Fairge Anma - episode 9, part 1
Eirig
{Recompense - pron. air-ik}
Summary: finishing up
Disclaimers:
Douglas Monaghan, Craig Stevenson and Justine McManus are all characters in the show Sea of Souls. Hogwarts and the denizens of the wizarding world are part of the HarryPotter-verse - however, Harry will be only a minor character in this - MY interest is in the failed hero, Severus Snape.
Sara Farris is original. The pilot episode for this Sea of Souls/Hogwarts cross over can be found as the entry for June 21st, 2006.
The previous section was posted on 4 August 2006.
- Fairge Anma - episode 9
Eirig
Part One of four
It took me a couple of hours to deal with the owls.
No, that's not exactly right. It took me half an hour to deal with the Howlers some of them carried, those that still carried them, that hadn't yet been delivered.
Howlers - screaming poison pen notes written by people possessing more time than sense, judging my life based on the unfounded insinuations of a tabloid-talent reporter. They have to be delivered to the hand of the addressee - that's part of their unique charm. Think registered letters. Do I have to mention that the one bright point of the exercise was the knowledge that the writers had been denied the use of their delivery owls for the time that I wasn't here to receive them?
Didn't make up for the unpleasantness of my downstairs neighbour coming up to complain about the noise and threatening to call the police. I told her I had the telly on too loud, promised to keep it down and agreed that it was hard enough raising a child under these circumstances without inconsiderate idiots like me making trouble during nap-time.
After she left, I cast a muffling spell on the inner surfaces of my flat - that was another half-hour right there. I had to modify a couple of textbook spells, combining them for the purpose. Once I had something that would keep inside sound inside, I finished off the rest and wasn't that fun? One absolutely lovely and totally unexpected effect of the sound-proofing spell is that it served to concentrate the noise and fury of these wonderful love notes. My head was splitting by the time I was through.
Now I know why wizards use magic so prolifigately - because they have deal with other wizards!
All of my brand-new, just replaced light-bulbs popped.
There was still a pile of owl-deliveries left when the ringing in my ears from the last Howler faded but then I had to clean up the disgusting mess left over from the rancid decay of Howlers that had been delivered but not opened. The spell that creates Howlers is one that does not lend itself to being ignored. After I cleaned those up, I took out the trash because I didn't want to leave that smell inside. That took another hour, lucky me. I decided everything else could wait on MY pleasure for once. I went to bed. Not immediately to sleep. Too many damned questions.
Was it my fault that Micheal Olgivey was dead? Should I have reported my suspicions to the Ministry of Magic? Or to Doctor Monaghan? Would they have been able to do anything about the situation? Either. Both.
My conscience told me that the first was true - it had taken me too long to figure out the riddle. I had been too distracted by my own personal petty problems to give it as much attention as it deserved. Yes, I was responsible for his death.
But I remained convinced that it would have done no good to take such a vague theory to anyone, including Douglas Monaghan. By the time I found out what I was dealing with, it was already too late to do anything at all about it. And before that, I didn't know. I just had inchoate forebodings. Nothing concrete.
I also felt guilty about Seonag McMillan and not telling her that the curse was ended.
Why didn't I tell her? Why didn't I reassure her that the monster that had killed Micheal, that was responsible for the deaths of his male ancestors had been destroyed? That her hypothetical grandson would theoretically be able to survive to a safe old age?
Why didn't I? Because I couldn't.
I had acted as a witch, that was why. I had gone hunting the each uisge armed with magic, not science. I hadn't considered documenting it, recording it, trapping it in any way. I had seen it as a danger, to be eliminated.
So much for my grand, self-serving oratory about living magic-free as a Muggle. If I had really meant it ... If I weren't a witch to my bones, I would have have done the proper thing; I would have reacted as a paranormal investigator and gone to Douglas, lay it all out before him, convinced him of the existance of the water-horse and persuaded him to take the trip to Mull.
We would have set up motion sensors, underwater videos, whatever - Craig complaining and making bad Loch Ness jokes the entire time, I'd be betting. We would have looked for evidence of the paranormal and, perhaps, we would have found enough to justify the suspicions. More likely, we would have found nothing. But the each uisge would have still been there, waiting for the time to pass for it to hunt again.
Actually, I suppose I could have done what I had done as well. Douglas had already demonstrated a willingness to try traditional means of attracting the attention of supernatural entities. I could have lay my trap and perhaps the water-horse would have responded and then we'd have had our documentation, our oral reports, our fuzzy photographs. But at what cost? How many of us would have survived... without magic?
Even so, that's what I should have done. Instead, when Tonks told me Micheal was gone and I knew - beyond the shadow of a doubt - that he was dead, victim of that creature, I reacted as a witch, not a scientist, not an investigator. I reacted as a student of Hogwarts, falling back on magic to gain ... justice? Or vengence? I reacted as a witch, that meant it was a wizarding matter and because it was a wizarding matter, I couldn't tell them, couldn't tell Seonag McMillan, even though it affected her most intimately of all.
