TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday,Part 2 of 2. "The Awakening"

“What is it Severus, we can discuss anything you know.” She said reluctantly, as she listened to his strong, rapid heartbeat and lightly caressed his ribs with her thumb.
“Yes, except this will no doubt change the way you think of me. I believe it likely that you may choose to even… leave me because of it.”
The veritaserum made it impossible for him to lessen his responses; their conversation would be delivered tonight with raw honesty and devoid of the safety net of obliquity or the truth in varying degrees.
“Severus. I can’t imagine anything you could possibly tell me would cause me to leave you. You know me better that that, I love you more that life itself. You saw it. You are starting to worry me now.” She was becoming extremely uncomfortable with the dialogue.

Gwenevere, first I want to tell you that when… I am killed by the curse in a fortnight, I will have no regrets and that I have gladly paid the ultimate price to have loved you and to have received your love in return.” He said earnestly, resolved to die.
A cruel depiction of Gwenevere in Professor Parker’s arms flashed through his mind as a probable future scenario. Gwenevere’s breathing became labored and her heart pounded in her chest. Tears burned in her eyes. The word “when” clanged recklessly around in her mind.

“No Severus please, promise me that you will never leave me. You won’t!” She cried.
No Gwenevere, I cannot promise that.” He said quietly.
“Why?” She squeaked, she already knew the answer as the tears burned her cheeks.
“Because it is not possible for me to lie to you tonight, and I will never lie to you in future. Never. You need to face the truth and prepare for the inevitable. I have already seen the prophecy Gwenevere.” He cleared his raspy voice.
“Severus, please don’t say those words, you can’t…you cannot do this to us. I will not let you go. My life won’t be worth living without you.” Gwenevere was crying harder now, but she felt more resolute than ever before.
“Gwenevere, please don’t…” he pleaded as he held her tightly.
He braced his swelling emotions with everything he had available to him as he waited patiently for her next words to come. Her flowing pain was becoming more than he thought he could bear. Her rich voice sounded like the beautiful elegiac couplets of angels to him as she quietly cried. His heart suddenly felt alone, it burned and ached like dry ice and arthritis.

“Severus, I have prepared for the inevitable actually.” Her voice grew calm and she spoke in measured determination. “If.
If something dreaded happens…in a fortnight, I want you to know that you will not leave here alone Severus. Do you understand what I am saying to you? I will do whatever it takes to leave here with you.
You must promise me that you will make a fast acting mortiserum for me to take in the event that we do not succeed in breaking the curse. I will take the potion immediately upon your death and we will leave here together, as it should be. Most of my personal affairs are already in order except for some changes I would like to make since joining the Hogwarts staff.”
She looked into his eyes with the aid of the red glow that continued to consume them. Impassioned panic shone through the tears. He began to slowly shake his head in confused disbelief.

The tragic irony was tangible. He had carried out dangerous orders for the dark lord or for the Ministry of Magic and The Order of the Phoenix without worry or fear. He didn’t care if he died because nobody cared that he lived.
Even as a young boy, he learned that he was unplanned, unwanted and unloved and his parents had never let him forget it for a moment. Now that someone loved him and cared about his life more than her own, he was destined to die. It was of course, the natural conclusion for the realization of his second divination.

“Gwenevere, you would die for me? I cannot allow it. No.” His voice was a mere whisper, choked out by emotion as horror streaked across his eyes.
“Yes Severs, if you refuse to help me, I will do it alone. You know that I have the ability, but it will not be fast and I will suffer considerably if you don’t help me by including ingredients that only you possess in your private stores. I will do what is necessary to follow you. If the curse takes you, then it takes us both.” Her tone was flat in the interim before the next wave of sentiment.
“PROMISE ME DAMN IT!” she insisted.
He had not known that she felt this way, he had purposely cut short their legilimency session, and so this new revelation was a shock to him. She had obviously held this plan for some time, this was not a passing whim spurred by the heat of the moment. The veritaserum would not have allowed such statements if not rooted in solid irrefutable truth.
“Yes…I promise, Gwenevere.” He knew she meant every word of what she had said. The only thought worse than mixing a mortiserum with Gwenevere in mind was the thought of her killing herself with a weak substitute and suffering in agony to he same end. He could mix a death potion so strong that she would be stone dead before she hit the floor.

He held her while she cried out all she had to give, knowing that they probably couldn’t break the curse in the end. It would be the most difficult potion of his life: the desired act of killing his lover.
How she must have felt when her father left, then her mother, and then her grandparents, she had no wizarding relatives left in the world. She had literally shut down her emotions until a chance meeting with him. They were yen and yang.

“I want you to know that you have been the best thing that has ever happened to me, you steady me, you are a comfort to me, I have never known such kindness before. If I’d had you instead of just your fleeting image when I was fifteen, well things would not have turned out the way they have…” he began.
Gwenevere’s body wracked occasionally with dry sobs, as she listened to his deep base tones and was soothed by them. Snape slowly stroked her hair.
“When you are ready, Severus, tell me your past. I am ready to listen.” She quietly said as she lay there with him, holding him tightly and dabbing her eyes with the sheets.

“It started when I was a child, a curiosity really. From lack of proper supervision perhaps, a way to combat boredom and the fact that it was completely accepted in our home.
Then it became a way in which to fight back, to become a force to be reckoned with and to command respect. I studied the dark arts with a passion; ferociously learning everything there was to know about them. I became frighteningly proficient.
I was not socially gifted and somewhere along the way my abilities attracted the attention of those on the dark side. Since I was bored and probably craved attention and approval on some level, I let them bring me in too close. I thrived on it at first, I was moving up in the ranks at a devastating pace.
I immersed myself into their philosophy and practices. I followed any and all of their orders with enthusiasm and I was fully aware of what I was doing. I was not naive.
However, as time progressed, I began to question certain aspects. I knew too much to be released. I couldn’t escape… without being killed. I was young and impetuous when the whole thing began, I didn’t begin to realize how deadly dangerous and wrong it was until it was much too late.” Severus stopped talking, uneasy to continue.

“What changed your mind?” She asked quietly.
“The Headmaster. I was on staff here only because he had been the one who was willing to give me a chance at a respectable profession. I don’t know what he saw in me, nevertheless as you know, when he looks at you, he sees through to the soul. I could no longer look him in the eye knowing what I did whilst away from Hogwarts. I had to decide where my loyalties lie."
“Severus, continue when you are ready, I am still listening.”
She was holding him very tightly, in the dark. She kissed his hair and slowly drew her fingers through it.

“ I decided to go to Professor Dumbledore with the truth, and he gave me the help that I needed. We developed a plan in which I would work within the organization as an informant and go underground to help seek out and apprehend the most dangerous criminals the society had to offer.
They were killers Gwenevere, and I was almost killed myself many times but I was able to bring many of them to justice. I helped catch those responsible for killing your father, years after the fact. They were tried, convicted and sent to the dementors for punishment.”

Gwenevere lay motionless while her brain tried to absorb what Severus had just explained to her. Her brain’s high-speed interspike interval relationship within its neurons went into uncontrolled overdrive as she instinctively tried to react with denial as a protection against her brains inability to logically process her worst fear and hate forcibly colliding with her deepest trust and love.
As synapses depolarized in her brain, spatial and temporal postsynaptic cells reached their firing limits. Like trying to stop a slow bullet from entering between the eyes, the sickening realization materialized to her horror despite her efforts to prevent it. Gwenevere’s brain was experiencing a phase three melt down.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday, part 1 of 2

Gwenevere and Severus took the stairs two at a time, almost trampling Madam Claire midway between the landings as they reached the second floor. They went to his quarters tonight. Gwenevere kissed him and slowly pushed him backward toward the dark bedroom. She was intent on taking his mind away from his preoccupation.

He set his wand on the table and quickly removed his coat, belt and shoes before Gwenevere took hold of his hand and hastily pulled him onto of the bed next to her. They kissed passionately as various articles of clothing rained down to the floor at intervals dependent on the number and complexity of the buttons.

Severus was torn between his desire to make love to her and his obligation to tell her the truth as planned. The desire was clearly winning the battle as it sped out of control like a runaway train down a mountain. When Gwenevere kissed him like that, it was hopeless to try and fight a force more powerful than nature, and he was in no condition to stop now.

“Gwenevere…I have something important to tell you tonight.” He managed, as sensation fizzed along every nerve ending he never knew he had.

“Yes I know Severus… but it can wait…I can not. Your love is a requirement tonight. She said.
She slid his white shirt from his shoulders while Severus was still dislocating golden links from starched French cuffs.

“How much chocolate… have you had recently… Gwenevere?” he asked haltingly in-between devouring kisses.
The cufflinks sounded with a clatter as he awkwardly thrust his fist vaguely in the general direction of the nightstand.

“Quite a bit these last two days…I confess…” His lips brushed lightly against her throat.

She pulled him down upon her and closed her eyes as he let out a low sigh of gratification. His mind grappled with trying to slow down as his body raged like a house afire with its own urgent demand.

I have missed you terribly…” She continued, her adventurous hands moving slowly along his back. He kissed along her collarbones as his well-trained hand reached for tiny hooks.

“Not nearly as much as I’ve missed you, my love…”Another soft groan escaped him. “Heavenly… perfection,” he whispered, as he lost himself in her loving arms one more time.

They drank in affections like nectar from the gods in an effort to quell an unquenchable thirst as each caress, each sigh, and each kiss generated an unearthly craving for more. He pressed on in his purpose to express what words could not and made love to her exquisitely slow despite the overwhelming urgency to hasten. They savored every sensation to its fullest degree as if their time was running out at an alarming rate. Neither of them wanted it to ever end.
The room glowed red, and the curse smoldered.

In the quiet aftermath, they lay very still, like causalities of the crusades; unable to move as they recovered from the emotional release of hyper-produced pheromones unique to the charm they were laboring under. Finally, Severus turned onto his back and Gwenevere rested her head on his heart as he embraced her and whispered his reflective devotions to her. To his contentment, she expressed reciprocal sentiment.

“Severus, what was it you wanted to tell me tonight?” She asked him as he absently played upon her flesh with his fingers in no particular manner. She basked in the loving sanctuary of his arms feeling like all the world’s dangers, were held at bay by them.

“There’s something in my past Gwenevere, something you need to know about before we can be married.”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

The day advanced quickly for both Severus and Gwenevere as they each anticipated tonight’s truth potion lab for different reasons. Gwenevere couldn’t wait to master the difficult formula as a precursor to the real thing next week and Severus dreaded the outcome of telling Gwenevere that he had once been willingly involved with the assassins who murdered her father. No one knew what would happen after tonight, but one thing was for certain…nothing would ever be the same again.

Gwenevere dressed in black tonight and hurried to the dungeons at just before four to have tea with her beloved. She arrived at his office and Severus closed and locked the door behind her. He looked into her eyes with sadness that Gwenevere found disconcerting.

“What is it Severus? What’s wrong today?” she knew something was terribly wrong.
“I have missed you, that’s all.” He said, a simile flickered on his lips but didn’t reach his eyes. She kissed him, but his kiss felt different to her somehow…as though it were the last time he ever would.

Whilst having tea, Severus continued to be distant and forlorn although he made a very convincing attempt to mask it with politeness. Gwenevere was concerned, it was not that Severus didn’t have a good reason to be uneasy, but there was something else there, something new had entered in.
she indirectly asked him about the questions he had planned to ask tonight for the purpose of testing the lab results. He handed her the parchment and as she read, her eyes widened and she involuntarily covered her mouth with her hand. She politely cleared her throat.

