices. Many a monster....

That made him smile. Monsters.

He had spoken with some regarding his own works... The girl, Reed. Colt. Kane and the battered Nina. They had reacted with varying levels of interest or disdain. Some encouraged him to proceed while others warned of the cost...should he succeed. They too had fallen back upon the old ways, speaking warnings and fears. He would ignore them, of course. He would continue his studies. Perhaps he was the monster that they would someday try to bury in a cold grave.

Again, he chuckled. The beautiful creature standing at his side, looked at him, a perfect smile seeking to provoke an explanation. He shook his head; a wave of his hand said that it was not worthy of comment.

Like the poor discarded body below, he too had been left behind. He had not been surprised to learn this. It made perfect sense. And, like the victims of the vampir, she had been unable to push him away. In the end, she had called him back. Perhaps. Or perhaps she had simply let him come back? He was too close to the sun, it seemed. He could not tell the difference between the fire and the glare. Either way, he was warm and in the light. He might find himself burned all too soon, but the price would be worth the reward.

He raised a heavy medallion from around his neck, pressing it against his nose and inhaling deeply. The smell was gone, but the memory remained. He knew what it should smell like....what she should smell like, and the world was at peace. Indeed, the past was the past and unworthy of notice.

Sounds from below called him. In the village center, a large fire was soon lit. Food was set upon tables, and musicians began to play. After their suffering, the locals had decided to relax. They were not happy, but perhaps they hoped to bury themselves in a false sense of such.

******************

The memories faded, and he returned his attention to the present. Their festivities had gone on for over an hour, and darkness had fallen to cover them all.

He looked from the fire to the dark island of land where the little body lay and back. It did not seem proper that they should celebrate when that little one lay in the dark, damp soil, tied and marked by their superstition.

With a nod, the man began walking. His companion following, he walked down the hill until he stood against the shore of the stream, his eyes resting on the new grave.

"It is not fair.... Accio shovel."

The tool flew across the stream, slapping into his hand with the force of its arrival. She would be proud of him for that. He chuckled...and then dropped the tool to the ground.

If the little one did rise, perhaps it would find this. Perhaps it would find its way back to those who had left it in the darkness. One monster owed at least this chance to another.

"There is a price for everything, my friends, he said, looking toward the village. "You seek happiness. Perhaps you will find it...or perhaps it will find you."

The crooked grin crept across his face once more as he turned to face the raven-haired woman-thing at his side.

"'How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.' Stoker said it ever so well in his book. It seems to fit this situation perfectly. Lets see if they agree, hrm?"

With a chuckle, he held out his arm, and the veela looped hers through it easily.

They would hunt the werwulf. He would know the beast and, in doing so, become the monster.

Then...they would go hunt the bait...set the trap.

The night was young and the villagers had made him smile. Much to do. Boredom ever so far away.

_________________
You go your way
I'll go your way too

A desert is defined as a piece of territory that receives very little precipitation. An innocent enough description, but it does little to help truly understand life in such a place. Moisture has many effects, and the lack of it has no fewer. The dry, parched air is unable to block the sun's heat, either as it shines down or as it radiates back and away. The result is a land that is hammered beneath a searing heat as solid as any steel...and a land that transforms almost instantly into a frigid nighttime world of shadows and howling winds.

Egypt is a good example of such a territory. The baking sun had gone away, sunk beneath the far horizon, and in its place, a pale, wan moon had risen. The hellish heat had also gone, replaced by a rapidly dropping temperature and shifting winds bearing the jagged sand. Amongst the canyons and monuments of those long gone, the temperature dropped a little slower and the wind blew a little easier...but not much.

Zane leaned up against the canyon wall, his cloak snapping fretfully in the gusting air. He stared into the rocky opening before him. In the evening wind, twisting whorls of sand rose from the ground and danced across the open spaces to finally throw themselves in futile anger against the stone walls. The moon's light turned the landscape into a combination of blacks and whites, the illumination making the shadows all the deeper.

He was tired. Well, his body was tired. Dreadfully so. Days had come and gone, bringing their following nights, but sleep had been rare...fitful...incomplete.

"Trying to sleep but my eyes open wide
With voices whispering from every side
Battles in my mind and nowhere to hide
a futile resistance against the rising tide."

He chuckled as his words died out in the desert air. His mind, though, ah, now there was a different story. Battles, indeed. No, sleep was not to be his lot. Not yet. Too many variables to plan and paths to follow yet. He knew where he wanted the Road to go, but one could never be sure. Only planning and thought..questioning and doubt.... Those could make the odds better. And so...