Folklore abounds with that kind of story - tales that make no sense because there is no context, that have no known endings because those are lost in wizardly happenings. I regretted deeply leaving her in fear and doubt - but since I couldn't explain, I was left with no choice.
Everything was so messed up. I'd bent and out-right broken so many of my personal convictions in the past few days, I didn't know who I was anymore.
And then there was the Professor.
It seemed to me that there always would be the Professor.
I hadn't been entirely conscious when he said it, but I thought I heard him say "I wanted you" but it could just have easily been "I wanted to" and far more likely. A difference that makes no difference. He does what he wants and the Devil take the rest.
At that point, I must have finally drifted off. I dreamed ... the usual frustration, low-esteem, can't do anything right sort of dreams. Nothing to write about.
Hand to God. I expected someone to come banging down my door before nightfall - or appearing inside my flat - with some new crisis that I just wasn't up to handling. If they did, they were out of luck. I woke up just before noon - Saturday.
I felt like a cricket wicket. Stiff as wood and sore from everybody and everything taking their best whack at me. I managed to drag myself into the tub and stayed there soaking until the water was cold. That and the two aspirin I downed helped enough so that I could pull a sandwich together and crawl back to bed. No way I could make it to self-defense class.
Amazingly, no one came by or called Saturday either.
I felt more human by Sunday. At least, I felt mobile enough to think about washing laundry. When I opened the door to my flat, though I found just WHY the past two days had been so peaceful. Craig was walking away from the door, looking very discouraged and depressed. At the sound of the door opening, he spun around, an expression of amazement on his face.
"Sara? How did you get past me? Where have you been? Where did you go?"
"Get past you? What? This is the first time I've been out all weekend."
"Yeah. Sure you have. Without answering the door or the phone? I don't believe it," he retorted hotly. "I'm serious, where have you been?" Suspicion bloomed, angry suspicion. "Were you with him again? Is that it? While we were all worried sick about you, you were skivving off with that ... jerk!"
"I haven't been 'skivving off' on anything and I didn't disappear! I have been right here, ever since I left Murray Thompson Friday and for your information, I have been completely alone. No one's knocked. The phone hasn't rung. Nothing. I have been right here." I was bugged. He had no right to quiz me like this.
"The hell no one's knocked. I've been by five times and I know Justine and Douglas came to check on you at least once each. And I don't know how many times I called."
That knocked me back and damped my rising ire.
"Dr. Monaghan ... came by?" I looked toward the closed door. "I wasn't feeling well - I might have been sleeping too hard to hear the door."
"And the phone?" he asked with pointed emphasis.
He was right. I couldn't imagine sleeping through that cacophony.
"Are you sure you were ringing the right number?"
"Well, YEAH! I've got you programmed in."
"Try it now."
Rolling his eyes with exasperation, he took out his mobile and tapped one key. We both waited, listening. There was nothing. For the first time, Craig looked uncertain.
"Maybe ..." he muttered. He did something and turned the unit toward me to display the number on the screen. "That is right, isn't it?" It was.
"Let me check on something," I said. Leaving the basket of dirty clothes there in the hall, I unlocked the door and stepped in ... to absolute silence. The murmur of over a dozen conversations occurring in open flats throughout the building cut off as soon as I stepped over the threshold. Traffic noises didn't exist. Even the ubiquitous pigeon cooings were gone. I looked back at Craig, his mouth moving, but no sound came to me. And I realized.
I shut the door and collapsed back against it, fighting the urge to laugh and cry both. I knew exactly why I had had two undisturbed days. The spell I had cast to deal with the Howlers. It had kept all noise inside the flat all right, but it had also kept all other sounds outside as well. Including phone signals!
I didn't have time to deal with my epiphany though. Even if I couldn't hear him, I could feel the door reverberating with Craig's knocking. I pulled out my wand, whispering "Finite Incantatem" as I traced the appropriate figure in the air with the tip of it. The result was immediate.
I could hear Craig again, yelling through the door for me to open up, sounding as upset as I've ever heard him. I could hear traffic, birds, the annoying hum from some appliance in another flat, everything. I used the wand again, then shoved it back into place and opened the door.
"Sorry about that - force of habit. I think I've found the problem."
Craig pushed in. "About time. What?"
"The cord on the phone's loose," I said, going over to where the old fashioned handset sat precariously perched on a stack of books, on top of a bookshelf near the bedroom door. I started fishing back behind the case - apparently I'd been a bit more enthusiastic in my spell than intended. Craig pushed me aside, made a long arm behind the base of the shelves and pulled the cable free.
"That's what it is all right," he agreed, sounding disgruntled as he re-inserted the little plastic tab into the slot. "That's why you should get a mobile."
"This one works for me." He made a sound as he rose to his feet again, not quite a grunt.
"So you owe me an apology," I snarked, not quite fairly.
"You're right. I'm ... I'm sorry. But I've been out of my mind with worry. You looked absolutely ghastly when you ran out of Douglas's office the other day."