“Severus,” She had to be careful there, it was his class after all and the students were not children. “These questions, while very good, are of rather a delicate nature and the students may not wish to answer them truthfully.” She said, looking at him kindly.
“Gwenevere, that is the purpose of any veritaserum, to cause one to divulge that which they would normally wish to conceal at all costs.” He said with silken apathy.
“Yes dearest, however, those are usually criminals, and these are students. If the questions are too difficult or revealing, the students will waste time trying to dodge them, and that will hinder progress.”
Snape set his mug down and sat back in his chair. He crossed his arms to consider her point carefully, as Gwenevere seldom interfered with his decisions.
“Very well, it makes no difference to me, as long as the potion is properly tested.” He said.

She stood up and walked over to his side of the table, leaning down and speaking from behind his chair. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his hair before quietly speaking to him.
“Might I suggest that you let them formulate their own sets of questions, that way there is more potential for individual insight? In any case, veritaserum will be very interesting tonight, don’t you agree?”
Her voice was like a potent aphrodisiacal philter delivered intravenously into his jugular. He closed his eyes and felt his pulse pounding in his ears and elsewhere, such as his chest, as she pressed her lips to his temple and ran her fingers through his hair to clear a lock from his eyes.
“You will do the right thing tonight, my love. You always do.” She purred.

After tea, Gwenevere and Severus entered the dungeon to start laboratory setup procedures. When she was finished, Severus lighted the flame under the cauldron. Gwenevere listened carefully as he discussed in infinitesimal detail some of the particulars concerning the Wizengamot/Azkaban veritaserum for next week. His low silky voice was patient and kind like a mentor and his instructions were drawn from the deep well of unrestrained skill and unlimited knowledge of the topic.
Severus was able to be so patient because his words and thoughts were being completely understood and appreciated. Until Gwenevere, he lived a life completely devoid of anyone who took an active interest or bothered to try and understand him or his work, as if they ever could. Losing Gwenevere, or any part of her trust would be more devastating to him than a thousand curses.
Other students were arriving now and setting up for lab. Severus was marking down attendance in a distinctly subdued manner. Boots leaped up upon his desk and attempted to lick him on the cheek, but Severus in response, simply put down his quill and helped Boots to the floor.
Severus stood and was ready to give laboratory commencement announcements.

“Class, before we start the potion tonight, I would like each of you write down several questions to ask your lab mate before starting the potion. You will then ask each other the same questions whilst under the influence, and then make note the difference in the responses.” A dull murmur ensued as the students reacted to the instructions.
“Silence…” all were hushed to strictest silence.
“I will explain the difference between the formula we are using tonight as opposed to the powerful veritaserum truth potions in use today in the Wizengamot, Magical Law Enforcement and Punishment Facilities. Our formula fails to include a mixture of heavily regulated ingredients that, according to wizarding law, can only be obtained by one who is in possession of a Potions fifth level rating. This type of regulation is, of course the subject of your final research project, which you should all be working on. There are only four such justly qualified wizards practicing potions of that caliber in the world today.”

A timid hand found courage to signal at the back of the room.
“Yes, what is it?” Snape said irritably.
“Professor Snape, sir, where are the fifth level masters located in the world?
“Hong Kong, Asia. Cape Town, South Africa. Salem Massachusetts in the States, and London England.” He said with bland unpretentiousness. Gwenevere smiled and paid close attention to how he would respond if pressed further.
“Professor Snape, do you know the fifth level Master in London?” another student asked.
“Yes.” He said as his eyes fell upon Gwenevere for a moment. She smiled her subtle smile of knowing intelligence that he found so comforting at times.

“Silence…”
“As I was saying, the difference tonight is that you will have the ability to refuse to answer a question if you wish. The censoring mechanism in the brain will not be affected, however if you do choose to answer the question, you will answer with brutal honesty. I trust your questions will be creative and enlightening. Let us begin if there are no more questions, raise your hand if you need additional help.”

The truly subdued Professor Snape took his place opposite his beloved to begin the night’s potion making process. Gwenevere was unnerved by his demeanor and wanted nothing more than to take Severus in her arms and heal what ailed him tonight. Her heart bled for him, and her fiercely protective tigress instincts were honed to a deadly poisonous saber, ready to be aimed at the thing responsible for his tribulations.
The potion’s construction went flawlessly, at least for Gwenevere. She was able to use all of the information that Severus had given her before class and was confident that next week she would prove very useful to him. Severus spent much of the time assisting the students. He had the patience of a saint tonight…well actually, heaven’s devil. He gave instructions:

“Every one should be almost finished with the potion now, ask your questions first then administer the drug. Wait two minutes and ask the same questions again.”
He again sat opposite Gwenevere and gazed deeply in her eyes, which were as black as his tonight, like liquid onyx. She was the antithesis of a muggle tonight in her black flowing robes made of expensive material which made her look as though she had just stepped from the cover of Witch Fantasy, a popular publication, which also had the potential to be mildly risqué at times.
Her long dark hair was thick around her shoulders and her eyes were dark and fiery like black diamonds. She was heart- stopping gorgeous tonight and Severus found her more than distracting being a healthy red-blooded wizard of spirited male instincts.
He would need to be very careful not to touch her because the sparks would surely look like concentrated flairs tonight after being apart from her for two agonizingly long nights.

“Are we suppose to ask our questions now?” she said in a sexy voice, trying to cheer him up a bit.
“If you wish.” He said as a devilish grin formed in spite of his angst.
“Actually, I would prefer to wait for a more private setting.” She whispered, holding his gaze, lifting a brow.
“Cheers.” They both consumed the small amount of clear potion formula that Gwenevere had placed in the vials on the table. They waited two minutes as the effects took a stronghold of their ability fabricate even the most minuscule white lie.

Their fingers brushed together for a moment when they replaced the empty vials to the holder. Red sparks jetted upward in an impressive spray of light. The students couldn’t help but take notice as the sparks formed a glowing red plume overhead that popped quietly out of existence.
“Brilliant! Wow!”
“Professor Snape, are our potions supposed to spark like that, mine is not doing a thing.”
“Neither is ours.”
“Ours didn’t either, and we have already consumed them.”
“No, it’s all right. Continue with your questions.” Snape said as he waved his hand in dismissal.
“This could be most dangerous for us you know.” She joked.
“Lets hope not, Gwenevere.” He was not joking.

The rest of the students were was busy asking questions and snickering quietly at the answers as class time was quickly running out.
“What is your favorite food Severus?” She asked in a tone appropriate for the class environment.
“Beluga caviar.” He stated plainly. “Yours?” his brow arched a bit out of curiosity.
“Belgian milk chocolate.” She had the unmistakable look of lust in her eyes, was it for him or the chocolate? he wondered.
“Chocolate is not food.” He informed her.
“Yes it is. Food is a necessity, and so is chocolate. It has been considered an aphrodisiac since the time of the Aztecs.” Oh, so the lust was for the chocolate, he concluded.
“Which subject interests you most these days?” She asked him. His eyes glanced about the room to make sure the other students were all occupied with the testing.
“The in-depth study of the ideal female anatomy.” He purred. Gwenevere smiled a devilish grin.
“Next class begins shortly after eight tonight.” She mouthed. He shifted in his chair.
“What is you favorite activity Professor Collins?” he looked her in the eyes and she leant closer to him to answer.
“Actually, I adore it when you…”She said in a naughty whisper directed to his ears only.

For days, the air had been hot and smoky as wildfires raged miles away. White ash from the fires swirled in the Santa Ana winds and fell like snowflakes. But everyone in Santa Clarita had given thanks as the wind drove the fire west, away from them, as they offered a prayer for those in harm’s way.

Then, as the sun rose this morning, the wind shifted and pushed the flames in the opposite direction, turning a hazy grey sky as dark as night as smoke roiled down the canyon wall on a collision course with the Placerita Ranch.

Elizabeth, who owned the ranch, was one of Grace’s oldest friends and had given her shelter when Grace had decided to disappear from Hart’s world. A former Olympic rider, Elizabeth had built the Placerita into a highly regarded training stable. Now Grace and Elizabeth shared a quick glance of regret, and resolve, before Grace ran to the barns to help load horses in the trailers that had been lined up and loaded with essentials as a precaution. The ranch hands quickly started the carefully planned evacuation of animals and humans from the graceful old adobe that had witnessed so many of Southern California’s natural disasters. The flames were still miles away, but the ranch would not risk its beloved horses by waiting any longer. It was time to go.

The smell of smoke had made the horses edgy for the last several days. Now several panicked. Equine anxiety spreads quickly, and Grace and the ranch hands called on every ounce of strength to choke down their own fears and cajole the horses into trailers. They all worked feverishly in the dark, human and horse gasping for breath and blindly groping their way in the sooty air.

As the last horses were loaded, the canny barn cats dashed to trailers and jumped aboard. Grace locked the last trailer gate, then hopped into the cab. Elizabeth was at the wheel, her jaw set, refusing to look back after she had made sure every last human and animal was loaded. Their rig brought up the rear of a convoy of trailers that proceeded slowly out of the canyon through black swirling smoke, lights from the vehicle just ahead barely visible.

The convoy drove carefully, almost feeling its way through the dark, moving east according to plan, then wound its way south in heavy traffic. The sudden change in the fire’s path had surprised many people. Some of the drivers were as panicky as horses. SUVs crisscrossed freeway medians at crazy angles, looking for a shortcut to safety. Sedans followed, some of them bogging down in the sandy soil, the frightened occupants spilling out and running into the dark. But the Placerita convoy stayed together in a disciplined row and eventually rolled up to the gates of Pierce College, a small agricultural school out of the path of the fires in the San Fernando Valley that had opened its doors, and stables, to the equestrian community. The stables were full, but well-trained volunteers welcomed the Placerita horses. They tied up along a rail where a soft bed of straw and shavings had been prepared for the refugees. The air was still smoky here, with so many wildfires ringing the city, but much cleaner than the inferno they had left behind.

Elizabeth gathered the ranch hands and thanked them for their selfless dedication and for sticking to their detailed evacuation plan. She was a leader of the county’s Volunteer Equine Response Team, and had worked hard with the well-organized equestrian community to prepare for disasters like this. From her seat on a grassy area under a tree, Grace wiped her soot-streaked face with a ragged piece of old blanket, marveling at the composure of the Placerita group and wondering why most people did not have similar disaster plans for their families.

Elizabeth walked away from the ranch hands and joined Grace on the grass, collapsing in an exhausted heap. Grace did not know what to say. She could not speak of the uncertainty they had left behind. Elizabeth gave Grace a small, exhausted smile and said, “Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it? Nothing like a crisis to get your priorities in order.” She paused, looking at the smoke clouds to the north, and continued, “I can’t tell you all the things that went through my head as we were packing up. Not exactly your life flashing before your eyes, but you think of all the choices you’ve made, ask yourself what you would have done differently. I didn’t think about any of the things I was leaving behind. I thought about people. Mistakes I’ve made about people. That kind of thing you can control. While this,” she gestured at the smoke, the refugee horses, the grimy volunteers, “is so far out of your control.”

Grace was silent. What reply could she make? She had been thinking the same thoughts. Asking the same questions. About Hart. She tried to smile. “Isn’t it a tad premature, thinking about fixing all our old mistakes? My priorities are a toothbrush and a place to sleep tonight.”

Back tomorrow.---M.A.

Brandon, gazing down at the note, considers his options in a matter of seconds. Where can she have gone? He can think of many places. In which of them should he look? How many could he hope to check during the remainder of the afternoon? Or then again, he could simply wait until tomorrow . . . no, that is right out. For her to have been upset enough to leave in this abrupt manner--Mary Anne who so loves her work that The Director has in the past had to order her not to remain on the set overnight—it positively goes against the order of nature for him to remain here and wait.

