*Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.*

Zane looked over at the girl sleeping at his side, amazed that the sounds did not rock her from her rest. They were so very loud in his own ears. An ogre, bashing his club in to a wall perhaps.... Or, simply his own heartbeat, racing and striving still. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing it to slow ... to be less of a distraction.

It didn't work.

With a shake of his head, he slid from beneath the covers and walked on quiet feet to the bundle of dirty, grass-stained robes that he had thrown off earlier. Digging into the pouch strapped to his belt, he pulled out a worn gray logbook and a pencil. Carefully, ever so carefully, he slid back into the bed, moving slowly, intent upon letting her sleep. Once there, he opened the book and lowered the pencil to the page, pausing.

And then he began to write....

"Tonight, I gazed into the face of madness...and found that it stared back with my own eyes."

He raised the tip of the pencil, staring down at the simple words. The pencil shook. His hand shook. How very fascinating.... He took a pair of deep breaths and looked over at the sleeping figure at his side, seemingly buried in the blankets that covered them. Looking back to the page, he continued to write.

"Have you ever seen rage? Not in another, but in and of itself. Not behavior, but a heavy crimson wave that both dims the sight and brings things into crystal clarity."

"Have you ever heard fury? A roaring in the ears, drowning out all other voices. A song ... beautiful and righteous ... sung by angels of vengeance."

"Have you ever smelled fear? An odor, both bitter and ...oh... so sweet. Visual signs tied to sounds and wrapped in an aroma that makes mere lust seem like an afterthought."

He closed his eyes, the tremors still running through his shoulders. Exhaling like a sigh, he began to write again.

"I started the brew last evening. Years of working with the essences of the wolves have given me insight, but the Solamen.... Ah...it is the antidote. Reverse-engineered, it can be the cause. Knowledge there for the taking. How had the Gawdessa girl said it? 'For knowledge you would trade wealth and power.' Ah, did she only know the depths of that statement."

"When I checked in on the work following breakfast, there had been a change. Oh, such a change! After years of failed efforts, gaining nothing but burns and vague ideas, I had a victory. The mixture, dark and murky when I formed it, had purged itself of the impurities. It waited for me, clear and gold, roiling slowly over the flame. How can I explain it? How does one describe the Smile of God when it turns on you?"

"Regardless, there it was. I bottled it. It needed study, beyond doubt. Dangerous, this brew, akin to the legends of witches and their burbling cauldrons filled with the sins of the darkness...."

He looked up from the page, his eyes drawn to the pile of soiled clothing. Seconds piled on top of one another as he sat motionless, finally breaking the moment with a slow blink. With a twitch of his lip that could have been smile or snarl, he looked back down to the book.

"Ragnar Black and the new girl, Akemi, burst in on my work. Undoubtedly seeking some dark place to 'talk.' Good for them, but not in my workroom, I fear. They left soon enough, but with them, my reserve followed. Excitement, both for the success and the intrusion...well, I cannot say that it overwhelmed me. That would be a lie. No, but it did rise and rage against the bars of the cage I had built for it. I found that I simply didn't care any more. I knew that what I did was stupid. I knew that I was putting myself in danger. I knew that my lady would be furious."

"I simply could not bring myself to care. I drank from the phial."

"I have seen rage. I have heard fury. I have smelled fear. An avalanche of change swept over me, driving me to my knees. My mind submerged, and hungers long forgotten roared forward. There was danger, and it was growing. I could only think of escape. The beast needed room, I suppose."

"I ran. I remember flashes of darkness and light. I remember the sound of my heels echoing on the stone flagstones. I remember the Entrance Hall, filled with bodies. I am not a man fond of physical violence, but... I wanted to rip and tear at them all. Blood and rage called...screamed...in my ears. To resist seemed both foolish and wasteful, but I managed somehow."

"I needed help, and some part of my mind knew it. Tylor Fox was there...handy. There was no question of trust to be raised...I didn't have the time. I asked him, or tried to do so, to go to the Hogshead. To find my Kira and tell her to find me.... In the forest, far away from others. If I could make it that far, it should be safe. I wasn't sure if he understood. My own growling words and his lack of knowledge did not make for the best of communication. Still, it would have to do."

"I wanted to kill the boy, you see. I wanted to do so...so very much. And so, I ran."

"And then...there was darkness. When next I can remember anything, I was not alone. Tall trees surrounded me, majestic and climbing to the sky. Fox stood before me, wrapped in magics that held him motionless. My wand...pointed at him. My magics. And she was there, looking at me with fear.... Ah, that hunger for more raged."

"Had she not been there, I would have killed the boy. I know this. I would have answered the song with a howl of my own and torn him from limb to limb. But...she was there."

"The next moments are...clouded. I fought against the desire to murder them both where they stood. I fought myself. Luckily, my dear lady is nothing if not aggressive. She bound me...time and again. Wandless and laying face-down in the dirt, my arms bound behind me, I was at least less of a threat."

"She left me. They left me. I crawled into the darkness of a nearby tree, snarls and yells of anger and loss slipping from my mouth. Time passed...stars moved."

"Then she returned. The cauldron had been destroyed. She had brought the Solamen. Her eyes looked at me with rage and fear. God, I had always thought fear was a beautiful thing to see. That was before I could ... truly ... SEE. Ah...no wine so sweet."

He shook his head and raised one hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. "Do concentrate, boy. Daydream when the work is done."

"I drank the Solamen, and there was pain. Do normal werewolves feel this when they take that brew? Does it snap at their bodies and pummel their thoughts? I don't know. For me, though, it was a tearing thing. Ripping away the beautiful fury...the focus and clarity...taking them all from me."

"It worked, you see, just as I thought it would. She feared me, and I cannot blame her. She had left a thing she knew well, and she had returned to find a slavering animal, baring teeth and pulling desperately against the chains. My calm returning, it was her turn to rage. She threatened, promised, and struck at me. I deserved it, I knew."

"And I was simply too sad to fight her. For the first time in my life, I had been free of all concerns. I had been loosed from morals and concerns of my fellow men. I had been a perfect thing, living only in the present. It was gone."

"What else is there for me to write? We returned to the school, heads high and daring others to challenge. I washed the foulness of the evening from my skin, and then, we were together. Minutes ago? Hours? I don't remember."

He reached for his wand, resting on the blankets at his side. Turning to look at his discarded clothing, he flicked the wand and spoke silently.

"Accio."

A small phial, glass or crystal, flew across the room, smacking into his raised palm. Inside, a small volume of clear, amber liquid rested. He had recovered it when she had left.

One more time, the pencil scratched across the page.

"I have distilled the rage of the werewolf."