Dr. Monaghan.
"Is he ... Is he still very angry with me?"
"He's not angry. Well, he was a bit upset that you just ran off without saying anything to anybody. And then coming back and scaring that poor girl half to death for no reason."
I looked up quickly at that, hope quickening my heartbeat.
"No reason? Michel Olgivey's back? It was somebody else?"
"Well. No. He hasn't returned yet. But all they found were ... they aren't even sure it's human."
"They're human. Stomach and liver - seats of the soul." I felt sick and even more discouraged than before, the weight of the world crashing down on my shoulders again after a lovely moment of lightness of being. I gestured toward the open door. "I'm sorry, Craig. I would love to stay and talk but ... I really have to get the laundry done. It's reached critical." He looked back, looked at me and shrugged.
"Well then, let's get to it." His longer legs outstrode me, he scooped up the basket and then waited while I re-locked the flat door. I retrieved the detergent bottle that had tumbled out of the basket and followed him down the stairs.
If I had trouble imagining Craig riding to the rescue on an each uisge, I had equal difficulty visualizing the Professor helping with laundry.
Actually and in truth, Craig wasn't much help either. He tried to shove everything into one washer and then, when I was separating, he made a few remarks that got him banished to the other side of the table. If I wanted him to know what size I wear, I'd ... not want him to know. But he was good company and the black cloud I'd been under since Tonks told me about Olgivey increasingly lightened the longer we were together.
All good things ....
I was pulling the last load out of the dryer when he finally got around to the reason he was there.
"Anyway, I'll be by around seven to pick you up."
I went still, mentally reviewing our conversation to date. As far as I could remember, he hadn't asked me out. The way I was feeling, I wasn't sure I would have agreed.
"I beg your pardon? You'll pick me up for what?" I was crouching down, looking up at him. Not the best position to be on one's dignity. Especially considering my immediate field of vision. I quickly raised my eyes.
"Dinner tonight. With my friends; Isobel and Harry. Did you forget? You've known about it for a week."
I had forgotten.
What with one thing and another, it had completely slipped my mind - and if I had thought about it, I would have assumed he'd have made my excuses to them and hoped I'd forgotten. I mean, he couldn't exactly introduce me to his old friends as a girlfriend now, could he?
Apparently, he thought he could.
"It's tonight? You know, you never did tell me when it was," I said, trying to keep my tone light and my eyes on the pile of warm, clean cloth. I'd fold everything later, when I was alone. I stood, grunting slightly as I hefted the basket. He took it away from me.
"You haven't exactly been around," he pointed out reasonably, with an endearing little half shrug, looking over his shoulder as he led the way out of the laundromat.
"I guess I haven't at that."
"You are still coming with me, aren't you?"
I should have said no. I should have made my excuses - I had to wash my hair, fold the laundry. I was too tired, too sore, too grieving. I couldn't go.
But he had made the effort to cheer me up when I was down; he was carrying my clothes, saving my sore muscles and bruises the effort and ...
"Of course I am. I wouldn't jilt you at the last minute like that - what do you take me for? What time and where?"
"I'll pick you up at seven. You don't have to dress - it's just a few friends getting together, nothing formal."
He followed me into the building, making me wonder how he'd gotten in earlier without me buzzing the door open, and he waited patiently until I had the flat door open. Then he handed me the basket, gave me a small peck on the cheek, and left.
You know, if he had tried a full kiss, I probably would have changed my mind and said no after all. But that peck ...
I dumped the clothes out on my bed and stared down at them. Nothing formal, he said. That was all well and good, but that still begged the question of what to wear. I had pub-going clothes, interview clothes, and work clothes but, *quel suprise*, not many date clothes. I had never needed many before.
I began laying things out in organized piles; skirts - everyday, church, business- none of them was right. Blouses - a bit better but still not quite the thing.
Nothing really suitable for dressing up to impress a boyfriend's friends meeting them the first time. Or rather, his friend's girlfriends. That gave me pause. A boyfriend's friends' girlfriends. Did I consider Craig my boyfriend? Where did that leave the Professor?
The question suddenly made me angry. Why did I even need to worry about where he was left anyway? He made it clear that what *I* wanted was less than nothing to him. Why should I care what he wanted? Other than the fact that he could make my life a pure misery come September. Or even before. Other than the fact that he had risked his life to save mine.
I did have one dress that might do. A calf-length cocktail dress with a form-fitting shirred drop waist bodice and a double-layer handkerchief skirt in a rich midnight blue, covered with sparkling gold sequins. The top was filled in to the high neckline with a sheer fabric, which continued to the full, gathered sleeves - dark enough to disguise the bruises covering my arms.
It was pushed all the way to the back of my wardrobe. I was a bit embarassed to have it. It had been an impulse buy off a cart on Austin street. At the time, I had no need for any such dress, it didn't suit me, or my lifestyle or ... or anything. It had cost too much, was too fancy, was just too wrong. But I had fallen in love with the dress the first time I'd seen it and hadn't been able to resist going back to buy it.