Smiling a little at his impetuous decision, Brandon leaves the cubicle. And Mary Anne is supposed to be the impulsive one. In the few minutes that it takes him to proceed to the call board and check to make certain that he is in no scenes this afternoon, Brandon makes his plan—the only plan he can think of. Not an original one, by any means, but one that has stood the test of time.

Then, to his own cubicle and into his coat. Through the corridors with purposeful strides that cause quite a number of techs, clerks, and set dressers to wonder just what’s on with Chris Brandon today—plus assorted swooning noises from a tour group of fans, one of whom leans against a wall to catch her breath and allow her blood pressure to steady. Brandon hears the murmur behind him of, “They had better give him an occupation, or he shall run mad--!” but ignores it. He has an occupation, all right.

A brief stop in the offices, to inform them that he is leaving for the afternoon and will return in the morning. And then, he must away.

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

Evening, outside Mary Anne’s flat:

Brandon, his arms filled with bags, climbs the wrought-iron steps to Mary Anne’s flat.

Perhaps she will not welcome his visit, or might count it as an intrusion; perhaps she had truly desired to be left alone until tomorrow. If so, and if she tells him this, he will leave with the best grace he can muster; nevertheless, he will try this first.

Then again, she may not even be home. Overnight at her favourite spa, perhaps, for some relaxation? Out of the city altogether? He shall soon see.

Then Brandon reaches the landing, and what he does see breathes a faint chill over him that has nothing to do with the cool of the night.

Mary Anne’s door, standing ever so slightly open.

Setting down his bags, Brandon edges nearer. Of course he has heard that you never, ever pass through an open door that is supposed to be shut and locked—and in flat defiance of that sensible precept, he pushes the door, sees it swing wider, and looks into the room.

The sofa. And the slim white arm dangling limply over the edge . . .

In a heartbeat Brandon is through the entrance and halfway across the room, when his attention is caught by a movement at the kitchen door . . .

Phil made the poster! Whoo-HOO!

Sandy, I think Alex looks... cute.... with a brush up his nose.

*peals of laughter*

Ann W
Dr. McCoy is Dr. Joanna McCoy, daughter of "Bones"....

Ann, As for Dr. McCoy, this is really MA's question since she invented her but I'll tackle it anyway. This Dr. McCoy is Joanna, Bones' ancestor after whom his daughter was presumably named.

I'm not sure quite where its leading, but it will be worth it just to see Sandy's face. ;)

Once Therese’s decision had been made, and she had been emphatic in her point, the room bustled into nervous motion. There were no more queries of “Are you certain?” or kind reminders of continued support, there were simply actions to be completed, and in many ways, this was far easier for everyone involved.

Dr. McCoy went to her kit, concocting the precise combination of vita-nutrients, supplements, and other medicinal potions that would provide her patient with the physical wherewithal to undertake the task before her. At other times when Therese had been approached with medical accoutrements, especially those in hypodermic form, she had resisted; her calm acceptance of the good doctor’s ministrations seemed all the more alarming to those gathered around her.

After McCoy had finished that task, Therese swung her legs over the side of the bed, Eamon immediately there to gently help her to her feet. She staggered for a brief moment, then straightened, determination radiating from her. “I need a shower,” she informed the gathering, and proceeded to walk to the luxurious facilities that had been provided. There was a brief moment of confusion as the guards sent to escort Devalera realized that they could not accompany him to Miss Gellert’s bath, which was obviously his intention. “There is no other exit,” he informed the gathered men, and at Scout’s affirmation, the door to that room was firmly closed.

Finally, Therese and Eamon were alone once again, and she fell into his arms, clinging to him tightly. No words were spoken, none were necessary, though the piercing agony of this situation was all too clearly writ within Dev’s hazel eyes. “There’s nothing I can say, Therese, I have failed you in every manner it is possible for a man to do so.”

She looked up at him, her large, dark eyes flashing. “You have made mistakes, Eamon, as have I, but you have never failed me, do you understand? The only reason I survived this, the only I am strong enough to be here to do what I must do, is because of you. Without you,” she gestured with her hands to indicate her hopelessness, “I have nothing. With you, I believe all things are possible.”

Eamon’s eyes closed, and he took in a deep breath as he struggled with the love and acceptance of the woman in his arms. “I do not deserve you, Therese,” he said softly, holding her close against him, “but I thank the heavens above that I have you.”

“Then let’s get this done and over with, shall we?” she asked, stepping back slowly from his embrace. “And don’t ever again doubt yourself where I’m concerned.” She stared deeply into his eyes, “Promise me.”

He nodded, tucking Therese’s head under his chin and enfolding her in his arms, and holding her there. “I promise,” he said softly.

Later, there was a loud, solid knock at the door, and Lt. Sifuentes crossed the floor in several long legged strides, before opening it to the Imperial Guardsman on the other side. “Miss Gellert’s presence has been called for,” he said firmly, in a voice that sounded much more a command than the voiced request. Scout stepped aside slightly, and indicated the pale, slight figure standing defiantly in the center of the room. “We’re ready,” he stated simply. The entire room, as if on cue, then turned their focus to the lone figure of Eamon Devalera, his fists clenching and unclenching in a steady, rhythmic manner. Therese, for the first time since she’d begun this course, balked, her position firm. “I’ll not go without him,” she said, her voice deceptively quiet. The guard nodded his head in acknowledgement of her words. “Her Majesty assumed as much; Mr. Devalera, you are to accompany us, though I might remind you that any unsuitable behaviour will result in your immediate and permanent removal for the duration of the trial.”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

The Madam regarded her with mysterious owlish eyes and a dreamy wondering gait as she slowly zigzagged in Gwenevere’s direction with her hand held out as if searching for invisible vibes. Her robes were scarlet with many flowing layers and brought with them a perfumed incense cloud.

“Professor Collins, I have seen something very significant yet disturbing in the crystal just now and I must relay it to you at once. It is no coincidence you are here at this time, you are quite gifted to hear the call and to come so quickly.” Her voice was hushed and raspy just as when they met in the library, the first time she spoke of the curse.

“Madam Trelawney…” she said.

“Hush child!’ Gwenevere flinched. “There is a wizard who is obsessed by your charms and shrouded in secrets, one of which is within your power to discover on this day. Danger and mystery surrounds him and he is closer to you than you think. He has revenge and possessiveness at the core of his black heart and the mark of evil is burned upon him. Beware! He will stop at nothing to keep you from all others. You must seek to elude him…if you can.”

“Who is it? What exactly did you see?” Gwenevere asked, as her mind whirled with confusion.

“Silence! I have nothing more! I saw only storm clouds of darkness and received only mental knowledge from my guides. You must heed the warning or suffer its ruination!” she warned and then turned and disappeared up the ladder to her classroom. Gwenevere stood speechless for a moment and sighed as she headed back to the second floor.

She strode purposefully down the corridor, and noticed a flash of magenta robes behind the large floor torch as she advanced toward it on the way to her quarters. She cocked her head and watched as Boots walked over and circled round him cautiously, his tail low and twitching.

“Come out from behind there please.” She said firmly.

“I can’t. I am stuck. Would you please help me Genevieve?” he whined. Gwenevere rolled her eyes upon the realization that it was McClane behind there.

“It’s Professor Collins.” She said flatly.

“Of course, Professor Collins. Please accept my sincerest apologies. My mistake.” He gushed. She advanced towards him and crossed her arms, straightening to her full height. She menaced over him and looked down.

“Professor McClane. Forgive me but… Didn’t I hear the Headmaster warn you to stay away from this area of the castle?” she said, raising a brow. Gwenevere was furious. McClane starred in horror at Gwenevere’s blue shark colored eyes and strained to control his panic. He wished like hell he could cross his legs, she was scarier than Snape.

“Yes, I…I was just going to try and apologize to you and Professor Snape for the way I behaved…before I took my leave for Durmstrang. Would you be so kind as to hand me my wand? Please.” He indicated with a nod where his wand was, still clutching the torch for balance.
Boots walked over and batted it with his paw. The wand rolled next to the wall and blended into its surroundings perfectly.

“How did it get way over there?” she asked suspiciously.

“Er…I dropped it and it went suddenly out of control and hexed me to this spot. I have been here ever since.” He lied.

“I am sorry Professor McClane, but I don’t believe you. Have you seen Professor Snape this morning then?” she narrowed her eyes on him, and then looked down at his feet.

“No! I promise you, I have not laid eyes on him for what seems like ages. If I can’t get my wand and get back to my quarters to pack up …which are on the forth floor by the way in case you ever, ever need anything at all and I would be more than pleased to accommodate…”

“Excuse me please Professor McClane. Whilst I certainly do not wish to delay your departure to Durmstrang, I question your honesty and motives for staying here. I must ask you why you did not simply remove your shoes and retrieve your wand. Just what are you playing at?” she snapped.

“Remove my…remove my shoes? That’s brilliant! Thank you Professor Collins!”

She rolled her eyes and exhaled in pure disgust. She turned on her heel and entered her quarters, throwing her unread mail in a basket on her desk. She paced the room nervously for a while, attempting to sort out Professors McClane and Parker and Madam Trelawney, deciding that the whole world had gone absolutely mad.
She remembered Severus saying that Madam Trelawney was fond of predicting doom upon everyone, yet he did receive a divination, which came true and she was correct about the curse as well. Gwenevere considered going to the dungeon between classes and talking to Severus about the warning, but decided that he had enough on his mind and she could not bring it upon herself to burden him more. It was best to keep this inside for now.
Once the decision was made, she opened potions books and gave the matter no more consideration at all.

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

He had the morning free today; he had planned it that way of course. How clever of him actually, to create such a foolproof arrangement. He looked around the disheveled room for the bag to pack. He picked it up from the corner and noticed a large black spider crawling quickly away from the place where it had been hiding.
He moved to the bed and kicked at the sheets and blankets partially still attached to the mattress. They were hanging in a knotted, twisted heap off of the side and onto the filthy floor. The bedclothes had gotten that way so often now that he eventually stopped tucking them back in, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d tidied them.

He had not allowed anyone in his room since…she started ruling his mind-- he couldn’t risk it. He threw the bag on the bed so that it could be packed. Nothing elaborate; he wouldn’t be staying long, just until the job was done. He needed an alibi and a place to conceal evidence.
He grabbed plenty of writing supplies, a map of the school, and some clothes. He tossed a key in the bag along with several beeswax candles and the pictures. He put his hands on his hips and scanned the room. ‘Disgusting’ he thought. Tomorrow, he would sort out the bed and shove everything else under it in case someone entered whilst he was …elsewhere.

They would pay for what they had done to him. ‘Who knows, she may even enjoy her “special” punishment, he certainly would enjoy executing it,’ he thought as he fell back into a chair, slowly massaging his forearm as he went into another one of his vivid, trance-like fantasies.

Therese being the notable exception. Hem, hem.

Renie, thank you for the kind words. I deeply feel the responsibility of the treating the Gruber men properly.

lee, I shall endeavour to answer some of your questions as soon as I can. I keep waiting for the dark mark scene in your story.

Clods, Isn't it time for another installment? This is waaaay too good for you to keep us hanging. ;-)

MA, I had to use your caption. It was beyond my control.

Barbara, I want to throttle your alter-ego. Really.

With an exasperated sigh Mistral flicked the covers off himself and neatly covered his bed partner. She uttered an enquiring ‘mrrp’ before falling immediately back to sleep. He glanced at the photograph on his nightstand before shifting his gaze out the window. It was open a crack and the curtain fluttered inward. The moon was on the wane, having been full two nights before. After another look at the clock confirming what he already knew, namely that it was what could only be described as morning by a technicality, or perhaps a baker, he swung his feet around and sat up on the side of the bed. He tucked his feet in his slippers. He stared down at the tops of his slippered feet and a smile played about his lips then fled. He stood. He bent to right the sheet and comforter and ruffled Annabelle’s fur then petted it smooth again. The cat did not chose to acknowledge this attention.