The pencil moved, leaving behind letters and figures, the formula he had followed recorded to the page in a careful script, marred by the shaking fits that still passed through and over him.

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

Zane bent over the small tome, his quill rustling its way across the blank page slowly...carefully forming each letter.

Ever so carefully.



Across the top of the first page, he had written a single word above a small sketch. The five small circles stood out on the page like the pips on the face of a dice.


Five




Beneath the heading, his writing continued.

Five is....

The number of oceans in the world.

The number of senses ... sight, smell, hearing, touch and taste.

The basic tastes of life ... sweet, salty, sour, bitter and umami.

The number of the first books in the Bible, the number of the books of Moses, and the arrangement of the Psalms.

The number of petals from a rose.


....and the most important of the cardinal directions -- the center.

If we cannot know where we are, how can we know where we will go?


The rest of the page lay open and empty.




On the next page, he had drawn a simple picture...a bird in flight. Beneath it, a single word rested, chased soon after by the words and stanzas of a poem.



Hope

"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me."

.........Emily Dickinson


"One."



Two days later, he had returned to the book. He had the second word, but to find a reference...ah, now there had been the chore. It was a common enough thing to hear, but to define it...as it deserved...as she deserved...therein was the challenge.

And so, here he was again. Another page was turned and now filled.

He had sketched out a rough drawing and then the words. It was a quotation this time, rather than a poem, but it fit ever so well.



Tenacity

"The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity.
The fears are paper tigers.
You can do anything you decide to do.
You can act to change and control your life;
and the procedure , the process is its own reward. "

.....................Amelia Earhart


"Two."



Stiff and sore, his hand aching from the night before, Zane carefully pulled his quill across the page. He had gotten not one word the night before...but two.

The first was difficult. Meaning upon meaning came to mind. In the end, it had been a most unlikely source that provided him the answer. A play. A fable.

Perhaps it would take a certain perspective to appreciate it, but he was sure that she would see it.

Another page filled. A rose, and a father's loss....



Beast

"Come, father dear," Said Beauty, "take comfort. I do not think the Beast means to kill me, or surely he would not have given me such a good supper."

But the next morning the Beast came into the room. Beauty screamed and clung to her father.

"Don't be frightened," said the Beast gently, "but tell me, do you come here of your own free will?"

"Yes," said Beauty, trembling.

"You are a good girl," said the Beast, and then, turning to the old man, he told him that he might sleep there for that night, but in the morning he must go and leave his daughter behind him.

"Three."



Dead in time. Stopped. Motionless. All thoughts that fit, but they weren't right.

The next word was the hardest yet. How to summarize a thing that was both strong and sad? Something that was intentional, but a thing that had been done against the will? The best defense that was the worst enemy....

The quill and the brush. Black ink and green. Another page done.



Frozen

frozen, trapped within the wind
hardened tear drop falls
winters grip is cold and cruel


"Four."




The last word given, Zane sat in the dark chamber he had chosen to make his own. A First Year, lost and wandering, came in, looked around, and then fled with a mumbled sound that could have been an apology. It really didn't matter.

Zane was writing, you see.

Different this time, the last word had been the easiest. The entry was an older one, but now, like then, it was ever so appropriate. It was a truly personal thing.

Either way, this was the last word, and these were the last of his words. He wrote them, as all the others, so very carefully. A crudely drawn circle followed by Poe's famous lines.



Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

...........Edgar Allan Poe


"Five and Done."



The last page was through. Five words given and now to be returned. He stared at the pages in the slender volume, flipping through them slowly.

Hope.

..Tenacity.

....Beast.

......Frozen.

........Alone.

Feelings, good and ill. There was a balance of sorts, but not a complete one.

He turned to the front of the little book...to the inside of the cover...and in large strokes, he drew the rough circle again.

A sixth word? No. Simply a reply. Balance...written in his own heavy script rather than his careful tracing of letters.




Not Alone

Restless spirit, come
Bringing all the burdens you carry
You are not alone
You are not alone
Brokenhearted, come
Bowed beneath the grief you are bearing
You are not alone
You are not alone
All of your anger, fear and shame
All of your heartache and your pain
All of these ugly crimson stains that cover you
This is a debt that I have paid

.......Everman


He closed the book, running his fingers over the slick brown leather of the cover.

”Merry Christmas, hrm?”

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

The dark Scottish night was a miserable thing. Low clouds hung above, blocking the moonlight and dropping a seemingly never ending drizzle of cold rain across the landscape. A dark house loomed ahead, its windows spilling light out onto the wet grass. It was more of a mansion, truth be told, but all the same...walls and a roof. Doors and windows.

The lawn was a carefully manicured thing of grass and shrubbery, coaxed into intricate shapes and barriers blocking sight of the house from the roads beyond. Defenses magical and mundane warded against intruders, focused more to warn than harm.

The spells had been easily enough circumvented. Likely woven by the same hand, they all bore a similar signature...and loopholes. The best preventative had been the dogs. Vicious beasts...some sort of molosser...heavy headed and deep of chest. Like any creature, though, they had their weaknesses.

Potions that would sooth a raving werewolf seemed to work just fine on dogs, too. The half-dozen bulky shapes lying on the ground under the hedge proved that it was so.

A pair of eyes stared out of the thorny wall of greenery, ensconced in an opening carved with magic and flame. They watched the house, blinking from time to time, from beneath the folds of a heavy dark cowl, focused on the large bay window. Inside, three women and as many men sat around a low table, involved in some rather spirited conversations. One of the men, young and blond with emerald eyes, sat at a piano, his fingers slowly stroking the keys in some unknown tune. It could have been a gathering of family and friends...companions and lovers perhaps.

....or they could all be Death Eaters planning some form of mischief.

His own fingers drummed against his thighs, mimicking those of the pianist, unconsciously reaching in the same pattern. Chopin's Piano Sonata in C minor...the Opus number four.

It really didn't matter. What they were doing was of such minimal import. How they did it...the schedules and rituals...the patterns and practices.... Ah, now there was the clues that would let him know them. There was the meat upon the plate.

One hand dropped from his leg to pat the deeply sleeping creature beneath him. Meat. He chuckled quietly. Poor puppies. They always ate the meat...and thus, became his chair.

He looked at the window again. It opened to the sky, exposing the room beyond. Very little protection, all things considered, from either the night or the creatures in it. That was a failing of those who considered themselves "evil." They built their defenses against the just, knowing that such wondrous people would not stoop to tactics dark and sinister.

They really shouldn't do that.

His fingers broke away from the tune, rolling into another without pause. Opus thirty-five, the Piano Sonata in B-flat minor...movement three...the Funeral March.