I pulled it out. It was perfect for tonight. Cool enough for summer wear, the long sleeves were dark enough to disguise the bruises on my arms and the skirts were long enough to prevent any embarassing accidental discharges of magic.
I had to go out for black sheer stockings though.
I felt like a fool when I put it on. Oh, it fit. There was no question of that. A little wand-waving and it might have been made for me. But ... It was the dress of a beautiful woman. I was a raven in borrowed plumage. I would have taken it off and put on something ... something 'safe' but ... it was too late and Craig was there.
I'd like to mention, Craig's response, spoken and ... otherwise, was more than enthusiastic.
When I met Isobel, I was very glad for the dress - then it felt like armour. She was beautiful - tall, slender, blonde and intimidatingly polite. Also, disappointed.
I wasn't the 'friend' she was expecting Craig to bring.
"Oh! Craig. I thought you were bringing your friend Justine." She said it very lightly, explaining to me with a very politely artificial smile. "Justine was at our wedding. A lovely woman, I was looking forward to getting to know her better." Addressing Craig again, "I thought you were seeing her? The two of you work very closely, don't you?"
"I never said I was bringing Justine. She's just a friend I work with. This is Sara." The way he said it warmed me through. I glanced up at him and was caught, unable to look away from his eyes. Isobel said something, I'm not sure what, but it served to remind me that we had duties as guests. I made all the right sounds, I think, and gave her the bottle of wine I'd picked up as a hostess gift and then we went in to meet everyone else.
It wasn't one of the most comfortable dinners I've been to and after we had eaten, it got worse. The women congregated in the kitchen. I felt awkward and out of step with them, they all knew each other and they had similar tastes and interests. The men gathered in the living room around the telly, watching a football match, Hearts versus Motherwell.
I was very conscious that I didn't belong there. I didn't know the people, wasn't interested in movies or clothes, didn't have the conversation. I stood in the doorway, half-in, half-out, listening to the light voices speaking in codes to which I had no key, watching Craig enjoying himself. Then he looked up, his face lighting up on seeing me. It was only a moment. Immediately thereafter, there was a loud cry from the game, echoed by the men watching around and he was pulled back into the game.
But it was long enough to tell me where I might fit.
I put the glass of wine down on a counter and went over to the refrigerator, pulling out two bottles of beer. Making my excuses, I went to join the other camp, waiting for a commercial before making my move. I handed one of the two beers I held to Craig.
He would have made room for me on the couch, but I sat down on the floor in front of him, leaning back against his legs, curling my legs under the silk skirts just to be safe.
It was a good game. When it ended, so did the party.
Outside, in the car, I looked back to where Isobel and Harry were saying goodbye to another couple. She was embracing the woman of the pair, smiling and kissing the air on either side of her face.
"I don't think your friends cared for me," I sighed sadly.
He shot me an incredulous look.
"You're crazy. They thought you were great! You were great. Wonderful, fabulous. They loved you."
"It's sweet of you to say so, but ..." I sighed again, looking down at my hands. I don't fit in. I don't fit in anywhere.
I had NOT meant to say that out loud but I did. Craig reached over and squeezed my hands in his.
"You fit with me." Reaching up, he tapped under my chin, telling me to raise my face and then he kissed me - tenderly, softly, sweetly. "So stop it. No more moaning Myrtle, okay?"
For a moment, I was shocked. I knew ... of ... a Moaning Myrtle. A ghost at Hogwarts. Then I realized it was just a coincidence and managed a smile and half laugh.
"I'll try. Are you planning to start this thing or are we going to sit here all night?"
"Ahhh... you know..." he said and suddenly, turning the key in the ignition and maneuvering the car away from the kerb took an inordinate amount of his attention. "You know, we're closer to my flat than yours. It's still pretty early. We could watch something on the telly and ... If you like."
And ... what, exactly, as if I had to ask. Even so, I was tempted. Really tempted. But I was strong, I managed to push it behind me. Actually, that's a bluidy lie. I wasn't at all strong, I was a craven coward. I like Craig. I didn't want to turn him into another Professor.
Besides, I was still gle sore from the battel with the water-horse.
"Please take me home."
Putting the car into gear, we were pulling away from the kerb when he remarked, rather ruefully, "Sorry. I guess that was pushing of me, wasn't it?"
I sighed, closing my eyes, and shook my head.
"I ... don't know. Not really. I'm just ... It's not you, it's me." His hand left the clutch to find mine.
"Then I was pushing. Don't worry, Sara, I'm not going to force you into anything you don't want. I'm not like him." He lifted my hand, eyes on the road, and gave my fingers a quick kiss before releasing them to change gears.
He was as good as his word. He took me home, we said good-night ... assuming, of course, that your definition for 'saying good-night' includes somewhat more than just the actual words, and he went home. No pressure, no scenes, no worries.