He did not leave the bedroom but paced up and down next to the bed as if hoping the physical action would tire him. Once he paused at the box which held the few items of jewelry, mostly cuff-links, that he possessed, and his hand reached toward it. But he only shook his head and increased the tempo of his walking. The legs chewed up the room in a few steps and did not seem to do anything to calm him. He left the bedroom and made for the living room. Once there he paused as if at a loss what to do next. A few quick steps brought him to the drinks cabinet where his hand hovered again, this time over the brandy bottle. Again the hand returned to his side empty. Now he paced this room, its lack of furnishings making it much more conducive to this activity. As his path took him near the kitchen where the dust bin resided a bit of newspaper protruding from its top caught his eye. The hand did not hover over this item but a scowl crossed his face.

HE WALKS AGAIN BY NIGHT!

Indeed he did, but not quite in the manner suggested by the caption to that photograph.

He was just considering whether he ought to make a visit to this particular rag sheet’s offices when the harsh sound of the telephone pierced through his thoughts. The sound of a ringing phone at half past three in the morning was never a welcome one. This time was no exception. He picked up the receiver, knowing who would be on the other end of the line. “I’m on my way.”

I am keeping mind that many Rickmanfans have little goblins and ghouls to take around, Friday next:

Happy Halloween!

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

“I have never seen that owl before, does it belong to you Professor Collins?” Gwenevere flinched upon hearing the sudden voice behind her and turned round.

“ Professor Parker. I didn’t realize anyone was there.” She said.

“I arrived just now, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right, you look perplexed” he said, tentatively advancing until he stood closely beside her.

“Yes, I am fine. And I am a bit perplexed actually.” She said. She told him what had happened between the owls.

Professor Parker glanced at the owl, and then looked back at Gwenevere. The breeze caught her hair and was creating a bewitching effect with her black robes and incredible blue eyes. Parker was mesmerized by her beauty and sophistication. She was such a mysterious creature, seldom seen in the great hall and elsewhere. “The Lady.”

“Well, he looks fine to me, and he is obviously willing and able to serve your… needs.” He said, gazing at her hypnotically. Gwenevere was focused on the owl and hadn’t noticed his shift in bearing towards her.

“Right. I suppose I will hire him then. There seems to be no reason to…” she was saying. Parker finished her sentence.

“To refuse him?” She turned her head and bid her full attention to Parker. “You don’t wish to be the one responsible for breaking his heart do you? He is waiting patiently for your interest in him. He obviously fancies you.”

He closed the gap between them. His hand was poised on the countertop in such a way as to clearly invite her to take hold of it had she been interested and he was intent on maintaining the newly held eye contact. Gwenevere felt her temper recoil and prepare to strike a deadly blow if necessary, however, her outward appearance was deadly calm.

“Professor Parker, I question if we are both still discussing this owl?” she stated, lifting a brow as her eyes turned blue steel gray and decidedly icy. Parker regarded her for several moments.

“Yes, of course we are.” He said innocently and smiled as he pulled his hand away and stepped back a pace, giving her plenty of space.

“Good.” She pierced through his stare with hers. “We need to understand each other.” she said intensely, and turned to attach the roll of parchment and pay the owl, which was still waiting patiently, and with no signs of its former aggression.

“ Indeed. Well, I must be running along now, I’ve got a class to teach this afternoon. Professor Vector went into labor last night just after dinner you know. Good day to you then.” He said, grabbing his mail and backing towards the door, waiving.

“Good day.” Gwenevere said, as she compensated the owl and set it to flight.

She collected her mail and slowly walked out to the corridor. A voice sounded and caused her to abandon her perusal of the letters in her hand...

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

Whilst Gwenevere and Severus were finishing tea, the excessively fanatical wizard rounded the corridor and crept toward her door, and then quickly ducked behind the floor torch when he heard Snape’s door open.
To his delight, he gawked as Gwenevere walked from Snape’s doorway and across the corridor. She was wearing a black exercise outfit, white trainers, and a white lightweight jacket. His exaggerated gape fixed upon her long legs as she paused to unlock her door before entering with a big gray cat.

‘I wonder what she could have borrowed from Snape this morning. Why couldn’t she have moved into the quarters across the corridor from me instead? I certainly wouldn’t mind starting out my day with a nice long visit from her, wearing that.’ he thought.

Snape stood and watched as Gwenevere's door closed tightly and locked. He surveyed the corridor and recalled noticing the large torch suddenly light. He reached for his wand and said “Attineo” while aiming in the direction of the torch. A small sound escaped out from behind the torch, but its maker did not.

McClane was instantly cemented to the stone floor. His feet were firmly set and they prevented him from fleeing as Snape strolled toward him.
“Accio wand!” Snape hissed, and McClane’s wand obediently flew from his magenta robes and up across the corridor, landing on the stone floor with a loud clatter. Snape stepped over the wand and moved closer toward McClane.

“Forgive me McClane but… Didn’t I hear the Headmaster warning you to stay away from this area of the castle?” Snape was now towering over McClane, slowly fingering his own wand like a baton.

“Sev…Severus, what are you going to do?” He stammered.

“Oh, I don’t know…lets see." Snape crossed his arms and pointedly rolled his eyes to the right to think, idly tapping his wand. McClane clutched the torch for balance.

“Severus, I beg of you…don’t do anything! I’ll stay away. I swear it! I’m leaving for Durmstrang this afternoon!” McClane hideously whined.
Snape stopped tapping and slowly turned his head toward McClane to ponder his plea.

“Very well McClane, as you wish. I shall do nothing.” He mocked with raised brows.

“Thank you Severus.” He said with a sigh of relief, until… “Severus, where are you going? Come back! I’m stuck here! He again pleaded.

“Yes, I am fully aware of that. I’m sure someone will soon come along and help you, not to worry.” Snape said, not bothering to turn around as he strolled further away.

“No Severus, they won’t. No one ever comes to this part of the castle. Not even Filch. Or even his cat. Please…I need help!” Snape stopped and turned around.

“Very well. I’ll call the Headmaster for you, How’s that?” He offered, and then turned again, continuing down the corridor, half listening to McClane’s insipid chatter. He wondered how long it would take the stupid git to discover that all he had to do was to remove his bloody shoes and retrieve his wand.

“No Sev, Severus, Severus! Please don’t tell the Headmaster! Oh…I need to go to the… loo.”
“ Bugger!”
“Accio wand. Accio Wand! ACCIO WAND!!! Finite Incantatum…Fin…FINITE INCANTATUM DAMN IT!! Accio wand…Acc…”

Gwenevere completed her bath and dressed quickly. She had planned to study for the lab tonight but first, she needed to send her mail out to Gringotts. She donned robes and jogged steps all the way to the top where the owlry was located. She entered through the arched door and searched the semi-open aviary.

The stiff breeze blew through her hair and jostled her robes. Miniature cyclones caused the straw and chaff on the floor beneath the owls to relocate and form tiny helixes near the exits. In a sheltered corner, the early morning sun shone brightly through the elaborate castle stonework cut out like tatting. A curtain of energized dust particles continuously migrated up, ascending upon the suns rays on a never-ending journey towards the sky.
Running water sounded in the background as a steady stream kept a bank of water vessels filled. The place was bustling with activity as many owls in all different sizes and colors sporadically returned from nocturnal hunting trips and were settling in to roost until which time they were needed.

Gwenevere stood at the counter where an owl perch bolted to rows of pigeonholes containing various writing supplies such as parchment, envelopes, wax, Hogwarts seals, cello tape, quills, and inks of different colors. On another wall, there were rows of slots listed in alphabetical order for incoming mail pick up by staff members.

Her prospectus was of medium size so she looked for a fair-sized owl to take the post. She called down a Great Horned Owl that looked fresh and was not yet sleeping. It flew over to her and she gently stroked its satiny black-brown breast feathers for a minute, as she talked softly to it. It was her practice to over check the owls before hiring them so that obvious health issues could be addressed should there be any.

This owl was in perfect form as far as she could see, as was usually the case. She was just about to fasten the parchment when suddenly a large white spangled owl came flying down from nowhere in a flurry of feathers and aggressively extended talons. Gwenevere instinctively threw out her forearm to keep its wingspan from hitting her. It screeched loudly as it chased the Great Horned owl away from Gwenevere and out through one of the exits.

The white owl returned and landed on the hire perch fully expecting to fly her mail. She looked down at its outstretched leg and wondered what to do in this rare situation. She had never known owls to display this sort of behavior before.

"So it's over, then?" Joya asked, gazing at me solemnly over Richard's head.

I'd made it back to the goldsmith's house in good time. Neither Lady Suzanne nor Lady Christina were awake yet and Bertha had been stationed by the door to let me in without waking any of the servants. I crept upstairs and slipped into Joya's bedroom. She was waiting for me patiently, with our daughter in her arms and a dagger on the bed beside her. I set the bar firmly in the door so that we would not be disturbed, sat down in the chair by the bed and told her everything about Leofric's grisly discovery. Then we listed what we knew, the first step to making a plan.

We knew that with Estrilda dead, there would be no more anonymous threatening notes to be found around that castle. That was something positive. And as well there would be no more attempts on Joya's and Marion's lives. After all, a woman could have arranged both the falling candleholder and the poisoned wine. The lady-in-waiting to the king's cousin could have come and gone as she pleased all over the castle without being questioned. And then scurried back to the Locksley's rooms without attracting much attention.

Also, there would be no "friend" who could give assistance to Will Scarlet. I didn't know what sort of help Estrilda could have provided but I doubted that it would have involved helping him to escape. The guards would not have allowed anyone near him without my express authority. But perhaps she'd smuggled notes to him or gotten notes from him to give to Locksley or someone else. We agreed that it would be a good idea to find out what servant had taken Scarlet his meals and whether he was trustworthy.

"Is it?" I answered Joya's question, kicking the bedpost in some annoyance.

Because of course the big question now was: who had murdered Estrilda? And why? It was impossible that she'd been thrown into the river from the turrets; the castle was downstream from where the body had been found. But had she been killed in the castle and smuggled out? Possible but I doubted it. There were plenty of nooks and crannies where a body could have been hidden without anyone finding it for hours, if not days. There was only one gatehouse open after dusk and the killer would have been taking the enormous risk of a cart or packhorse being searched by the guards. No, I was prepared to accept that she'd fled on foot. The guards wouldn't have stopped a woman leaving if she'd had a decent excuse. They were under instructions to investigate suspicious men.

Of course it was entirely possible that a thief had simply taken advantage of a well-dressed woman without protection walking in the night. She wouldn't have been the first victim to loose her life for the sake of a necklace or a brooch or a rosary. Perhaps she'd planned to make her escape by boat and had gone to the river to negotiate terms with a boatman. As Joya pointed out, she would have been agitated and not paying attention too much around her; a thief could easily have stalked her and caught up with her at the river.

The discussion didn't satisfy either of us but we had to get to the castle before the morning sun was well and truly up. Joya laid Richard in her cradle and threw on her travelling cloak as I waited impatiently, then we were off. It was disgracefully rude not to tell the Poitevin ladies personally about our plans but it was unavoidable. Joya informed me that we would have to make it up to them somehow and I agreed.

The security around the castle was tight and I counted no less then twelve guards standing on the walkway above our heads. It filled me with a deep sense of satisfaction. It was probably the most heavily defended castle north of Winchester and there was no enemy within the borders of the kingdom who successfully attack it. Once this marital alliance nonsense was cleared up and all the invited guests departed, I would determine the best way to take advantage of this strength. But other priorities came first.