Zane nodded and lowered his wand to rest on the ear of the dog beneath him. It slept still, but began to twitch...growling and snarling. More and more, it and the others laying just beyond, showed the signs of frantic need...of pain.

He knew how to train puppies.

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

Text from a small journal kept by Zane von Mecklenberg

<center></center>



<center></center>

<center></center>

Leaning against the gardener's shed behind the house, Zane pulled the journal from his belt and opened it to the page describing his day's work. His pencil moved across the page in one last short sentence.



Closing the book, he returned it and the pencil to the pouch on his belt, his eyes staying on the darkened windows of the house across the yard. A long night and nothing to show for it.

Excellent.

Closing his eyes, Zane let out a long yawn, one hand rising to cover his mouth. The lack of sleep was starting to become an issue. So be it. There would be time enough for sleep when the work was done.

He pulled a small corked bottle from his pocket, opening it and taking a single short swallow. The spasm that followed was neither pleasant nor unexpected. When he opened his eyes, however, the sleep-filled haze had been burned away by a fever-bright gleam.

He stoppered the bottle and looked at it for a moment before returning it to his pocket.

"How amusing that I offer to teach one fellow to do without his sleeping potions, and yet here I sit using the opposite so liberally."

Chuckling with a shake of his head, Zane made a short gesture with his wand. The echoing pop of his departure sounded out through the night.

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

He smoothed the sand over, passing his palm across it and pushing away the refuse of uncounted waves. Unlike the soil that lined the banks of the streams and rivers of his home, this dirt...this sand...was white and fine. Individual granules resting upon one another, shifting ever so slightly in the wind....

He touched the tip of his wand to the center of the bared patch and lifted it slowly. Like a living thing, a fine string of the sand followed, clinging to the wood. Bead after bead crawled up the trailing strand, thickening and extending the column. With a twist, the wand and the sand parted, swirls of the fine particles sweeping across the surface like living things.

<center></center>

The sounds of a whispered incantation were scarcely heard as Zane made another slow movement of the wand. From the side of the column, a face began to emerge...rough at first and then gathering detail as the individual specks of soil moved away. A furrowed brow and clenched jaw took shape beneath a mop of long, carefully prepared and yet stylishly unruly hair. A nose and mouth followed, the lips curved into a angry sneer. The streams of sand poured down, exposing more and more of the figure until finally a fully realized bust of the young man rested on top of the pile. Another motion of the wand and a mumbled phrase.... Cracking sounds filled the air as the small statue glowed first a red, brightening to an incandescent white, and then fading altogether. The image of sand had changed. The same glowering face remained, but where there had been the rough texture of the soil, a smooth figurine of glass remained.

"Mister Wilde, how good to see you, old boy."

Zane lifted the icon, gazing at it intently before setting it on the ground before him. He thought about their last conversation. The fellow had certainly received the rougher end of the discussion, his plans hopefully shattered into a thousand shards. Time would tell. The court case, however, seemed to be settled. Joki's demands to the Ministry had been all too quickly accepted, her house ransacked and all "questionable" items snatched away in the name of "justice." He shook his head, a chuckle boiling up from his chest. How very amusing this whole thing was.

"Whatever are you thinking these days, sir? Will you listen to what we discussed, or shall I have to speak with you a second time? Perhaps the dear Ladies Thornbough will impress upon you their desire for this to be done, hrm?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "We shall see."

Looking back at the roiling sand before him, Zane again raised his wand, watching as the rivulets of sand swarmed up, forming the long, sinuous shape of a snake, fanged and coiling. He twirled his wand slowly, a smile working across his face as the snake's head followed, twisting and twining across and through itself. Looping and crossing, it formed a rough symbol of eternity, the forked tongue extending toward the wand as if considering attack. Zane dug the fingers of his left hand into the sand at his feet, scooping out a handful and raising it above the writhing figure below. Ever so slowly, he began to pour it down. The same magic that held the animated soil already began to gather the falling grains.

A sphere began to form on the snake's tail. Streams and flakes of the glassy soil climbed and then flew away. Slowly, another shape began to form. A pair of pits rapidly resolved into eye sockets. Another formed the cavity of the nose. Twisting and shifting, the shape of a jaw formed around the snake.

Within moments, the skull was complete. The Dark Mark was complete.

<center></center>

"Vicious little thing, aren't you?" The cracking noise repeated along with the surge of light and heat. Zane reached out to take the twisted shape of glass, hissing as the rapidly fading heat singed his fingertips. Remembering the night before, he wondered how Andrew Amaner felt about their discussion...and the results. As Joki had said, Zane's method of healing was quite "different." Still, his mark was gone.

Zane chuckled. And what mark had taken its place? Now that was a question worthy of consideration.

He sat the second statue beside the first. Two very different men who weren't so very different after all. Two men who both sought power...one for knowledge and one for the prestige. Perhaps both for both.... He chuckled again. A dead man's shadow and the shadow of a dead man ... well, perhaps not dead, but at least a weakened man. What an interesting comparison.

Zane stared at the two figurines for several minutes. Then, slowly, he lifted the Mark and leaned it against the bust. He raised his wand a seventh time and watched as the forms began first to sag and then to melt together into a single pool of molten glass. Another outpouring of will, another movement of the wand, and more words of shaping. Again, the column grew, the liquefied mass pouring upward in defiance of gravity. Soon, it was a long stem capped by a amorphous blob...and then, as before, the flow began to reverse.

The rough sphere became tear-drop shaped, edges forming...swirls and curves. Bulges, both small and large began to form on the sides of the stem, pushing outward desperately. Points and edges.

Leaves and thorns.

When the work was finally finished, Zane leaned back onto his heels, his face flushed and sweating. "Major transfigurations are easier," he thought, "than fine work, without a doubt."

"But never so pretty...."

<center></center>

He reached out and plucked the slender stem of the glass rose from the sand where it rested and raised the crystalline flower toward the sky. Rainbows of refracted light broke through the curves, coloring his face in reds, greens, purples and more.

He nodded and lowered the rose, tucking it away carefully in the pouch hanging from his belt.

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

The music was somewhat crude. Percussion sounded like foot stomps and hand claps. A simple guitar played a quiet melody in the background. The singer's voice was rough and uneven...far less a troubador and more a storyteller. Why he liked this music, Zane could never say, but this day...it was ever so appropriate.

"Go tell that long tongue liar
Go and tell that midnight rider
Tell the rambler,
The gambler,
The back biter
Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down...."

He sat in his "laboratory," silent in the darkness. His eyes, fixed on the flames licking the cauldron several feet away, glittered brightly between blinks. The Hunt.... There was sport afoot. Someone...alone or together...had found a need to rise up and threaten. Letters and books. Vague words and crude dances at secrecy. Amateur efforts that had aroused both curiosity and intent.