"I'll get all the sleep I need when I am dead."

He had said those words only hours ago. Was it that recently? Yes. He chuckled. There was a sense of humor about all of this. He focused so intently on what "might be" that he was losing touch with what "is." He had warned Sierra about something near the same -- past becoming present and seeking to become future. He should listen to his own dubious wisdom. It does no good to plan a wondrous tomorrow...and then to die from a car one never looked to see.

Soon. Ever so soon, the plan would begin. Exposure at last.... All the lies and deceits would be ripped away. His own family would be shocked and that amused him to no end. "Ah, my dear Mother.... Your little boy is growing up! Will you have the distance to appreciate it?" he thought. Time would tell.... Not much time, however. She had never been one to let things get beyond her control. No, no, no. He could nearly feel the sting of her barbed tongue already. Eh...so be it.

And then...the Father. He would rage. He would threaten and ... quite likely ... try to do harm. Zane had little fear there. He, too, was capable of such. They would blunt their spears against one another, perhaps. Again...so be it. It did not matter, so long as Zane...no, they... won. So long as the truth came out, and with the veritaserum, it would. He had been lying ... one way or another ... for years. Shaping, moulding, and teaching. His own child had grown to become his extension, although they hated him all the while. Hate was fine. It was a fire that kept the house warm. Zane could even allow himself to be impressed by the success for so long. It was indeed the Broken Road at its finest.... Well, no...not finest. A path, unforeseen, had been taken. And now, the whole thing was to come unravelled.

He chuckled again as the Latin of his youth came to mind.

In nomine Patris,
et Filii,
et Spiritus Sancti,
Amen.

Or in this case, perhaps it should be

In nomine Patris,
et Filiae,
et Spiritus Absconditus.

Either way.... All Saints Day was coming...and soon. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

He looked across the open patch of dirt before him, and his eyes came to rest on the stone that stood there alone. Like a weathered fist standing defiant against the skies above, it ignored the heat and cold...the wind and sand. Ancient and uncaring, it would stand testament to the future of those things that had long past. The letters he had carved on it were hidden in the darkness, but it was of little matter. He could see them in his mind, glowing there. She hadn't understood them ... not fully. Still, enough had been known for her to realize that she had changed.

"Here darkness overwhelmed...fiat lux."

She did not strike him as one who had ever followed the Word. He doubted she would know the whole of the story, even. Many wizards and witches did not. Still, Genesis had always attracted him. The simple art of creation...no, Creation. Something from Nothing. There was a beauty there.

Pushing away from the stone wall, he walked to the stone and raised his wand, whispering the word "lumos." The light appeared, cool and dim, but enough to illuminate the carvings. He knelt and traced them with his finger. It was only fitting that the hooks of the anchor lay beside them.

Sitting back on his heels, Zane raised his eyes to the stars above and smiled crookedly, quoting from lessons given to him long before he had ever come to Hogwarts.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.

The Darkness that had Overwhelmed was buried here. The Light existed only in the mind, but it had shown upon many things, making that which had been hidden ... plain.

"Fiat lux," my dear girl. "Dixitque Deus fiat lux et facta est lux."

Wearily, he pushed up from the ground. There was a warm bed waiting for him. It was time to pursue it, sleep available or no.

A loud pop echoed through the night.

_________________
You go your way
I'll go your way too

"And what makes you think that you are worthy, Mister von Mecklenberg?"

Alexander Wilde had a deep voice, and one laced with bitter contempt. Even the Muggles sitting around them had felt the anger.... Jealousy? Fear?

Why couldn't he remember?

Darkness...a fog crept across the landscape of his memories, hiding what lay behind. Obscuring.

The house. Flashing lights and booming explosions.... He saw ... something. A man with a wand...a wand that flew across the room. A beastly creature, huge and gray in the half-light of his damaged memories. Fangs. Claws. There was a table between them...a flimsy thing of wood and glue.

Lancing spears of fire. Burning...a scream.

Then the hand with the knife. Black robes. Pain beyond his imagination and then a red-streaked darkness that fell on him like a weight.

Darkness.

Flashes of light and voices, hurried and insistent. The pain in his side was burning...and so very cold. A pair of eyes, crystal-bright and fevered. Emeralds, staring at him angrily.

His own voice, strained and harsh.

"Do ... it!"

Darkness.

*********************
Zane opened his eyes. Laying motionless, he peered into the shadows, his fingers clenching around the wand at his side. Finally, satisfied, he relaxed, releasing the breath that he had not realized he held.