The news that the mysterious letter-writer and would-be assassin had been found had obviously spread like wildfire amongst the servants. A crowd of them gathered in the great hall, the buzz of their talking filling the air like a swarm of bees. Leofric appeared in the doorway at the far end of the room, gesturing with one arm. As Joya and I strode into the hall, the crowd fell silent, watching us with great interest until we reached the doorway, then burst into noisy conversation again.

"We put her in here, sir." Leofric led the way down one of the smaller hallways in the rear of the castle. "Looks like some kind of chapel. Seemed appropriate, somehow."

"Yes, we stopped using it when the large church was built in town." I pushed through the door, still decorated with carved crucifixes and paschal lambs. "Has anyone been in here yet?"

"No sir. However, Lord and Lady Locksley," Leofric coughed diplomatically. "Are most anxious to find out what is happening. They know we're back. One of their servants was watching for us."

"I'm sure they are." I headed down the aisle to the front of the room. There was a trestle table occupying the space where an altar had previously been, and on it was the shrouded body of Estrilda, late wife of the sheriff of Yorkshire and admirer of Saracen cultural activities. Joya was already standing beside the table, staring down at the dead woman's face. I came up beside her and she glanced at me. I nodded and she threw back the shroud halfway, exposing the dead woman down to her waist. We examined the body. No jewelry was visible: no rings, no earrings or other ornaments. The gown was plain but of good fabric, with a good leather belt around the waste. Joya pointed to the far side and I reached over. There had been a pouch attached to the belt but all that remained were a pair of cut thongs.

"So it might have been robbery after all." Joya stated. She looked up at me again, a question in her eyes.

"Yes, it probably was." I let go of the leather straps and reached for the shroud to cover the body again. "We'll have to ask Marion if she was wearing earrings or rings. If they're missing, it would be conclusive proof."

"And yet -" Whatever Joya had been about to say was cut off by the sudden slamming of a heavy door. Voices came from the hallway - loud, angry, demanding voices - and they grew louder as the speakers made their way closer to the chapel. We turned and waited. It was not hard to figure out who was coming.

The voices reached an apex outside the chapel door. It burst open and Robin of Locksley erupted into the room with Marion right behind him. It was difficult to determine who was making what demand.

"What the bloody hell do you mean keeping us locked up like felons -"

"Where is my lady-in-waiting? That man outside said she was in the castle but wouldn't say -"

"- and when the king gets here don't think I won't have much to tell him about this outrageous -"

"- is she? What have you done with Estrilda?"

I waited until they stopped for breath. They glared at me, chests heaving from the verbal exertion. At the far end of the room, Leofric signaled to the guards to leave and then shut the door firmly, standing in front of it with one hand on his sword hilt. He caught my eye and nodded at me, reassuringly. I nodded back.

Locksley saw my gesture and jerked around to see what was happening behind him. Marion stepped forward and began to make demands again. I held up both hands for silence. "This cacophony will get us nowhere. Marion, to answer your question first, Estrilda is right here." I gestured to the table behind us.

Marion stared, her hand moving to cover her open mouth. Locksley came up behind her and held her carefully. Then he glared at me. "What did you do to her?"

I ignored the question; it wasn't worthy of a response. "My men retrieved her from the watery grave in which she was abandoned by some thief." I shook my head as Marion stepped forward to lift the shroud. "I warn you, she is not looking at her best this morning."

Of course, they had to see for themselves and I'll give Locksley credit, once he saw the corpse he was more willing to listen to the explanation that Joya gave him about the cut purse and the thief. Asked if Estrilda had worn any trinkets, Marion said that she had often worn a ring on her left hand but that she could not be sure she'd been wearing it the previous day.

Locksley took a final look and then dropped the cloth again. He turned his gaze on me. "What now?"

"Now we call the priests and arrange a funeral." I shrugged. "Neither of us wants or needs any distractions at this moment. The king will be here tomorrow or at the latest, the day after. There will be no more anonymous notes or murder attempts. I suggest we get back to planning how we are going to sort out this marital mess before -"

But it was destined to be a day for unfinished sentences. A cacophony of knocking broke out at the chapel door and caused Leofric to start violently. He pulled open the door far enough to accept a note, then shut it firmly and barred it again. Setting one hand on his sword again, he marched down the aisle and handed the note to me. I took it, cracked open the seal and read the contents. Then, just because it couldn't possibly be any worse the second time around, I read it again.

"Well?" Locksley demanded, ignoring the obligations of the guest to maintain a civil demeanour at all times.

"No, not well at all." I handed the note to Joya, who looked at it curiously. "It's from the king's chief clerk. King Richard and Count Godfrey of Anjou are less than ten miles away. They will be here in time for the midday meal."

Hmm. The Jane Eyre quote I was remembering merged with the balcony scene in "R&J" -- but you've come to expect that from me. :)

Another good JE quote, "In thought, I added, '... for such you are handsome enough, or rather, your sterness has a power beyond beauty.'"

Nice touch: a quote from Jane Eyre

Brandon turns to follow Mary Anne, but The Director steps into his path, blocking his way. “Wait, Brandon.”

“What do you mean, wait? She is very upset and—“

“And that is precisely why you should wait.”

Brandon gives him a look of I can’t wait to hear you explain this one. With an abstracted sigh, The Director runs one hand through his hair, pondering how to stall for time as Brandon casts impatient glances down the corridor. If it had been anyone else! Brandon’s amiability and steadiness of temper are legendary on this often-hectic set, but when the fires are kindled, well then—a simple extinguisher will not do.

“It’s because she’s upset that you need to wait a bit. Mary Anne is very proud—in the best sense,” The Director adds hastily. “She won’t thank anyone for walking in on her in the state she’s in, not even you. Perhaps especially not you. Give her a little time to calm herself, and then see her if you like.”

“How much time?” Elaborately patient, as if humouring a madman.

The Director rolls his eyes. “As if I would know! Go have a cup of tea, then come back. Maybe that will be enough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure there aren’t any more of those things lying about.”

“Lying about.” Brandon’s expression is as grim as The Director has ever seen it. “I have seldom heard a more perfect description.”

“Yes, I thought I had all of them gathered up, and then while I’m conferring in my office one of the new mail clerks came and told me what he’d seen in the rack. If he’d only had the sense to pick it up when he saw it—“ A tired shake of the head, further disheveling the much-tried hair. “Well, he’s new. But then I got here just in time for . . . what you saw. I suppose it could have been worse. It could have been Mistral—“

There is a flicker of something in Brandon’s eyes at the mention of Mistral, but he replies smoothly, “Of course, we can’t have him going to any more offices and terrorizing any more photographers.”

“Brandon, how did you know—“

A thin smile. “It is a dark secret, and so naturally the whole set knows.” (homage)

“Naturally. And one more thing: whatever this is between you and Mary Anne, get it settled. We can’t have you two all out of sorts, not with her Trial scenes and all that we have lined up. I trust I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good.” There is an awkward pause before The Director stands aside to let Brandon move past him—which Brandon promptly does, ready to stride down that corridor to Mary Anne’s cube, and damnation to all advice to the contrary.

“Brandon.”

A halt. Brandon does not fully turn, but looks over his shoulder. “Sir?”

“I meant what I said to her, you know—about being sorry she had to see that. I am always sorry to see any of my people dragged into something like this. Especially someone like her. For all her mischief—“ A slight grin, there and gone. “—she’s a sensible woman. That’s why I think she’ll get this sorted if we give her a bit of time. But she feels everything, you know. Takes things hard, twice as hard as most, I believe.”

“I believe you are right.”

“Good. Then take my advice on this—and on one other thing. Don’t you go trying to do what Mistral did.”

A sardonic smile from Brandon. “Did you think I would burst into their offices and challenge someone to a duel?”

”I thought you might.”

That expression on Brandon’s face—The Director can feel the skin crinkling on the back of his neck. That wry grin of self-mockery, and the banked flames of the eyes . . .

“Well, it would be in character for me, would it not?”

“It would be in character for The Colonel. As for you, go and drink your tea or whatever. Then let me know how it goes. And Brandon . . . the best of luck.”

A nod, and Brandon strides away down the corridor.

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

Half an hour later, he is standing outside Mary Anne’s cubicle.

A good cup of tea, wasted. Yes, he had gone to the café and taken a cup, forcing himself not to hurry; thankfully, the café is mostly deserted at this hour. Too late for lunch and too early for afternoon tea. Much too early for dinner. He had caught himself glancing about, checking for stray copies of the guilty tabloid, and had indulged a few private imaginings as to what might be done with the photographer if that individual were ever to cross his path.

But now . . .

Brandon taps lightly at the door of Mary Anne’s cube.

No answer.

Unbidden, a passage from one of Mary Anne’s favourite novels rises in his mind. . . . not one movement have I heard, nor one sob: five minutes more of that deathlike hush, and I should have forced the lock . . .

Brandon shakes off the chill of that thought. Another knock, and when there is no reply to his soft call of “Mary Anne?” he pushes open the door.

Mary Anne is not in her cubicle. At least, he does not see her. Behind the folding screen, perhaps?

Brandon moves further into the room. “Mary Anne?”

Silence.

And then, there on the desk. Weighted with the dish of violets.

Back tomorrow.--- M.A.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

In the mostly deserted great hall, Snape picked listlessly at his dinner until a folded note, which had been anchored under his water goblet caught his attention. He read the child-like writing with some difficulty and then abruptly stood up.
He strode unseeing past Professor Vector who was nine months pregnant and trying to flag him down so that she could obtain a potion to relieve indigestion, as Madam Pomfrey was unavailable for all except the direst of emergencies. She started to follow him but quickly gave up as he charged out to the corridor and into the entrance hall, crossing to the winding stairs leading to the dungeons.

He descended steps rapidly then rounded the corner and stormed into the Slytherin common room to angrily reprimand the students and empower the prefects to recruit reformation amongst the ranks. Numerous complaints from house elves prompted Snape to lecture on the value of keeping order and organization within the dormitories. He threatened them with punitive punishment, which consisted of scouring every lavatory in the castle without the use of magic if he didn’t see vast improvement in the excessively slovenly Slytherin situation. He surveyed his houseguests afterward and was satisfied with the results; their terror-stricken faces should prove promising results. The prefects were ordered to inspect the dormitories on a twice-daily basis and report any incident of noncompliance directly to him. He gave them one last sneer and then turned and stormed out.

After returning to the second floor, he settled behind his desk in the den with an ample four fingers of brandy to compose the questions for Friday’s veritaserum lab.
‘Lets see, most embarrassing memory…contagious or annoying health conditions… family secrets…one’s weight is always good…describe the first…phobias…fears…fantasies…and lest we forget…’
A sadistic smile curled upon his lips as he gleefully penned, and the black ink of ten nightmarishly personal, undoubtedly squeamish questions slowly bled into the parchment.

Gwenevere finished the conspectus for Gringotts case just before suppertime. There was a rap on the door and her heart quickened at the thought that it may be Severus. She opened the door and Dobby was standing there with her dinner tray. She smiled warmly and took the tray. He lighted the fireplace for her whilst they had a brief chat in Spanish concerning general Hogwarts news. On his way out, he noticed a half box of imported chocolates, which were sitting on the table in the living room near the fire. Gwenevere smiled and gave the remainder of the box to him on his way out.

She picked absently at her food, though it was delicious, she just wasn’t in the mood to eat tonight. Boots had hovered close by all day and she could swear he missed Severus as well. After eating, she indulged him in a long walk around the pond.

When she arrived back to her quarters, the sun was setting brightly over the Quidditch pitch. She poured Crown Royal in a crystal glass and sipped it while staring out of the cathedral window in her office, toward the occident. The sun was a blaze of fiery orange and red in a blue-green streaked sky. She watched as the crepuscular rays of the sinking sun beamed out in enormous shafts from behind large backlit cumulus and cirrus clouds. She admired the majesty of the flamboyant sky until it faded to almost black, tentatively listening for Severus to knock on her door, yet not actually expecting him to do so.