"Anonymous, thy name is fool."

His chuckle echoed lowly off the bare stone walls, caught up in the music.

"Well you may throw your rock and hide your hand
Workin' in the dark against your fellow man
But as sure as God made black and white
What's done in the dark will be brought to the light...."

"Oh yes...to the light indeed."

Zane blinked slowly, his eyes dropping to his lap. A worn book sat there; it was one of the "gifts" that had been sent. His fingers travelled slowly over the cover, travelling along the whorls of the leather even as his mind wandered the paths of the Road. Slowly, he nodded, lifting the slender tome and laying it on the table at his side.

Two items remained in his lap, and he reached down to lift them both.

Silver glistened on the dark wood of his wand.

The gold of the stylized badge shone in the firelight.

"You can run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Sooner or later God'll cut you down
Sooner or later God'll cut you down."

"The Hunt is on."

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

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

It is very hard to enjoy nothingness. Rather, it is hard to enjoy anything when one is working so very hard at not working and to not feel anything. Still, as he opened his eyes, banishing the mental image of the the frozen dagger of ice, Zane did indeed feel a rush of excitement and happiness roll through him. His efforts were progressing at an annoying slow pace, but they were definitely improving. He almost looked forward to his next lesson.

Unfolding his legs slowly, he winced as the blood flow roared back into stiff muscles, a throbbing pain accompanying the sudden warmth. The frigid air pushed past him, howling down the gulley beyond the little niche where he sat. The bitter frost had rimed over the pool of water in front of him during his studies. His own spells had kept most of the cold from him, but still, as he inhaled the cold night air, his lungs twisted and burned in his chest. The last damage of the disease had not yet passed. All things in time, he supposed. At least he could still breathe.

Slowly straightening his legs, he bent to stretch them and considered the last few weeks. Tillery's trial at the Ministry had gone well. Given, some seemed determined to make the event a show for their own desires, forgetting that the girl's freedom was at stake. The same could have been said for many of the Aurors and members of the Wizengamot, however. Regardless, she had been freed at the end. She was likely hurt by his own testimony, but, like Professor Snape, he had made the point. Sierra was many things, but a dark witch was not one of them. The potential was surely there, but he doubted that it would reach the level that the Ministry had feared even if she applied herself daily for years. He shrugged and looked around the dark snow-covered landscape that surrounded him No, Sierra was no dark witch.

The issue of Crest's injuries had been skirted around during the trial, but he had never heard her name mentioned specifically. He found himself morbidly attracted to that whole situation. It was like the urge to stare at the scene of a particularly bloody accident. Even if one didn't want to see, they almost had to look. Crest comatose, perhaps never to recover, and the self-admitted guilty party was Terry Elders. Elders...the man who claimed to love her. The old cliche said that "love hurts," but he had never heard anyone say "love drowns." What had happened there in the Egyptian sands? Both of the principle participants were beyond his ability to question, and that was ever so annoying. Another slight shrug followed.

Again, all things in time. If it could be learned, he would learn it. He did hope that the girl recovered. Snape had implied that she was important to his learning. Regardless of any other concerns, that was reason enough for him to offer a bit of prayer Heavenward.

Sensing more than feeling a movement, Zane reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a sleek black rat. He smiled at the little beastie, running his finger down its spine and offering it a piece of cracker from his pocket. He had named the creature Loke for the Norse trickster god. The affectionate little beast would hopefully survive the changes that he and McGonagall had discussed. Raising his wand, he moved it carefully through the motions, speaking the words to the cross-species switching spells carefully and smiling as the rat twisted in upon itself and shrank, its shape finally resolving into that of a little green turtle. A slow chuckle sounded out as the confused-looking little reptile looked up at him, a piece of cracker still hanging from its mouth. Fixing the image of the rat in his mind once more, he stepped through the changes needed and worked the charm a second time.

"Poor little dear. Yes, yes." He stroked the rat's head again, offering it more of the saltine and sliding it back into the pouch.

Popping the rest of the cracker into his mouth, he chewed it slowly, considering it all. Ice and disease. Arrest and freedom. Love and murder. He chuckled. Rats and turtles.

He settled back into his cushion, legs crossing and eyes lowering back to the icy pond. A wave of his wand shattered the ice.

Eyes closing, he stared at the frigid water, already free of ripples and settling back into the shapes that it would assume as the cold took it.

Back to the ice.

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

Delicate. Dainty steps, each one placed so very carefully. Turning and bobbing to music that only she seemed to be able to hear. Moving separately and in pairs, the slow steps were a dance without peer.

One leg. Two legs. Four, five, and finally all eight.

She really was a beautiful example of her species. Four legs faced forward and four back, alternating golden chitin fading to black at the joints. Her body seemed pendulous and yet, watching her move, as graceful as the previous image of the nimble-footed dancer. Gold, white, and black designs shone in the early morning light, made all the more lustrous by the fine dew that beaded up on her web.

It had been a work of art, that web. Hours of work had been involved. Instincts spanning thousands of years had echoed thoughtlessly through the arachnid's body, spinning out a structure that was incredibly intricate. Incredibly effective. Incredibly perfect. Strong and flexible, the fine lines of warp and weft crossed back and forth, forming a deadly trap for her prey. Once done, all that remained was to wait.

And prey had been caught. It was impossible to say what insect kin had flown or crawled to their end there in her creation. The remains of the body had long since been cut free and allowed to fall away. The catching, however, had damaged her deadly art. Although it had been so very carefully constructed, an open gap between the taut lines hung open like the wide-mouthed wound that it was.

Her web was torn.

The silk was gone. That which had been was no more, and it would never return. It was ripped away, and the web was all the less for it. It would capture little now.

The eight-legged architect moved across the web, driven by the same implacable instincts that had forced her to create her trap in the beginning. Gossamer silk strands flowed from her spinnerets, stronger than steel. Side to side of the gaping rend she moved, anchoring and pulling the flapping edges against each other. Where too much of a her web had been destroyed, she resumed her initial work, dragging line after line to rebuild. The zig-zag patterns of her work stood out from the perfection of the rest of the web.

<center></center>

The gap was gone. Her web was repaired. Far less beautiful than before, it had still regained its purpose. It was a deadly tool again. What had been gone had been recreated.

It was healed. She was healed.

Zane stood from the fallen log where he had sat, his eyes still fixed on the toiling spider. In his mind he could hear Joki's voice.

"She just needs a project."

He nodded at the wisdom in that. A project would serve well.

His arm swept his cloak back as he bowed low to the weaver.