So why did I feel like I had made a big mistake?
{Recompense - pron. air-ik}
Summary: finishing up
Disclaimers:
Douglas Monaghan, Craig Stevenson and Justine McManus are all characters in the show Sea of Souls. Hogwarts and the denizens of the wizarding world are part of the HarryPotter-verse - however, Harry will be only a minor character in this - MY interest is in the failed hero, Severus Snape.
Sara Farris is original. The pilot episode for this Sea of Souls/Hogwarts cross over can be found as the entry for June 21st, 2006.
The previous section was posted on 4 August 2006.
- Fairge Anma - episode 9
Eirig
Part One of four
It took me a couple of hours to deal with the owls.
No, that's not exactly right. It took me half an hour to deal with the Howlers some of them carried, those that still carried them, that hadn't yet been delivered.
Howlers - screaming poison pen notes written by people possessing more time than sense, judging my life based on the unfounded insinuations of a tabloid-talent reporter. They have to be delivered to the hand of the addressee - that's part of their unique charm. Think registered letters. Do I have to mention that the one bright point of the exercise was the knowledge that the writers had been denied the use of their delivery owls for the time that I wasn't here to receive them?
Didn't make up for the unpleasantness of my downstairs neighbour coming up to complain about the noise and threatening to call the police. I told her I had the telly on too loud, promised to keep it down and agreed that it was hard enough raising a child under these circumstances without inconsiderate idiots like me making trouble during nap-time.
After she left, I cast a muffling spell on the inner surfaces of my flat - that was another half-hour right there. I had to modify a couple of textbook spells, combining them for the purpose. Once I had something that would keep inside sound inside, I finished off the rest and wasn't that fun? One absolutely lovely and totally unexpected effect of the sound-proofing spell is that it served to concentrate the noise and fury of these wonderful love notes. My head was splitting by the time I was through.
Now I know why wizards use magic so prolifigately - because they have deal with other wizards!
All of my brand-new, just replaced light-bulbs popped.
There was still a pile of owl-deliveries left when the ringing in my ears from the last Howler faded but then I had to clean up the disgusting mess left over from the rancid decay of Howlers that had been delivered but not opened. The spell that creates Howlers is one that does not lend itself to being ignored. After I cleaned those up, I took out the trash because I didn't want to leave that smell inside. That took another hour, lucky me. I decided everything else could wait on MY pleasure for once. I went to bed. Not immediately to sleep. Too many damned questions.
Was it my fault that Micheal Olgivey was dead? Should I have reported my suspicions to the Ministry of Magic? Or to Doctor Monaghan? Would they have been able to do anything about the situation? Either. Both.
My conscience told me that the first was true - it had taken me too long to figure out the riddle. I had been too distracted by my own personal petty problems to give it as much attention as it deserved. Yes, I was responsible for his death.
But I remained convinced that it would have done no good to take such a vague theory to anyone, including Douglas Monaghan. By the time I found out what I was dealing with, it was already too late to do anything at all about it. And before that, I didn't know. I just had inchoate forebodings. Nothing concrete.
I also felt guilty about Seonag McMillan and not telling her that the curse was ended.
Why didn't I tell her? Why didn't I reassure her that the monster that had killed Micheal, that was responsible for the deaths of his male ancestors had been destroyed? That her hypothetical grandson would theoretically be able to survive to a safe old age?
Why didn't I? Because I couldn't.
I had acted as a witch, that was why. I had gone hunting the each uisge armed with magic, not science. I hadn't considered documenting it, recording it, trapping it in any way. I had seen it as a danger, to be eliminated.
So much for my grand, self-serving oratory about living magic-free as a Muggle. If I had really meant it ... If I weren't a witch to my bones, I would have have done the proper thing; I would have reacted as a paranormal investigator and gone to Douglas, lay it all out before him, convinced him of the existance of the water-horse and persuaded him to take the trip to Mull.
We would have set up motion sensors, underwater videos, whatever - Craig complaining and making bad Loch Ness jokes the entire time, I'd be betting. We would have looked for evidence of the paranormal and, perhaps, we would have found enough to justify the suspicions. More likely, we would have found nothing. But the each uisge would have still been there, waiting for the time to pass for it to hunt again.
Actually, I suppose I could have done what I had done as well. Douglas had already demonstrated a willingness to try traditional means of attracting the attention of supernatural entities. I could have lay my trap and perhaps the water-horse would have responded and then we'd have had our documentation, our oral reports, our fuzzy photographs. But at what cost? How many of us would have survived... without magic?
Even so, that's what I should have done. Instead, when Tonks told me Micheal was gone and I knew - beyond the shadow of a doubt - that he was dead, victim of that creature, I reacted as a witch, not a scientist, not an investigator. I reacted as a student of Hogwarts, falling back on magic to gain ... justice? Or vengence? I reacted as a witch, that meant it was a wizarding matter and because it was a wizarding matter, I couldn't tell them, couldn't tell Seonag McMillan, even though it affected her most intimately of all.