She finished her brandy and readied herself for bed. After finishing her book, she blew out the candle and lay awake stroking Boots for a while, thinking of Severus. She recalled what she had discovered today and questions nagged at her mind as she eventually drifted off to sleep. Why was he suddenly insecure about their future together, why did he question the strength of her love for him?

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

When she awoke Friday morning, she remembered having bizarre dreams about Severus. He was in some sort of danger and there was nothing she could do to help him. She tried to remember more of the dream as she readied herself for her morning run. The weather was fine today as promised by last night’s red-orange sunset, and she found her stride quickly. As her footsteps pounded the shock absorbing surface, the constant rhythm lulled her into deep thought. She could remember no more detail of the dream, however, she sensed a need to see him this morning just to ease her mind.

She slowed to cool down phase and noticed the Gryffindor team’s consistently lackluster practice session, recalling Professor Parker’s prediction that they would win the cup this year. She slowed to a walk, checked the time and turned to go home. As she left, she heard the Gryffindors shouting at one another as they set their brooms in motion finally.

Gwenevere strode through the corridor on the second floor and met Dobby at her door. He had the tea tray and a message from Sir Nicholas stating that he was ‘tied up’ at the moment and had not received any new news. She watched as Dobby turned the corner out of sight and noticed that the sugar bowl was on the tray and there were two cups. Boots was sitting patiently at Severus’s door as if expecting to go in.
She smiled and walked over to him and then lifted her hand to knock, the door opened before she had the chance revealing a welcoming, but intensely somber dark wizard. His eyes appeared haunted and shadowy. Gwenevere scanned the corridor before entering.
Severus had just gotten out of the shower and was wearing a dark green dressing gown.

“Gwenevere, come in.” He said, as he took the tray from her and set it on the Chippendale desk by the door.

“Are you in a hurry this morning? If so, I won’t stay long.” She said, watching him as he closed the door.

“No, I have some time.” He said, kissing her hello. Gwenevere ran her fingers through his wet hair and breathed in the scent of Vinolia soap as he pulled the zipper down a bit on her jacket and slid his hands inside and around her trim waist.

“Come back to the bedroom, I need to dress.” He said as he turned and started to walk. Gwenevere stopped and turned toward the cupboard where there was also a basin and water goblets.

“I will join you in a moment, I would like to get some water if it’s all right.” She said.

“Of course, help yourself.” He said and continued to his room.

Gwenevere chose a goblet and filled it with water before walking back towards the bedroom. As she passed through the corridor, the mares in the painting all came trotting over to the foreground of the canvas to greet her. Their forever summer coats glistened in the bright sunshine. They lined up at the fence and pricked their ears with interest until the lead mare had had enough of a look and pinned her ears causing the rest of the line to break away like dominos. The youngest mare, a gorgeous blood bay with a star, strip and snip and a long black mane barely escaped a nip from a pair of barred teeth as her powerful haunches thrust her just out of range, kicking up muddy divots and pelting the ill tempered dapple-gray aggressor.
Gwenevere smiled and realized how much she missed being around horses. She made a mental note to visit Hagrid more often and offer to assist him with his magical hoofed animals.

She carried her water into the bedroom and set it on the nightstand. Severus had tucked his white shirt in and was fastening his trousers. His hair was dry now and he was about to put his shoes on over black socks.
Boots jumped up on his neatly made bed and was thinking seriously of kneading a place to rest upon Severus’s black coat until a stern look caused him to reconsider. He flopped down at the foot, beside the coat instead. Gwenevere sipped water as she watched Severus began putting on shoes.

“Was Gryffindor still at practice when you left the track?” He asked nonchalantly, glancing quickly toward Gwenevere.

“Yes, if you would call it that.” She said as she gave him a cynical look. “I really must attend a real game and try and understand what they are on about.” She sipped at the water.

“And just who are they?” He said, reaching for the other shoe.

“Dobby and Professor Parker. They are under the impression that Gryffindor is the fastest, most highly skilled team. Why are they not flying around the pitch during practices then?”

“Umm, well…they are probably there… discussing strategy, yes that’s right. Strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“Yes, Strategy. All good teams need a well thought out game plan.” He straightened up and picked his cufflinks out of the silver tray.

Gwenevere set the goblet down and stood directly in front of him, taking his right wrist gently into her hands to help him with the task. Snape was silent and calm as she aligned the French cuff and positioned the link, piercing it through the crisply starched slits in one smooth motion and locking it closed. His heartbeat pounded painfully in his chest, he was certain she could hear it, feel it, and see it as she took his left arm and turned it over. He watched her face intently and held his breath, hoping that the loose cuff would not expose any part of the dark mark as she aligned the cuff.
She was quite deft and aligned the slits gracefully. The link was inserted smoothly with her steady hand and locked closed. Snape swallowed hard. She could stir his emotions to a pressured heat with the simplest of gestures, even without the drama.

“You have done this before.” He said, as she gazed up at him and they locked eyes.

“Yes, I have fastened many cufflinks for the special men in my life.” She said. Her voice was incredibly sexy. Her eyes were deeply vivid blue.

“Special men in your life?” He asked, raising a brow and tilting his head to the right slightly.

“Yes, I used to ask my father and later my grandfather every morning when I was a girl. She said. She tilted her head and their lips met. An intimate communication slowly ensued, lasting several incredibly long and glorious minutes. His heart pounded yet again.

“Gwenevere, I cannot spend another night without you.” He said, looking into her eyes once more. She nodded her head and smiled slightly as she reached for his coat.

“I know.” She whispered. He put the coat on and collected his pocket watch and gold knife.

“Let’s have tea.” He said.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

His hand released her thick twist of brunette hair, letting it assail his senses with its intoxicating scent and silky softness as it bounced over his hand and around her shoulders and down her back. She closed her eyes and embraced him tightly, sliding her hands over his starched white shirt.

“I missed you last night.” She said in hushed tones. Severus closed his eyes and cursed the reason why he had no answer for her now. His silence was deafening. She pulled back and looked into his eyes once again trying to discern the meaning of it. He was obviously still tormented and, for reasons known only to him, was shutting her out.

“Gwenevere, we will talk soon.” He said somberly, gently calming errant strands of her hair. Gwenevere nodded understandingly and placed her hand on his, turning her head slightly to kiss his palm. She poured out tea for them and changed the subject.

“I now know rule one Severus, I learned it this morning.” She said to him, sipping her tea. Severus appeared interested and then abruptly disgusted.

“I take it nearly headless Nick wasted no time in invading your privacy. He said, narrowing his eyes with the look of distrust aimed at Sir Nicholas.

“He was very cross this morning, apparently he was sealed out yesterday.” She said, raising her brows while peering over her teacup and smiling slightly. Gwenevere noticed the guilty expression flicker across his face, much like Sir Nicholas this morning.

“So, let's hear rule one then.” He said, cupping the hot Hogwarts mug in his hands. ‘He’s lucky I didn’t seal him out of the entire castle’ he thought.

“True Love’s first kiss must take place before noon.” She said. Severus’s eyes conveyed acceptance, though they both knew they were far from safe at this point. At least they could mark one more rule off the deadly list, a cause for celebration.

“Excellent.” He said, as he gazed at her, silently remembering the first time the thought of kissing her had seriously crossed his mind. He distinctly remembered looking into her eyes and feeling the pull. It was the night Peeves wrecked her quarters and so, ironically, it would have been his kiss of death in a manner of speaking. Although, he doubted whether she would have actually let him kiss her that night.
Severus recalled their actual first kiss; the tension between them had grown to enormous proportions preceding it. She was driving him mad night and day. He had not planned it at all, but when she stood close to him in the corridor the morning after she so boldly met his challenge in class and won, he knew he had to have her. He was on fire for her and had to find out if the feeling was mutually passionate. The intense mental connection they had established during inventory three days later had a profound effect on him. Their minds had made love all morning and so the kiss was inevitable. When his lips touched hers, the emotional release was indescribable and he knew instantly he could never live contented without her.

The thought of never again kissing that mouth wretched through his gut like a cold steel blade, causing him to imagine the dark mark was burning into his forearm. It was actually the hot teacup. An icy shiver traveled noticeably up the length his spine.

“Are you alright Severus? Someone’s just tread on your gr…” The realization hit her hard. “I apologize. That was insensitive of me. Please forgive me.” His haunted expression fixed upon her. She was horrified that the offhanded saying was painfully real for them. Her lip trembled as she held back tears and looked away. He pulled her close to him.

“It’s all right Gwenevere; it had nothing to do with the curse. I swear it. We will not let the curse rule our lives, it will not affect everything we say and do. We cannot let it gain that kind of power over us or it will feed on it and become stronger. The stronger we are, the weaker it is. Do you understand?” His words were passionate and at the same time gentle towards her.

“Yes, I understand.” She said, composing herself. He was right; they could not let it gain control of their every word and thought, allowing it to become an obsession to personal destruction.
“Thank you Severus, of course you are right. I didn’t mean to…” She said, searching his eyes.

“Enough. It’s unimportant.” He said softly, negating the need for her to apologize further. He held her gaze and initiated his skill: feelings not memories were where his interests lay. He needed to know the answers yet silently questioned his ability to truly hide anything from her if she sought him out, knowing she chose to hide nothing from him.

She reached for his hands and held them in hers, locking her eyes upon his. The sparks were becoming more potent by the hour but they ignored them. Her sensitive fingers slid over his wrist and rested on his pulse, which was steady and strong, but not rapid. She suspected that he was controlling it, and pressed on in her endeavor. She met his lead and released her magic in full.

Suddenly her eye color turned almost black. He was taken aback, although strongly compelled to hold the contact, desperately so in fact. He felt the trance-like desire to let the walls down, to let go and let her in, and to open his mind to her now. She was incredibly accomplished and powerful, and eased in comfortably slow. It felt good. He could not deny her; he welcomed her there and wanted more.
She sensed the subtle shift that she had been anticipating and narrowed her focus on him considerably.

“I love you Severus, and nothing can ever change that. Nothing. We will never part, lest it be your choice. Do you understand?” She said quietly.

The words were superfluous, her exact meaning communicated and received otherwise. Her penetrating stare deepened and he felt her begin to advance further. He had not spent a significant amount of time considering of the use of legilimency between lovers. Legilimency was normally thought of as intrusive and unwanted if not hostile or dangerous. And of course, the element of surprise is part of what made love so exciting.

He interpreted her detailed communications to him and committed them to memory. Her love for him was infinite and strong, and was not based on a false impression of him: even in retrospect, the intensity surprised him. It would be so easy to let her in completely, to let her understand. ‘No. I can’t, what if she...’

He looked away for a split second, breaking the eye contact, slamming his doors and barring them with occlumency. Then kissed her hard on the mouth. She reciprocated.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

Snape entered the library and was placing several books on the counter for Madam Pince when he saw Professor Parker exiting the restricted section on his way to the corridor. Snape abruptly left Madam Pince, who was holding a quill in mid air, ready for him to sign the ledger. A large blot of black ink dripped half way onto the desktop and half way on the edge of ledger pages to her utter dismay.

He entered the restricted section to find Gwenevere at the back, in the law section room taking notes from a thick book. He quietly advanced and stood beside her. She looked up at him and smiled. He gently took the quill from her hand and leant downward to kiss her hello. She sifted her fingers through his hair and held the kiss for several moments longer than he’d intended, causing a mushroom cloud of red sparks to crackle softly above them.

“You’re going to get us thrown out of here Gwenevere.” He cautioned in silky base tones, scanning to make sure the sparks had all cleared sufficiently.