"Thank you, sister. I think I will do just that."

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

The Forest lay deep and still around the small fire, its fitful light dancing over the leaf-strewn ground and illuminating, if only for seconds, the broad moss-covered trees that grew nearby. Here, in this part of the wood, sunlight rarely, if ever, touched the soil. Short of being under the earth, it was one of the darkest places Zane could imagine.

Reaching out, he took a small iron kettle from its hanger over the flames. The heat that radiated from the blackened pot was more than enough to scald his fingers, and he held it carefully as he poured the steaming water. Crushed leaves were placed inside a tarnished old teaball and lowered into the cup. Almost immediately, the smell of mint spread through the clearing. It was a foreign smell to the black shadows here, but nothing seemed to protest its presence. Zane certainly did not. He had sat in the darkness, staring into the flames for hours. He was cold, his fingers stiff and neck aching dully. The heat would go far in restoring him, and so, he continued to mix the tea, letting the smells wash over him.

His meditations had progressed. Although it went against his very nature to do so, he had learned to tame his prowling thoughts. His practice was far from perfect, but it was practice. At the moment, he felt calm and peaceful. His requirements were far away. His responsibilities had been set aside. It would not last, but for now, he felt lethargic and heavy...slow and peaceful.

He stared into the fire, raising and lowering the mesh infuser slowly as the tea steeped in the heat of the cup. His thoughts turned slowly to the days prior to this one, and his thoughts began to tumble onward, considering what he had seen...what he thought he had seen.

What was the nature of servitude? Why was it so irksome to so many?

Even those who claimed to be the most loyal seemed unable to be content in the shadow of another. They could not see that they cast their own shadow just as far...just as strongly. It seemed that they must constantly believe that, were they not the one barking orders, they were eclipsed by those who did. Was this true? Was there no honor in service? In duty?

Why serve? Was it for presence and influence? Broadening knowledge? Out of fear? To repay debts real or imagined? To share the power of the strong?

He lifted the fine chain, removing the sodden leaves in their silver cage, and set them aside. He blew carefully on the dark liquid for several moments before taking a sip. The flavors rolled across his tongue. Mint...anise...stevia.

For love?

Zane considered each of these paths. He had watched several students circle around the concept as moths to the flame. One had done so out of the conditioning of her past. Love might indeed be in the mix as well. Old habits tinged with the smell of ... hunger. Was the service real or a mask? He considered the truth of those statements. She wore masks already. What was one more?

The second student had certainly come out of a desire to learn. He had felt a need for power. Other emotions skirted along the edges of the decision, Zane was certain. Infatuation perhaps. A desire to belong to something greater? It was too early to tell, but not too early to watch. Again, the service had a cost, and he could not tell if it was worth the danger. This one was young, but he sought dangerous things.

The third spoke of service as a thing to be traded. He needed protection to save him from dangers that he seemed to have brought upon himself. His own service seemed to be the coin that he offered for such. Once spent, could that price ever be recovered? The boy had shown tendencies in the past to assume too much...to demand things that he was not entitled to ask for.... What would the price be if he continued down that path? Would he truly end up as a dancing bear at the end of a chain?

And what of his own service? Did he too desire power, and if so, was it for himself or his lady that he chased it? Was there a difference any more?

Zane blinked slowly, fixing his eyes on the dancing flames, and finished draining the cup in his hands. He flipped it over and tapped the heel of his hand against it, shaking the dregs out onto the forest floor. He wiped it out using the edge of his cloak and then placed it back in the charmed pouch on his belt.

The questions had done much to dispel the feelings of calm that he had collected earlier. He sighed and picked up the cloth-bound book that he had set on the stump by his feet hours earlier. Wordsworth's carefully arranged prose crawled across the open page, and Zane read the words again, taking refuge in them.

Placing trust in them...hoping that they could be attained.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!

Somewhere in the distance, something howled. Starting low and hungry, the voice climbed higher, sounding the call to hunt. Or was it to gather?

No. Zane had no doubt. That voice sang the praises of rushing through the darkness, scented prey running ahead, fear coursing through its blood. There was joy and madness echoing in that call. Other voices rose to join it.

Somewhere in those moments, Zane had risen to his feet and stepped beyond the feeble illumination of his fire. The book lay forgotten by the flames, smoldering as the cover began to darken from the heat. His breath came fast. His heart raced.

Service.

The sound of his departure echoed through the wood like a gunshot.

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

((Been gone a while, but the thought of the Ball put me in a Zane-writing mood. Good to see that he's still as bent as he ever was! Enjoy? ))

Der Erlkönig

(lyrics and video/audio (1) or (2)

Like skeletal fingers, the branches reached for him, and the young man felt the edge of fear move across his neck. Some tales were written to entertain, and others were penned to pass on lessons. As he stood in the dark night, the ancient trees’ gnarled limbs rattling and mossy beards draping toward him, Zane found himself in the heart of the latter kind.

Fear moved through him, leaving weakness and chill shivers in its wake. Creaking echoes and the moaning of the wind greeted him as he stared between the rough boles and boughs. This wood was not a civilized park, groomed and shaped into pleasing paths. No, here was a remnant of an older place, proud and remembering. It dozed in the way that the long-lived do, but this forest remembered its lordship over the land. The trees remembered the edge of the axe and the lick of the flames. They remembered the coming of man, and they hated him from root to leaf. In their shadows, they welcomed other creatures, offering them sanctuary and adding their whispers of hate to the wooden chorus. Together, these enemies of mankind lurked and waited. Perhaps their days of power were gone, never to be recovered, but still they waited. The foolish or bold sometimes came here, and, if the circumstances allowed, they would be struck down, never to see the open sky again. Humans, in their conceit, gave names to the deaths -- explained them in terms of animal attacks or "exposure."

Old Man Willow and the Alder King knew better.

Zane stood in the center of a thin track, cloaked and hooded. In his hands, he held an iPod and his wand, a slender rod of carved wood chased with silver and bone. With a motion of his thumb, he pressed a button.

The sound of the piano, notes rippling up and down filled his ears. The singer's voice rang, each emphasized note sending electric shocks through the young man's body as he stared into the darkness, teeth bared in a rictus grin.

"Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm."

For a moment, he wished that he too had someone there to wrap their arms around him, keeping him warm in the darkness of the night. As quickly as the thought rose, it was shattered by the sound of his own quiet laughter. His Vater would not come to save him. Not his Vater... never him. As always, there was only the Littlest Brother, his desire, and his will.