His room at school. His bed. It had been a dream.

He sat up, wincing as the cold ache stabbed into his side again. A dream, indeed, but one that had all too real of a source. Much had happened that night, and yet he had so few memories of it all.

"So be it," his said, voice soft and sibilant in the dark night air.

In the hours before he had slept, he had enjoyed a most interesting evening. A gathering at the pool, of all things. Mariana and Angelique had been there ... flirting and splashing about in the water. And, of course, Joki had been at his side. Thinking of her made his fingers tingle, and he found himself smiling. He ran his thumb across the heavy gold ring on his hand and laughed. How very interesting, these emotions. How very horrifying....

He tossed the heavy blankets back and carefully slid to the edge of the bed, placing his feet on the cold stone floor. His robes waited for him, laid across the back of a chair earlier in the evening, and he grinned crookedly as he slid them on. Darkness still reigned in Hogwarts, but some appointments did not need the light of day. Indeed, some were far better handled in the dark...of storage rooms, silent hallways, or even other bed chambers.

He grinned even more broadly, unwittingly pressing his hand against his side. He moved one foot in front of the next, and within moments, he had crossed the room and opened the door wide, slipping past it into the hallway. A silent ghost in black, he padded down the path as countless students before him had done. His mission was nothing new to this place.

Two weeks at Mungo's had seemed like an eternity. Still,he was back now. There was little time to spare before he would go home. His mother would be frightfully annoyed. He would need to turn her anger into something more pliable. She was a proud woman, capable and confident. That could be used. Guided.

He certainly hoped he was good enough to manage it.

As he crossed the Slytherin Common Room, the heavy clock boomed three times.

"Hickory Dickory Dock,
The dog barked at the clock,
The clock struck three,
Fiddle-de-dee,
Hickory Dickory Dock...."

_________________
You go your way
I'll go your way too

Sitting on a chair, deep in the woods, Zane propped his feet up on the stones in front of him, warming them by the fire. This was still a relatively new place to him. Joki had brought him here only recently. He had walked past it before; but, until he saw it through her eyes, he had failed to appreciate. He smiled slowly, the crooked grin painting itself across his face. Perhaps this would become his new lair.... Perhaps. The memories were good enough to call him back.

Turning his mind back to the work at hand, he looked down at the worn notebook in his lap. It was full of cryptic writings and notes, magical and mundane. It was an effort for him to put his random thoughts down so that they could be better managed later. Turning to the last pages, he reviewed his most recent studies.

The man's name had been Friedrich Nietzsche. A nineteenth-century German philosopher, he was noted for his stylish critiques and radical questioning of such inviolate topics as religion and morality, culture and philosophy, and the sciences. First a linguist, then a philosopher, and finally a madman brought low by, according to some, Syphilis sive morbus gallicus.

He shook his head and half-closed the book. How very fitting. A learned German sticking his nose into others' business...only to have it rot away from contact with the French.

"Still," Zane thought as he opened the book again and flipped through his notes, "the man makes some sense...a very cynical sense, of course. But still...."

He had read several of the man's works: The Gay Science, Beyond Good and Evil, Ecce Homo, and, his favorite thus far, Thus Spoke Zarathustra. In doing so, he had copied down numerous lines, finding in each a reference to his daily life at Hogwarts. It seemed a more simple time than when he had first arrived. Many of the violent ones had either moved on or seemed to have other things to entertain themselves. Still, sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. Anarchy ruled the halls. Prefects were non-existent or simply unwilling to do their duties. Teachers were likewise missing. He chuckled. Joki would thrive in the sheer chaos of it all.

He, on the other hand, needed order. Paths on the Road must be shaped and turned. This unease that plagued the school was incredibly fertile soil for such workings, but the seedlings had to be tended ever so carefully.

The lines he had copied reminded him of many things. People, individuals and as groups, and himself, included. His eyes worked their way across the page reading each line slowly.

"Insanity in individuals is something rare - but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule."

Ah, now that summarized so many things at Hogwarts. Good enough people for the most part, but once they were put together.... He shook his head. The antics shown daily in the Entrance Hall were perfect examples. Scene after scene came to mind: Millington's raging against the Hufflepuffs, the constant chatter of threats and posing that came from his fellow Slytherins...and amusingly enough, the Gryffindors. Chivalry and honor seemed to be new words for rudeness and pride. Hexes and curses, flying about like some rude parade. Insanity is the rule, indeed.

"For men are not equal: thus speaks justice."