“Don’t worry, Madam Pince has not been anywhere near this room all day.” She assured him.

“That may be true, but the fact that you are no longer alone will be an irresistible magnet for her. Did I see Parker leaving just now?” he asked quietly. He began to reach toward her hair to release it from its twist.

“Yes, he paid an innocuous visit a minute ago. Now…where were we?” she purred.

“Ahem. May I help you find what you are looking for Professor Snape?” Madam Pince said, peering over her glasses and tapping her fingers over her crossed arms appearing quite annoyed. Snape quickly withdrew his hand and coughed as he slowly straightened his six foot one inch frame to full height.

“Uh,No, I don’t think so Madam Pince, we were just leaving.” He said.

“Thank you Madam Pince.” Gwenevere said softly with a smile.

The librarian crisply turned on her heels and exited the restricted section in a huff. Gwenevere collected her notes whilst Snape, with a wave of his wand and a short incantation, shelved the books neatly from whence they came. Bookmarks fluttered downward upon the table like confetti. Snape helped Gwenevere on with her robes before leaving the law section.

A sharp look from Madam Pince reminded Professor Snape to stop and sign the ledger as they moved toward the door leading out into the corridor. Snape belligerently scrawled his snake-like esses on the parchment.
Madam Pince noticed the unmistakable glow of a woman in love as she glanced at Gwenevere, who was gazing at Snape for some strange reason. She wondered who the lucky wizard could be, thinking maybe it could be that nice, good-looking Professor Parker who was here a short while ago, before Professor Snape arrived. She considered Professor Parker for a moment; he spent quite a bit of time in the library and never checked out any Arithmancy books. Very odd she thought.

They walked down to the second floor and entered Gwenevere’s quarters in time for tea. Snape removed his coat and robes and hung them up next to Gwenevere’s robes. Dobby came to the door and whilst Gwenevere took the tray and chatted a bit, Snape settled in the living room. She joined him moments later and set the tray down on the table. They made intense eye contact and held it as Severus slowly leant towards her and kissed her properly.

Also, Ann W, I am not a British subject, but the "ou" spellings crept in after I'd been around several websites in which a lot of the posters were Brits, and so I've just kept it for consistency.

Claudia and Ed

“What is that?” asked Claudia. The picture showed a thermal image, no detail. There appeared to be many arms and legs, a clump. It appeared to slowly be growing. “And that!”

Anton’s finger traced over to another thermal spot on the corridor. The image turned slightly to concentrate on the new hot spot.

It had seemed frightfully convenient that a map had appeared just as they’d needed one. Though this place was set up to provide for your every need. Perhaps they’d anticipated this particular need as well. Thoughtful, kind, caring. Nothing is too much trouble. But its not really like that, there is something else going on. So had the Overseer and her guards sent some beast after them, to hunt them down? Were there real, non-humanoid aliens on board?! She shuddered at the thought, and suddenly the idea of a crowded courtroom in the Empress’ palace didn’t seem half so bad. Even with the Interrogator there.

“This one,” said Anton, his finger still on the current red blob. “It is us!”

“That means…” said Spike, shivering, “that that thing is right about…” he turned his head, hardly daring to look, and raised his arm slowly. “There!”

A panel in the floor was moving. Slowly lifting, and shifting aside. A dark tendril appeared, feeling around, trying to get a hold.

Spike shrieked and grabbed hold of Claudia. She was stuck to the spot mesmerised by the scene unfolding in front of her. Quite thankful to have someone between her and whatever was emerging from the floor.

The metal panel slide away, and something started to climb out. Something was stuck, and many arms appeared around the edge, grasping, pulling. Then they disappeared inside, and there was a thump and a squeal.

“Oh… my… god…” Claudia dug her nails into Spike’s bare arms.

Then two arms appeared again, and a rather smaller than anticipated figure emerged. “Ah, a welcoming committee! How nice.”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Professor Snape taught classes intermittently throughout the day and hosted a delightful array of group detentions in-between. La punishment du jour was dissecting and parting out slimy deep dwelling eel-like creatures, which had been soaking in formalin for weeks. The strong chemicals caused a sloughing of their skin and ghostly white eyes. Snape needed ocular lenses, brains, livers, stomach contents, spleens, intestines, gills, fins, and heart valves to be put into separate vials of ethanol and labeled. The smell of rotting fish flesh and pungent chemicals was sentence enough but the queasy dissection was overkill. Professor Snape arrogantly graded student assignments at his desk, periodically sneering at the perpetrators as they obediently learned their lessons.

Gwenevere dressed in black jeans, a violet silk blouse and black robes then strode to the library where she would access the staff only legal section today, for her work on the Gringotts case.
Hogwarts had a sophisticated cataloging and supply system which, through a complex web of ancient spells, allowed anyone to access any book ever written and published; assuming one possessed the proper credentials to view certain prerequisited volumes.

The wizarding law division was seldom used and was located in an obscure circular room in which a large table occupied the center. The floor was comprised of an enormous mosaic, a beautiful and vivid work of art, done in tile, depicting an early Egyptian courtroom scene. Law books lined the circular walls from floor to ceiling, and creaky wooden ladders hung from casters above.

Her notes were arranged chronologically on the long polished table, and at least twenty enormous legal books were all opened to different cases and references with acid free bookmarks protruding at various angles resembling disheveled porcupine quills. She worked alone and in silent concentration, reading and taking notes straight through lunchtime and was beginning to look forward to afternoon tea with Severus.

She reread a section in one of the law books and after viewing the information from all conceivable angles in her multidimensional mind, was about to dip her quill into the inkwell when suddenly she sensed a distraction. She looked up from her work and over her black rimmed reading glasses. It appeared that he had been there for several moments before she noticed his presence. She removed her glasses and regarded him with mild curiosity.

“Hello Professor Collins, I hope I am not interrupting your work.” He said, scanning the surroundings within which, Gwenevere resided like a grand majestic sphinx.

He had observed every fine detail, noting that Gwenevere was a woman who took excellent care of herself. Her immaculate robes were neatly draped over the back of a nearby chair. Her eyes were framed by long black eyelashes and were the perfect clear shade of violet, curiously the color of her softly feminine silk blouse. Her long agile legs were folded under her in the chair, with one knee up giving him reason to get religion as his eyes followed their amazing length all the way to her small, highly polished black boots. She demonstrated perfect posture and astonishing flexibility, and at the same time projected an easy, natural, self-assurance.
Her hair glistened and was in a loose twist and wisps of dark tendrils framed her face, drawing attention to her large expressive eyes and beautifully arched brows. Her right hand, free of adornment, was elegant yet strong as she held the quill, steadily poised above the inkwell. Her fingernails were neither long nor short and were buffed to a healthy glow. She wore a white glove on her left hand. His eye darted to her solitaire diamond necklace, which bejeweled a long graceful throat reminiscent of fine oil paintings by the Masters depicting aristocrats and the like.

“Actually, I was planning to break very soon. How are you today, Professor Parker?” She asked politely, quickly glancing at her Gringotts watch to confirm the time. As Gwenevere spoke, Parker felt heart palpitations while he focused on her sensual mouth as her full lips formed the words. Her dazzling white, perfectly straight teeth revealed a slight overbite, and her speech was impeccable and cultured. Her voice was naturally rich and Parker found it irresistibly sexy.

“Very well, thank you.” He peered down at the large and numerous law books at her service. “I do hope you are not planning to carry all of those books to the second floor today.” He quipped, with an awkwardly pleasant tone, as if to try and open the conversation.

“No, these books must remain here in the library I’m afraid.” She sat poised, waiting for the point of his interruption to become known. Professor Parker gazed at her for a moment. Gwenevere continued to linger patiently for his question. She set her quill in the holder and gracefully adjusted her position in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. The action jolted Parker into present- time reality.

“Right. --That’s brilliant!” He said. She regarded him with slightly elevated brows and a slight tilt of her head. “Er…I was just wondering…”

“Yes-- Professor Parker?” she asked calmly, as if to nudge him along just a bit.

“Well, being close to teatime, would you consider having me? Er…tea!” Gwenevere appeared slightly puzzled upon hearing the question. Parker cringed slightly at the sound of his own daft query. He closed his eyes tightly and barred his teeth.
“ Er… with me? Today. Perhaps?” He clarified the statement with a forced calm, and then met her eyes, which were now a much deeper shade of amethyst.

“It is kind of you to ask, Professor Parker. I am afraid I can’t, you see I have a standing invitation to tea with Professor Snape.” She absently tugged at the fingertips of her glove. The Juliet diamond sparkled brightly upon its sudden release, causing a prism of light to dance across Parker’s hazel eyes as she laid the glove across the open page of the law book.

“I see.” His look of disappointment pained Gwenevere slightly. She, unlike Severus, harbored no ill will towards him in the slightest.

“Maybe we will have a chance to talk in the Great hall on a Sunday afternoon sometime.” She offered as a consolation, leaving him to assume she was well practiced at such subtle diversions, successfully thwarting the awkward initial mating rituals of eligible suitors. She indeed let him down so very gently and what’s more, with no permanent burse to his ego, save that of an imagined one by Parker himself perhaps.
He wondered how on earth a miserable curmudgeon like Snape might have convinced her to agree to tea with him on a regular basis, unless he used the pretence of potions to lure her in. He wondered if Snape was wicked enough to cast an entrancing enchantment but remembered that it would prove ineffectual at Hogwarts.

“I will look forward to it.” He said politely. “Or maybe the next Quidditch match. I’ll look for you there. Which team do you fancy to win the cup this year?” he asked.

“Slytherin… I think.” She said tentatively. Gwenevere was surprised at the amount of enthusiasm he exhibited.

“Gryffindor is the favorite of course. They are quite fast. Greased lightening reflexes.” He added as a matter of fact.

“Sorry, I… hadn’t noticed.” She said, smiling wryly as she mentally pictured the Gryffindor team practices. “I expect the actual games are much different than the practice sessions though.” That must be the explanation she thought.

“No, they shouldn’t be really. Not so you would notice.” Bewilderment took hold of her. “I won’t take anymore of your time Professor Collins, good day to you.” Parker smiled the smile of bitter defeat, if not utter confusion.

Claudia and Ed

The trio stopped at the same dead end that had stumped Ed.

“This is not possible,” said Anton.

“The place is a maze. Ed didn’t pass us, he was in front of us. But here he is gone again. I know he’s avoiding me, but this is getting ridiculous.”

Spike put a hand on her shoulder, which she shrugged off. He tried again. “We stopped back there for a while, perhaps he doubled back, and didn’t turn the corner back to our closet, but carried straight on.”

Our closet. He was really pushing his luck, and she was highly emotional right now. Her mood could turn sharply in any direction without warning. He should be careful. She should be careful. Who was he anyway? Charming, funny, good looking, she was easily distracted. She was naïve and too trusting. She could so easily jump from one relationship straight into another one. It was her speciality. It was her character flaw. One of her character flaws. He could be yet another stepping stone on her path to self-destruction.

“Don’t, alright?” the coldness in her steely blue eyes, made him take an involuntary step backwards. No fun filled frolicking available there. Not right now, anyway. Be serious for a while, let her know you’re valuable. She might be able to get you away from here.

“I suggest we try for the map,” said Anton, running his long fingers through his greying hair. “Are there any control panels, and buttons anywhere? Any computer terminals?” He didn’t much care for science fiction, but he was sure that on Star Trek there had always been plenty of buttons and maps of the ship. There had been nothing obvious here, but it was possible it was hidden.

“Any flashing lights?” She said with a grimace. “No, unfortunately it doesn’t conform to my idea of a space ship, either. How these people can live such decadent lives in such a bland place, I haven’t a clue.”