Perhaps summoned by the words of Goethe, the evening fog seemed to rise. Zane stared into it, seeking the Kron und Schweif...the crown and cloak. Perhaps it was there. From side to side, he gazed across the darkened wood, seeking out the faerie king or his legendary daughters. The voice in his ears shifted from deep and bold to high and frightened. It shifted from father to child. He felt the boy's terror. He could feel it pressing down on him as he stood alone in this darkness.

The singer's tone changed again, becoming smooth and seductive.

"Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehen?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön...."

The moments seemed to become hours, the voice in his ears shifting from low to high, terror to silk. The piano echoed behind with Schubert's runs punctuated by the shocking bass chords. Zane's senses stretched, straining against the darkened fog, each seeking desperately for the burning eyes or the daughters' milky arms. The wand felt small and insignificant in his hand. Against the fear he felt, Zane thought that all he was would prove insignificant.

The clawing limbs still reached for him. The crawling fog writhed around him. The notes roared and the Erlkönig’s words were sung. Zane’s hand cramped and his eyes burned.

Undaunted by his fear, the song went on, telling the tale of the ill child and his father. Shifting between the three voices, it continued, finally dying with the final line. Each word was released like the stomping of a foot.

"In seinen Armen das Kind war tot." It ended.

"In his arms, the child was dead."

Silence. An empty wood surrounded Zane. No eyes gazed upon him. No goblin hands reached out to claim him. No magics flew to ensnare him. He let out a shuddering sigh. There had been many nights like this one, and there would be more. The terror slowly drained away, leaving him weak and cold.

The walk out of the forest took far longer than the one that brought him to that dark path. It did every time. Finally reaching the edge of the tree line, he stepped into the moonlight, letting it wash over him. It felt like a cleansing. The silvery light purified the stains that the darkness had left behind. Zane sighed again, almost a sob, and walked the final yards to the house. Warm light shone through the windows, and he could see her moving inside. Christmas. It was time for him to go back, and he did so gladly, step after step until he stood on the stoop. He had faced the challenge again, and, for now, the demons were banished. He placed his hand on the doorknob.

Turning at the last, he looked back to the dark woods and stared, whispering to them.

"Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan."

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

"That one, if you please, my good man."

Zane pointed to the thin volume with this cane. MacCormick, the elderly wizard who owned the shop, stared at the ebony stick for a moment, a look of annoyance crossing his features. The desire for gold apparently outweighed any thoughts regarding the pretentious young man, however. Stepping around a worn ladder, the fellow reached out to pull down the unassuming book. Wiping a seamed hand over the time-worn leather, the bookseller shook his head and grunted.

"'Herbal Remedies for African Curses and Maledictions,' eh? You that determined to waste your galleons, sir?" MacCormick's eyes worked over the young man again, taking in the obvious expense of his clothes and the almost mocking smile. "This fellow here was a laughing stock across all of Britain before he disappeared. Hmph." The old man shook his head again, laying the book on the counter in front of Zane carefully. Questionable author or not, a book deserved respect. A book about to be sold deserved even more. "Probably eaten by some dark beastie down there in Africa. Fool of a man, not staying where he belonged. Nothing but savages and … French colonies." To Zane’s ear, it sounded like MacCormick considered one as bad as the other. Had the man asked him, Zane would have disagreed - the French were far worse.

"Now, now, Master MacCormick, how should the rest of us profit from knowledge, so carefully penned into books such as this, did such men not travel the world? If they did not risk life and limb...sometimes to their loss, I fear...so that we erudite gentlemen could sit in our comfortable chairs, hrm? Reading by gentle light and listening to soothing music while we do? No, let us not speak ill of the dear missing Monsieur Livrebuton." Time had sharpened Zane's accent again, lending his words an edge that seemed to annoy the merchant far more than the sarcastic reply. Ignoring the near-glare, Zane chuckled and ran his fingertips across the cover.

"At least he had the decency to leave us this before he left. Yes." The young man's smile lost its edge for a moment as he considered the book. Then, he nodded, looking back up at the shop's owner and tapped his fingertips on the title. "Yes, indeed, old boy. I shall take this one without delay, hrm?"

The man grunted, picking up the book and walking stiffly over to his desk. The quill scratched its way across the ledger book as the sale was recorded, and the coins clinked quietly. Transaction completed, MacCormick pocketed the money and looked at Zane again.

"Anything else you'll be needing, Mister...." He looked quickly down at the receipt and continued. "Von Mecklenberg? You need any other books while you're here?"

"Oh, I dare say that I do, mein Freund, but this will do for the now. After all, as you said, this fellow was a rascal of dubious honesty. I am sure it will take me some time to parse out the gold from the dross, hey?"

"Yeh, likely," agreed the bookseller. "Don't know why you bother, mind, but it is your time and money, son. That kind of fellow just writes to write. Not enough value in the book to make up for the cost of the binding, but if you want the thing, I'll wish you luck. Just don't come blaming me once you find out that I was telling truth. I did tell you."

Zane's crooked smile, hidden from the old man's view, peeled across his face. It showed far more sneering disdain than amusement.

"Think so? I suppose I should expect such from one like you. 'Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why. Because in all of the whole human race, Mrs. Lovett, there are two kinds of men and only two.'"

MacCormick's bushy eyebrows beetled down over his eyes in annoyance. "What's that? You singing to me now? Hey?"

Zane waved a hand in dismissal as he turned. He had opened the book and was already reading, cane tucked under his arm. The tiny bell rang out brightly as the door opened and shut.

MacCormick's Moste Puissant Periodicals left behind, Zane walked down the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley, twirling his cane about slowly. Several passing witches and wizards scowled at the young man, but if he noticed them, he did not show it. He stared at the pages in Livrebuton's book, turning them from time to time. He stopped at several apothecary shops, purchasing small bundles of several herbs and, from a small shop down the more dimly lit Knockturn Alley, several pieces of bleached bone.

He stopped for one last purchase in Diagon -- a small bouquet of pale lilies tied together with a dark wine-colored ribbon. He turned from the florist and noticed a pair of Hogwarts students seated nearby – Aelent and a girl. Whatever was her name? Ah, yes…he remembered an overheard conversation in the Hall. Emily. She sat, teary-eyed and sniffling. Aelent looked as comfortable as a cat … locked in with several dogs. Unwilling to resist the temptation, Zane crossed the space between them and offered the flowers to the boy – girls do so love flowers – stretching the moment a bit more. He was not surprised when Aelent refused. Undeterred, Zane nodded with a smile and walked away.

Another pair. Disconcerted and sad. Awkward and, dare he say it, embarrassed. Yes, Hogwarts was the same. Still filled with lost loves, groups of boys playing at secret societies, and free-ranging rudeness. Ever so wonderful to be back.