Folklore abounds with that kind of story - tales that make no sense because there is no context, that have no known endings because those are lost in wizardly happenings. I regretted deeply leaving her in fear and doubt - but since I couldn't explain, I was left with no choice.
Everything was so messed up. I'd bent and out-right broken so many of my personal convictions in the past few days, I didn't know who I was anymore.
And then there was the Professor.
It seemed to me that there always would be the Professor.
I hadn't been entirely conscious when he said it, but I thought I heard him say "I wanted you" but it could just have easily been "I wanted to" and far more likely. A difference that makes no difference. He does what he wants and the Devil take the rest.
At that point, I must have finally drifted off. I dreamed ... the usual frustration, low-esteem, can't do anything right sort of dreams. Nothing to write about.
Hand to God. I expected someone to come banging down my door before nightfall - or appearing inside my flat - with some new crisis that I just wasn't up to handling. If they did, they were out of luck. I woke up just before noon - Saturday.
I felt like a cricket wicket. Stiff as wood and sore from everybody and everything taking their best whack at me. I managed to drag myself into the tub and stayed there soaking until the water was cold. That and the two aspirin I downed helped enough so that I could pull a sandwich together and crawl back to bed. No way I could make it to self-defense class.
Amazingly, no one came by or called Saturday either.
I felt more human by Sunday. At least, I felt mobile enough to think about washing laundry. When I opened the door to my flat, though I found just WHY the past two days had been so peaceful. Craig was walking away from the door, looking very discouraged and depressed. At the sound of the door opening, he spun around, an expression of amazement on his face.
"Sara? How did you get past me? Where have you been? Where did you go?"
"Get past you? What? This is the first time I've been out all weekend."
"Yeah. Sure you have. Without answering the door or the phone? I don't believe it," he retorted hotly. "I'm serious, where have you been?" Suspicion bloomed, angry suspicion. "Were you with him again? Is that it? While we were all worried sick about you, you were skivving off with that ... jerk!"
"I haven't been 'skivving off' on anything and I didn't disappear! I have been right here, ever since I left Murray Thompson Friday and for your information, I have been completely alone. No one's knocked. The phone hasn't rung. Nothing. I have been right here." I was bugged. He had no right to quiz me like this.
"The hell no one's knocked. I've been by five times and I know Justine and Douglas came to check on you at least once each. And I don't know how many times I called."
That knocked me back and damped my rising ire.
"Dr. Monaghan ... came by?" I looked toward the closed door. "I wasn't feeling well - I might have been sleeping too hard to hear the door."
"And the phone?" he asked with pointed emphasis.
He was right. I couldn't imagine sleeping through that cacophony.
"Are you sure you were ringing the right number?"
"Well, YEAH! I've got you programmed in."
"Try it now."
Rolling his eyes with exasperation, he took out his mobile and tapped one key. We both waited, listening. There was nothing. For the first time, Craig looked uncertain.
"Maybe ..." he muttered. He did something and turned the unit toward me to display the number on the screen. "That is right, isn't it?" It was.
"Let me check on something," I said. Leaving the basket of dirty clothes there in the hall, I unlocked the door and stepped in ... to absolute silence. The murmur of over a dozen conversations occurring in open flats throughout the building cut off as soon as I stepped over the threshold. Traffic noises didn't exist. Even the ubiquitous pigeon cooings were gone. I looked back at Craig, his mouth moving, but no sound came to me. And I realized.
I shut the door and collapsed back against it, fighting the urge to laugh and cry both. I knew exactly why I had had two undisturbed days. The spell I had cast to deal with the Howlers. It had kept all noise inside the flat all right, but it had also kept all other sounds outside as well. Including phone signals!
I didn't have time to deal with my epiphany though. Even if I couldn't hear him, I could feel the door reverberating with Craig's knocking. I pulled out my wand, whispering "Finite Incantatem" as I traced the appropriate figure in the air with the tip of it. The result was immediate.
I could hear Craig again, yelling through the door for me to open up, sounding as upset as I've ever heard him. I could hear traffic, birds, the annoying hum from some appliance in another flat, everything. I used the wand again, then shoved it back into place and opened the door.
"Sorry about that - force of habit. I think I've found the problem."
Craig pushed in. "About time. What?"
"The cord on the phone's loose," I said, going over to where the old fashioned handset sat precariously perched on a stack of books, on top of a bookshelf near the bedroom door. I started fishing back behind the case - apparently I'd been a bit more enthusiastic in my spell than intended. Craig pushed me aside, made a long arm behind the base of the shelves and pulled the cable free.
"That's what it is all right," he agreed, sounding disgruntled as he re-inserted the little plastic tab into the slot. "That's why you should get a mobile."
"This one works for me." He made a sound as he rose to his feet again, not quite a grunt.
"So you owe me an apology," I snarked, not quite fairly.
"You're right. I'm ... I'm sorry. But I've been out of my mind with worry. You looked absolutely ghastly when you ran out of Douglas's office the other day."