Thus speaks justice. He chuckled. Some tried to create equality in the madhouse. A maddeningly small some. Benjamin Cordin came to mind here. The Gryffindor Prefect ... well, he did try. He fought the chaos by himself, though. His counterparts, if they existed, either hid or chose to do nothing. The duel with Priggo had shown just how alone the poor fellow stood. Ah well. He would rise to the occasion or fall to the rocks below. Perhaps he would reach out a hand.... Wouldn't that be the most amusing thing?

"Morality is herd instinct in the individual."

There were some others who did try. They fought their battles carefully, he supposed. Some even did so quietly. Zane had to wonder if anything was accomplished. One boy came to mind. He fought for ... nebulous things....jealousy seeming to be the foremost. He had done harm because of it, but in the end, he had pulled back to chase the future with his hands grasping. It really was just too amusing. He had done both because he loved, or so it was said. That love, however, had cut, brought tears, and more recently pushed others to lose their own free will. Zane chuckled. He had always thought that the color of hypocrisy would have been emerald green....not Hufflepuff yellow.

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

The dear Miss Hymndust. She had stood in a dark place for too long. Even when the death knell could be heard, she had remained. Far too long.... What had emerged was a dark thing in and of itself. No smiles. Few moments of laughter that were not bitter or mocking. Joki had done her part in that, and now...she sought to perhaps undo some of the distrust. He nodded to himself. The poor girl simply had to decide that she wasn't a victim any more...or she had to spiral down to becoming a bitter, useless thing. Perhaps.... No, that was a conversation for another day. Let the hand be played before another was dealt. He had nothing but time.

"Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself."

This one could just as easily be aimed at himself, he supposed. Still, it brought to mind another girl. She played both ends against the middle, and might find herself surrounded by chomping teeth all too soon. Love and lust were so very close in spelling. Dear Samantha surrounded herself with fellows that Zane would consider instable...if he considered them at all. He remembered her smiling face and obvious joy at receiving attention. He remembered feeling a stirring inside him to treat her in the same way. He chuckled. She spoke too much and thought too little of the future. Broken hearts were like broken dreams...in the end, they would pull her down unless she found something to cling to. Either way, it was her choice. She was a big girl...or at least she played the part of one.

He looked at the last three lines, and his smile broadened. He lifted the cup of mulled wine from the stone at his side and drank deeply. The hot, spiced flavors crawled through his chest and he nodded. These were of great interest.

"The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies but also to hate his friends."

Sierra. They had studied a pretty little plant in Herbology. It reminded him of her...ever so much. Mimosa microphylla was its name. Sensitive briar. A pretty little thing, green and tiny. Its broad, fern-like fronds opened to the sky, and the puffy little pink blooms opened wide, inviting all sorts of stinging things to come take their fill. Most folk could barely resist squatting down to touch the little thing. The slightest touch would cause the leaves to fold shut, hiding themselves from harm. Moments later, however, the little plant would forgive...or forget. The leaves would spread wide again, offering themselves up to the next stumble-footed oaf. It was true that the plant did indeed have thorns and deep roots, but...what is the purpose in being a survivor if you simply live for the amusement of others? He hoped she would learn. There was promise in that little pink bloom.

"Digressions, objections, delight in mockery, carefree mistrust are signs of health; everything unconditional belongs in pathology.

This one made him laugh with affection. There could be no doubt. This was his green-haired vixen through and through. She was chaos. Yeats had spoken of her in his poetry although he did not know it.

"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."

When all other things became staid and pale, this one would rage and scoff, snapping at the dark and light both. Her shifts and changes were simply unimaginable to him; he found himself constantly amazed by her. Others had asked him when he realized that he loved her. His answer had come immediately...certainly. "When she broke my nose and stormed away...and I realized that I didn't even want to kill her." Perhaps her center could not hold, but he knew how this little bird would fly. He would be waiting for her next round of tales.

"It is nobler to declare oneself wrong than to insist on being right - especially when one is right."

A moment of almost shameful laughter came over him as he read the last line. Most men would blush at this, but he grasped it tightly and pulled it to his chest. How could he be who he was if he didn't believe that he was right? His chuckling continued. Oh yes, he was ever so noble. Sometimes the Road required a bumpy turn or three. "Shameless and conceited, old boy, that's what you are," he said to aloud in the evening air.

"Nonsense," came the reply a moment later. "I am just right."

Still laughing quietly, he drank from his cup again and stared at the last two words on the page. Neitzsche had never heard of these two. The were the beginning of the next chapter.

He looked forward to considering them some day.

Rini and Tylor....

_________________
You go your way
I'll go your way too