And this Academy place. … It was new. It needed attention. They trespassed in places that Zane claimed as his own. A lesson needed to be learned.

“Icarus, I think. Perhaps Jatayu with no Sampaati flying to the rescue, hrm? Fly high, little birds.”

He laughed, raising the flowers to his nose again. Two young ladies stopped and stared at his outburst. With a flourish of the pale blooms, he bowed to them.

"No, there's no place like London. Ha! I bid you a simply wonderful evening, dear ladies."

The sound of his disapparation echoed off the nearby walls.

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

The banked fire beneath the cauldron popped and crackled quietly.

The slowly boiling contents of the pot sighed and leapt.

The castle itself groaned and creaked as all such rambling old buildings do.

The sound of footsteps retreated down the hallway. A door opened. A door closed.

The chamber, created for some unknown reason but transformed once again into his workroom, was still. The record player still scratched its way along, playing the third movement of Die Zauberharfe. Even that music, however, sounded lonely and abandoned now that he had left. He would return. No one could assume that he wouldn't. Too many things remained.

Still, Zane had changed or removed many of the things that had called this room home. Meticulously cleaned until it shone, the worn silver cauldron sat upon the table atop a recent copy of Transfiguration Today. A number of tins and containers lay strewn about beside the pot, open and empty. They also gleamed in the firelight. Whatever they had contained was obviously and carefully gone now...as if it had never been there.

A single antler, worn and gnawed nearly in half, sat in the seat of the chair, colored markings placed carefully at the edges of each scarred cut.

Ashes and dirt from the floor had been carefully swept into a corner. The victor of that ongoing battle, an old broom with more broken bristles than whole, leaned against the wall where it had been left.

A Muggle book, What the Face Reveals: Basic and Applied Studies of Spontaneous Expression Using the Facial Action Coding System, sat atop one pile of cushions, its cover decorated with curiously static photographs. There was something sad about that book. The unmoving pictures made it seem like a dead thing.

On the small table beneath the strange wooden cross dominating the corner was a worn notebook with a silver-tipped quill laying across it. From the appearance of the ragged edges that remained, numerous pages had been torn from it over time. Tonight, however, there was line after line of writing scrawled across the paper. Several parts had been underlined or written boldly.

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

Zane sat at the table, his feet propped up on the edge of his cauldron, writing carefully in a book spread across his lap. The cauldron was cold and empty. For once, no fire crackled beneath. No quiet noises could be heard coming from beneath the lid, sussurances or simmering pops.

He paused, staring toward a spot on the floor...empty now. How long ago had she sat there? That was their first meeting, but not their first contact. Oh no, Jack had already offered her to him, days before. In the darkly-lit Candle, not even a week later, Liss had voiced the terms of the bargain. Did the girl know? Did she imagine that her friends and companions had presented her to him? Sold her? Memories of a night, long ago, in Germany, rose. Opposite to this situation, they had sought to keep the "monster" away. This time, they brought her closer. They bargained her for things that she did not know, or, at best, could not be expected to understand. Yet.

Now, as then, he smiled and spoke quietly. It was a pity Chelise could not hear it this time as well. She would appreciate the irony.

"There is a price for everything, my friends. You seek happiness. Perhaps you will find it...or perhaps it will find you."

The girl had agreed once he had stopped playing the game. She had not yet committed to the costs, but she knew of them. Once she understood the truth, she was his to teach...to learn from. The time approached for a tempering...sacrifice. Even as stags wore the velvet from their antlers when the time was right...when the bone was ready to become a weapon...so too would she work to find her weapons...uncover them.

Hunters needed weapons.

As before, so today. One monster owed at least this chance to another. All the better that she had things to offer in return.

He looked back at the book. Issues and thoughts. He finished the last words and reviewed what he had written. In three places, he underlined words or phrases.



Zane nodded and then sat the book aside.

He turned to stare back at the empty place, missing both girl and chair. Plans and ideas warred for space in his head, each reviewed and then kept or discarded.

He had spoken of this to Joki, and, as always, she had understood. She understood it oh-so-very-well. None knew it better - they had already walked this path.

"In order to be reborn, my dear, something must die first."

He nodded. So much to do. Like the Viscanti fellow....


(Kudos to the wondermous RP of Shacadia, Mary, Jack, Liss, Viscanti, and Joki. This one is dedicated to all of you!)

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

Darkness.

The room was simply dark. It had no windows, and the seams of the only door had been sealed, blocking what little light might have made its way through. Zane moved slowly, unrolling the long spool of plastic and setting the edge onto the winder. Walking the film carefully from side to side, he twisted it into the spool. After the final frames were captured, he placed a lid on the top and pressed it into place, sealing the undeveloped pictures away.

He sat the tank aside and touched the handle of his wand where it stuck from outside the glass jar.

"Incendio."



Filtered through the ruby glass, the candlelight spilled warm and red out into the small chamber. Shadows stood in sharp relief, and Zane blinked several times to allow his eyes to adjust. With careful movements, he measured out a portion of the liquid resting in the cooling cauldron behind him. Shimmering darkly, the brew seemed almost to glow as he poured it into a tiny hole on the top of the development tank. A gurgling hiss sounded as a small wisp of smoke escaped. Nodding to himself, Zane sat the tank aside and pulled a plastic tray over. He drew a small amount more of the potion, mixing it with water carefully and then pouring it carefully into the tray. A second potion was added slowly from a stoppered phial. The liquids swirled together, emitting tiny silver sparks as they commingled. Muggles called this part a "stop bath." A third liquid was measured with slow care and then sat aside on the tabletop.

Zane supposed that wizards must then call it the "start bath."

He reached over to dim the light with a whispered "Nox." He opened the developing tank, withdrawing the dripping reel and setting it carefully into the bath. Zane waited. The ticking of his watch and his own slow breaths echoed in the small room for the next half minute. After that, Zane lifted the last measure of potion and poured it into the bath, carefully turning the film from side to side to ensure that each and every frame was properly exposed to the mixture.

Several moments later, Zane again lit his wand. He removed the film from the bath and submerged it gently into a flow of clean water. Satisfied that it was washed, he held it up in the weak light. The tiny images writhed and shifted; Zane smiled.





Some hours later, the images from all the rolls lay in a neat stack on the center of the table. All the tools used to develop them had been washed and put away. Zane sat, his transfiguration workbook opened in front of him, and carefully indexed each photograph, listing a number and short description of each.

Two hundred eighty-eight images.

Fourteen sketches.

Twelve pages of notes.

All in all, it had been twelve hours of work. Twelve hours of excellent work.