Dr. Monaghan.
"Is he ... Is he still very angry with me?"
"He's not angry. Well, he was a bit upset that you just ran off without saying anything to anybody. And then coming back and scaring that poor girl half to death for no reason."
I looked up quickly at that, hope quickening my heartbeat.
"No reason? Michel Olgivey's back? It was somebody else?"
"Well. No. He hasn't returned yet. But all they found were ... they aren't even sure it's human."
"They're human. Stomach and liver - seats of the soul." I felt sick and even more discouraged than before, the weight of the world crashing down on my shoulders again after a lovely moment of lightness of being. I gestured toward the open door. "I'm sorry, Craig. I would love to stay and talk but ... I really have to get the laundry done. It's reached critical." He looked back, looked at me and shrugged.
"Well then, let's get to it." His longer legs outstrode me, he scooped up the basket and then waited while I re-locked the flat door. I retrieved the detergent bottle that had tumbled out of the basket and followed him down the stairs.
If I had trouble imagining Craig riding to the rescue on an each uisge, I had equal difficulty visualizing the Professor helping with laundry.
Actually and in truth, Craig wasn't much help either. He tried to shove everything into one washer and then, when I was separating, he made a few remarks that got him banished to the other side of the table. If I wanted him to know what size I wear, I'd ... not want him to know. But he was good company and the black cloud I'd been under since Tonks told me about Olgivey increasingly lightened the longer we were together.
All good things ....
I was pulling the last load out of the dryer when he finally got around to the reason he was there.
"Anyway, I'll be by around seven to pick you up."
I went still, mentally reviewing our conversation to date. As far as I could remember, he hadn't asked me out. The way I was feeling, I wasn't sure I would have agreed.
"I beg your pardon? You'll pick me up for what?" I was crouching down, looking up at him. Not the best position to be on one's dignity. Especially considering my immediate field of vision. I quickly raised my eyes.
"Dinner tonight. With my friends; Isobel and Harry. Did you forget? You've known about it for a week."
I had forgotten.
What with one thing and another, it had completely slipped my mind - and if I had thought about it, I would have assumed he'd have made my excuses to them and hoped I'd forgotten. I mean, he couldn't exactly introduce me to his old friends as a girlfriend now, could he?
Apparently, he thought he could.
"It's tonight? You know, you never did tell me when it was," I said, trying to keep my tone light and my eyes on the pile of warm, clean cloth. I'd fold everything later, when I was alone. I stood, grunting slightly as I hefted the basket. He took it away from me.
"You haven't exactly been around," he pointed out reasonably, with an endearing little half shrug, looking over his shoulder as he led the way out of the laundromat.
"I guess I haven't at that."
"You are still coming with me, aren't you?"
I should have said no. I should have made my excuses - I had to wash my hair, fold the laundry. I was too tired, too sore, too grieving. I couldn't go.
But he had made the effort to cheer me up when I was down; he was carrying my clothes, saving my sore muscles and bruises the effort and ...
"Of course I am. I wouldn't jilt you at the last minute like that - what do you take me for? What time and where?"
"I'll pick you up at seven. You don't have to dress - it's just a few friends getting together, nothing formal."
He followed me into the building, making me wonder how he'd gotten in earlier without me buzzing the door open, and he waited patiently until I had the flat door open. Then he handed me the basket, gave me a small peck on the cheek, and left.
You know, if he had tried a full kiss, I probably would have changed my mind and said no after all. But that peck ...
I dumped the clothes out on my bed and stared down at them. Nothing formal, he said. That was all well and good, but that still begged the question of what to wear. I had pub-going clothes, interview clothes, and work clothes but, *quel suprise*, not many date clothes. I had never needed many before.
I began laying things out in organized piles; skirts - everyday, church, business- none of them was right. Blouses - a bit better but still not quite the thing.
Nothing really suitable for dressing up to impress a boyfriend's friends meeting them the first time. Or rather, his friend's girlfriends. That gave me pause. A boyfriend's friends' girlfriends. Did I consider Craig my boyfriend? Where did that leave the Professor?
The question suddenly made me angry. Why did I even need to worry about where he was left anyway? He made it clear that what *I* wanted was less than nothing to him. Why should I care what he wanted? Other than the fact that he could make my life a pure misery come September. Or even before. Other than the fact that he had risked his life to save mine.
I did have one dress that might do. A calf-length cocktail dress with a form-fitting shirred drop waist bodice and a double-layer handkerchief skirt in a rich midnight blue, covered with sparkling gold sequins. The top was filled in to the high neckline with a sheer fabric, which continued to the full, gathered sleeves - dark enough to disguise the bruises covering my arms.
It was pushed all the way to the back of my wardrobe. I was a bit embarassed to have it. It had been an impulse buy off a cart on Austin street. At the time, I had no need for any such dress, it didn't suit me, or my lifestyle or ... or anything. It had cost too much, was too fancy, was just too wrong. But I had fallen in love with the dress the first time I'd seen it and hadn't been able to resist going back to buy it.
I pulled it out. It was perfect for tonight. Cool enough for summer wear, the long sleeves were dark enough to disguise the bruises on my arms and the skirts were long enough to prevent any embarassing accidental discharges of magic.
I had to go out for black sheer stockings though.
I felt like a fool when I put it on. Oh, it fit. There was no question of that. A little wand-waving and it might have been made for me. But ... It was the dress of a beautiful woman. I was a raven in borrowed plumage. I would have taken it off and put on something ... something 'safe' but ... it was too late and Craig was there.
I'd like to mention, Craig's response, spoken and ... otherwise, was more than enthusiastic.
When I met Isobel, I was very glad for the dress - then it felt like armour. She was beautiful - tall, slender, blonde and intimidatingly polite. Also, disappointed.
I wasn't the 'friend' she was expecting Craig to bring.
"Oh! Craig. I thought you were bringing your friend Justine." She said it very lightly, explaining to me with a very politely artificial smile. "Justine was at our wedding. A lovely woman, I was looking forward to getting to know her better." Addressing Craig again, "I thought you were seeing her? The two of you work very closely, don't you?"
"I never said I was bringing Justine. She's just a friend I work with. This is Sara." The way he said it warmed me through. I glanced up at him and was caught, unable to look away from his eyes. Isobel said something, I'm not sure what, but it served to remind me that we had duties as guests. I made all the right sounds, I think, and gave her the bottle of wine I'd picked up as a hostess gift and then we went in to meet everyone else.
It wasn't one of the most comfortable dinners I've been to and after we had eaten, it got worse. The women congregated in the kitchen. I felt awkward and out of step with them, they all knew each other and they had similar tastes and interests. The men gathered in the living room around the telly, watching a football match, Hearts versus Motherwell.
I was very conscious that I didn't belong there. I didn't know the people, wasn't interested in movies or clothes, didn't have the conversation. I stood in the doorway, half-in, half-out, listening to the light voices speaking in codes to which I had no key, watching Craig enjoying himself. Then he looked up, his face lighting up on seeing me. It was only a moment. Immediately thereafter, there was a loud cry from the game, echoed by the men watching around and he was pulled back into the game.
But it was long enough to tell me where I might fit.
I put the glass of wine down on a counter and went over to the refrigerator, pulling out two bottles of beer. Making my excuses, I went to join the other camp, waiting for a commercial before making my move. I handed one of the two beers I held to Craig.
He would have made room for me on the couch, but I sat down on the floor in front of him, leaning back against his legs, curling my legs under the silk skirts just to be safe.
It was a good game. When it ended, so did the party.
Outside, in the car, I looked back to where Isobel and Harry were saying goodbye to another couple. She was embracing the woman of the pair, smiling and kissing the air on either side of her face.
"I don't think your friends cared for me," I sighed sadly.
He shot me an incredulous look.
"You're crazy. They thought you were great! You were great. Wonderful, fabulous. They loved you."
"It's sweet of you to say so, but ..." I sighed again, looking down at my hands. I don't fit in. I don't fit in anywhere.
I had NOT meant to say that out loud but I did. Craig reached over and squeezed my hands in his.
"You fit with me." Reaching up, he tapped under my chin, telling me to raise my face and then he kissed me - tenderly, softly, sweetly. "So stop it. No more moaning Myrtle, okay?"
For a moment, I was shocked. I knew ... of ... a Moaning Myrtle. A ghost at Hogwarts. Then I realized it was just a coincidence and managed a smile and half laugh.
"I'll try. Are you planning to start this thing or are we going to sit here all night?"
"Ahhh... you know..." he said and suddenly, turning the key in the ignition and maneuvering the car away from the kerb took an inordinate amount of his attention. "You know, we're closer to my flat than yours. It's still pretty early. We could watch something on the telly and ... If you like."
And ... what, exactly, as if I had to ask. Even so, I was tempted. Really tempted. But I was strong, I managed to push it behind me. Actually, that's a bluidy lie. I wasn't at all strong, I was a craven coward. I like Craig. I didn't want to turn him into another Professor.
Besides, I was still gle sore from the battel with the water-horse.
"Please take me home."
Putting the car into gear, we were pulling away from the kerb when he remarked, rather ruefully, "Sorry. I guess that was pushing of me, wasn't it?"
I sighed, closing my eyes, and shook my head.
"I ... don't know. Not really. I'm just ... It's not you, it's me." His hand left the clutch to find mine.
"Then I was pushing. Don't worry, Sara, I'm not going to force you into anything you don't want. I'm not like him." He lifted my hand, eyes on the road, and gave my fingers a quick kiss before releasing them to change gears.
He was as good as his word. He took me home, we said good-night ... assuming, of course, that your definition for 'saying good-night' includes somewhat more than just the actual words, and he went home. No pressure, no scenes, no worries.
So why did I feel like I had made a big mistake?