He paused on the photograph labeled with "#197" at the top. Setting it down, he filed back through the others, finally pulling another out. He placed the two images beside each other and stared intently at them. In one, the beast paced back and forth, savaging a scrap of cloth. In the other, the creature lay, motionless, on the stone floor. Only the slight movements of its chest gave any indication of life. Zane traced the shoulder line of each image slowly, nodding. He flipped a page in the workbook and wrote a short note beside one of the sketches.

"Obvious deformity (compared to Canis Lupus norm) in and about the joining of the cervical and thoracic vertebrae of the axial skeleton view."

Zane looked up and tapped his fingertips on the two photographs. He smiled.



Three hours later, the photographs had been carefully placed inside a leather folio, and each of the sketches had been painstakingly copied onto sheets of vellum. His notes had been simplified and rendered down into the most terse and simple words. Curfew approached quickly, and Zane was ready to make his way to the Commons.

He sat in his chair staring at a single photograph. It was labeled "#279," and the image it contained was strange. The subject appeared to be the lower back and hip of a naked person. At least, there did not appear to be any clothing. The photo shifted slowly, and in it, Zane watched long hairs withdraw quickly into the bare skin. After a moment, they reappeared and began to shrink again. Motionless, he watched for another fifteen minutes.

He touched the photograph and raised his lip in a snarl.

With a movement that seemed all the more sudden because of the stillness of the room, Zane slid the photograph away. He took a piece of parchment and a quill from off the shelf and returned to the table. The scratching of the quill began immediately.



All in all, it had been sixteen hours of work. Sixteen hours of infuriating work.

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

Dedicated to the DMs who ran the event. Thank you! Made Zane THINK!

The clicking sound echoed through the small chamber. Zane made cut after careful cut, pushing the reagents into small, tidy piles. The base already bubbled quietly in the cauldron, waiting for the influence and affects of the components scattered about the workbench.

It was time for the charcoal. He set aside the knife and placed four of the sooty black lumps into his mortar. The charred wood broke into night-dark powder as he crushed it repeatedly with the pestle.

They had gone into the Forbidden Forest. A Ministry-sponsored Herbology class.... The Forest was not a safe place in the brightest of days, but on a night of the waxed moon.... He shook his head, grinding away. Wands away. Bah. Some had been scared...no, all had been scared. Some were just more open about it. He considered that for several moments, the grinding slowing to a stop. Who was more brave there? Those who put on the face of confidence and courage or those who showed their fear? An excellent question, that. He would have to ask her opinion of it when she returned.

Supposedly, they were to be escorted by a centaur. Professor Sprout had mentioned hunting for Fluxweed and Mistletoe in the herd lands. The students had been ready to scatter to the four winds. Some of them had already done so. Zane believed that the teachers had completely missed their leaving. Safety in numbers, hrm?

Zane chuckled, shaking his head and resuming the grinding.

Finally, the centaur had walked up out of the darkness. To call him angry ... it was like saying that ice is cool. The man-horse had been furious. He accused Umbridge ... and the Ministry ... of sending dementors into the herd lands. It had made little sense to Zane. Most assumed it was simply another Ministry-sponsored bit of foolishness, but Zane felt it had to be more. Why provoke them? What was there to gain? A fight seemed inevitable; but, in a rather impressive show of restraint, the centaur had turned and left, forbidding the students to travel further.

The wolf had arrived soon after. It was fleeing. There was no other word for it. It was not stalking or strolling. Neither had it been a running in mindless terror. The beast had been moving quickly but with control. It was ... thinking. It ignored them even when the foolish amongst the students had reacted violently, throwing spell after spell at a shape they could barely even see.

The cold of the Dementor had hit them from behind like a gale.

It passed the students by as if they were not even there, leaving them shaking with terror. Like the wolf, it moved with determination and intent. That creature was hunting.

It was pursuing...an animal. The presence of the dementors in the Forest had suddenly made sense to Zane.

Needless to say, the class had ended then. The students were herded back to the school and, from there, to their Commons. The floo fires hummed with voices and faces for hours. It appeared that none of the students had any desire to sleep. For his own part, Zane had sent off an owl to Professor Flitwick to ask a question. It had gone unanswered. Several times, the influence of the dementors could be felt. Cold...depression...terror and hopelessness.

Near the end of the night, the wolf had arrived. A scratch at the door. A pleading whine. Only a fool would allow a werewolf into the Commons. Zane had asked for opinions, but he had little care for what their responses might be. He slid the door open and the cursed thing had slid into the room, shouldering the portal closed immediately. Then, the werewolf ... ravager of innocents ... cursed murderer ... mindless beast ... had stood silently at the far end of the room. It watched. It waited. As Zane had suspected, it thought. Those were not the eyes of the same creature he had observed in the Ministry.

Setting the mortar aside, Zane wiped his hands on the edge of his cloak and nodded. The Solamen. He had been right.

It did not try to communicate. It would not listen. With narrowed, fearful eyes, the creature ... the man or woman ... had observed the frightened students. Zane had nodded, understanding. Snape had arrived moments later, and the wolf had fled back into the dark hallways of the dungeon. It knew Hogwarts. It knew the Commons and the halls.

Soon after, they had been called to the Great Hall. The prefects had been taken aside to speak with the Headmistress. Rumors spread quickly and were just as quickly verified. Dementors walked the halls of Hogwarts. They would find this "beast." Kill him ... or her. Umbridge was shamed. She and her hatred of "halfbreeds" would allow nothing else.

It was over nearly before it began. Less than an hour later, the man, no longer a wolf, had been captured in the Great Hall. The dementor had struck and left behind nothing but a shell. What a waste.... Another fool who had gone to a place he should have avoided.

Zane looked down at the midnight-dark powder in the mortar. Another victim of one with the strength to crush.

Umbridge had left with the ... with what remained of the man. Wise or not, Zane had disillusioned himself and outpaced the arrogant woman and her mindless charge. He had his camera. A single click of the shutter and then he had fled. Both of their faces.... Hers, smug and ever so pleased. His...nothing. Meat waiting to rot....

Zane shook his head and looked back at the table. Silver nitrate. Charcoal. Linden ash.

Chopped Fluxweed.

He dropped them, one after the other, into the cauldron. The brew began to shine a pearlescent silver and smell ever so slightly of burned parchment. He nodded. Now it needed only time.

Zane sat in his chair and began the wait. Two objects sitting by the cushions caught his attention. A camera and a small stoppered vial. He had no idea what the Werwolf's name was...had been. But there, sitting with him in the quiet room, were the fellow's remains. Hair. A torn claw. The photograph of a tortured, drooling face.

Sitting there in the gloomy darkness, shadows flickering from the banked firelight, Zane didn't notice the shifting of the Road. He wasn't even aware when he decided.

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