Spike sighed, and put his hand against the wall, leaning on it. Put a woman in charge, and what do you get? Moaning about the lack of a tasteful colour scheme, rather than worrying if it’s structurally sound or not.

“Look!” said Anton, pointing at Spike’s hand. At his touch, a panel had lit up and showed a screen with some glyphs and an expectant flashing dot in the centre of the screen, which moved as the pressure on the wall changed.

“Ask, and it shall be provided to you,” said Spike smugly, quoting one of the sayings of his favourite handmaiden.

“You didn’t know that was there!” Claudia shoved him away from the wall, and as his hand moved, so the panel disappeared and was just wall again.

“Of course I did!”

“If you knew it was there, why didn’t you do that a lot earlier?”

Spike pouted. “Well, I knew about them - they are everywhere. Any panel on the walls can do that. But I’ve never been able to read them, so it didn’t think…” Claudia lifted a hand to thwack him round the head, but stopped herself short.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

Snape emerged from his quarters early Thursday morning after a restless night and reluctantly took the anti-ghost spell off of Gwenevere’s perimeters. He jogged steps two at a time, his black robes flaring flamboyantly as he rounded the many sets of staircases leading to the owlry.

He surveyed the occupants and commandeered three very different but highly appropriate owls to fly his mail out to Durmstrang, Gringotts, and to the chronicle’s submissions department.
He paused for a moment to observe a Siberian Eagle Owl, the one he might have chosen for Durmstrang had it not appeared ill. He had not seen this owl before and it looked as though it had been on a long journey and was tired or been injured. He quickly penned a note to Hagrid so that the animal could be monitored, before heading down to the Quidditch pitch to watch Flint and the Slytherin team practice.

The Gryffindor team was still on the pitch when he arrived. They were tantamount to suspended animation, hovering like figurines on a mobile over the field. The Quidditch equipment played the game unmolested as the players watched Gwenevere jog around the track in cool down phase.
As he watched from the distance, she reminded him of a finely bred racehorse with her long legs and fluidity of motion. She was fit and limber and had the grace of a dancer as she stretched and walked the final turn to go home. Her perfectly proportioned body clad in clingy black spandex could arouse rigid attention from the dead and Snape could understand perfectly well why Flint and the others found it virtually impossible to focus on Quidditch practice given the choice. Of course, openly admitting it would be out of the question.

The Slytherin team was on its way onto the pitch and Professor Snape met briefly with Flint before practice started. The team was at the top of their game, which pleased Snape. When their hour-long practice was through, he added two new ingenious strategies to the game plan, before heading back to the school for breakfast and another full day of teaching.

Gwenevere arrived home and barely ten minutes after Dobby’s departure, was sipping tea as she relaxed in the steamy, delightfully fragrant bath. She was concentrating on the legal case when suddenly the familiar sound of Sir Nicholas’s voice flinched her eyes open.

“What happened last night? Did you two have a row or something?” He said, a rather deadpan demeanor about him.

“Hello, how are you Sir Nicholas? I missed you yesterday.” She said sincerely, turning her head a degree to the right.

“Well Gwenevere dear, you can thank your monotonous malevolent, boytoy for that, he had the audacity to seal me out! Something I am most undeserving of I can assure you. I cannot imagine how he could have possibly perpetrated such a preposterous plan.” His eyes darted about the room as he fibbed indignantly. Gwenevere noticed that Sir Nicholas had a very guilty expression on his face and wondered why Severus found it prudent to take such drastic action under the dire circumstances.

“Oh dear…I’m sorry, but it looks as though the situation righted itself somehow.” Gwenevere coughed slightly and shifted a bit lower in the tub.

“I have another rule for you, Gwenevere, rule number one.” He was pouting quite a bit now.

“That’s wonderful work, I have a quill and ink ready." Whilst she dried her hands and forearms on a nearby towel and inked the quill, Sir Nicholas scanned her long toned arms, graceful throat, and delicate collarbones glistening with fragrant bathwater. Her hair was piled high on her head and streaked white with rich lather. Her eyes sparked powder blue and her lashes were wet and looked even longer than usual.
She was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever known in his six hundred odd years and counting, but what’s more, he enjoyed her companionship. Their brief visits had gradually become one of the highlights of his death. She had such subtle and varied facets to her personality and could relate to the quirkiest of situations with ease-- he and Snape being prime examples.
She could have a child like innocence about her one moment and an intelligent no-nonsense disciplinarian the next. He found her to be tender and kind and not at all haughty or self-absorbed. He fancied her appreciation of his wit as well, although she tried to hide it, a rare talent all the same. He eyed her warily and muttered under his breath.

“Pity you don’t need to fetch it out like last time…”

“Come again please.” She said, with suspiciously arched brows. She held the quill poised over the page as she waited for his response.

“Er…Nothing. Nothing at all, ahem. Rule one states: True Loves first kiss must take place before noon.” He boldly announced then held his breath and nervously glanced her way to gauge her reaction. Gwenevere smiled. Sir Nicholas exhaled.

“Thank you Sir Nicholas, you’ve been very helpful indeed. See you tomorrow then?” She said, still smiling. Sir Nicholas looked relieved and his overly cheerful demeanor returned forthwith.

“Anything for you, dear, see you tomorrow then. I must fly. Polo match.”

Gwenevere finished jotting down rule one and settled back in the tub to recall their first kiss. They were in the dungeon and had been working on the inventory when it was time to break for lunch. Severus moved in closely to her and checked the time on her Gringotts watch and then the earth stopped revolving on its axis as he pulled her in tightly towards him with his powerful arms and kissed her right down to her soul.
Her heart fluttered at the mere thought of it. She knew for a fact it was a quarter of twelve noon. Gwenevere thought of Severus and wondered if he had as fitful a night’s sleep as she did last night, she missed waking up next to him, and eiderdown was a poor substitute.

Please correct the following line:

"You only hate it," returned Nikki, "because you always lose." ,p>

Please change the "," to a "<"

Phil Allen & Barbara Vanders

FoF Sets -- Cafeteria

"If this person were a national park --" The American voice was suddenly cut off.

"Which nation?" A soft drawl.

"Ours, of course."

"So, if this individual were an American national park?" A third voice, British. "I hardly think that's fair."

"So, what would you use instead? If this person were one of the Director's film roles?" another voice, American, replied. "That's a little limiting."

The voices were coming from the large booth behind her, hidden from her by some bushy green plant she never knew the name to. She hunkered down in her seat, trying to eat her lunch. She was hungry, but food just didn't seem appealing. She pushed salad around on her plate.

"I'm sorry," the American voice said. Then more quietly, "I said I was sorry."

"Don't worry, Sarah," the soft voice drawled. "John can be like that sometimes. Don't let him get to you."

A quiet huff.

"So," one of the American voices said, "if this person were a national park..."

"Oh, yeah," replied Sarah. "If this person were a national park, he or she would be Bryce Canyon."

An Irish voice broke in. "If this person were a football team, which would he or she be?"

"The Chicago Bears."

"Who? No, no, not American football."

"You mean soccer?"

"I suppose, then."

"Manchester United?"

"Manchester!"

"They're the only team I know."

"Oh, bloody --"

"-- Sean!"

Sean. He was one of the grips on the Delaford set. Barbara could place the whole group, now. Sarah, continuity. John, dolly grip. Amelia, best boy. Nikki, floor manager. She knew them all.

"Sean, honestly!" Nikki said. "Such language!"

"If this person were one of the FoF sets, which would he or she be?" Amelia asked. The others groaned.

"Oh, come on!" "You always ask that!" "That's cheating!"

"Do I have to answer that?" Sarah asked. "I mean, we decided to limit the game to people who work here."

"The bloody point is --"

"Sean!"

"-- to not make it too easy."

"Tell us, Sarah," Amelia said, "what he or she is like. Not what set they work on."

Sarah was quiet for a while. Then... "The Palace Courtroom."

"Mistral!" John guessed.

"No," Sarah replied, smartly.

"If this person were a major city, what city would they be?"

"Edinburgh."

"You know," remarked Sean conversationally, "sometimes I hate this game. You have to pick out someone by interpreting how a third party sees them."

"You only hate it," returned Nikki, "because you always lose."

"Why can't we stick with sport or something?"

Snickers around the table.

"If this person were a Jane Austen novel, which would he or she be?"

Sarah was quiet. "Hrrm," she began. "Sense and Sensibility, I think."

"Forget the novels," Amelia said. "Which character would they be?"

"Emma."

"Mary Anne?" Nikki guessed.

"No, Emma."

"No, I mean our Mary Anne. You know -- tall, willowy, blonde, face of an angel, heart of mischief?"

"Oh!" Sarah exclaimed. "Uhm, no."

"If this person were a household appliance," Amelia began, with a speculative tone, "which one would they be?"

"A hair dryer."

"Barbara."

"Yes."

Barbara sat bolt upright in her seat.

"Barbara, the set designer?" Sean asked. "Our set designer?!? You must be joking. I mean, come on! Manchester United?! She's more like Chelsea."

"My question is, why the Palace Courtroom?" Amelia asked.

"Is that what gave it away?"

"No, actually, it was the Jane Austen questions," she replied. "Why the Palace Courtroom?"

Sarah cleared her throat. "Well, you go to see her and you know she means business. She doesn't get distracted, she follows the rules, she thinks about everything. But you know that, when you go in to see her, that you'll come out with a decision." She chuckled. "It might be a decision you don't like, but you'll get one." Her voice took on a questioning tone. "How did the Jane Austen questions give the answers away?"

"Emma spends the entire book thinking of Mr. Knightley as a friend," Amelia said, a smile in her voice. "But he loves her. She is one of the most willfully blind characters in Austen's work. Barbara's the same way about that Hair and Makeup fellow she hangs out with. Have you ever seen his face when he looks at her?"

"Used to hang out with."

"Oh, really?"

Murmurs.

Barbara was mortified. Was I so blind? Was I so deliberately blind? She let the question sink in. Yes, the answer came back, from some quiet place inside. Yes. Blind and willfully blind, as Amelia had said. Barbara looked at the blindness face-on. Why? Why had she been so determined to not think of Phil that way? To ignore how he felt, when it was right in front of her all this time? Fear, of course. Some unpleasant truths crept out into the light, too. It was nice to be wanted. She had to have known, sensed, deep down, that Phil desired her, at least. Yes, she decided, she had known that . . . and she hadn't wanted it to end. Ah, the truth dawned, bright and terrible (homage). She had fed the attraction, tormented Phil with it, and had simply walked away, saying she had no idea. Barbara Vanders, she thought, you are a bastard. At least she was right in that much: Phil was much too good for her.

She'd been afraid, afraid of Phil hurting her. And not so much as a thought of how she was hurting him. That laugh. On the yacht, the anniversary party, so long ago. That brittle, humourless, scotch-soaked laugh. She closed her eyes in a slow-motion, involuntary wince.

"But why a hair dryer?!" Sean asked.

Sarah giggled. "'Cause Phil wants his hands all over her."

Shocked giggles.

Oh, yes, he wanted her. Desired her. Loved her. Well, she wanted him, too. Desired him. Craved touching him. And, oh!, she missed him. Missed their coversations, missed their arguments, missed teasing and touching and talking. That Phil-shaped hole in her life. Want, desire, miss. But did she love him?

The usual automatically generated "No did not appear. She prodded thoughts forward, at the tight knot above her heart. Yes did not appear, either. Guilt did. Shame. Fear. A lot of fear. "Love" is only two letters away from "leave," she'd once told Phil. Had she been testing him, too?

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

Severus and Gwenevere were subdued as they silently ascended stairs on their way to the second floor. Severus walked Gwenevere to her door.

“I am finished with your potions book, can you come in for a few minutes to say goodnight?” Gwenevere asked, whilst unlocking the door. Severus nodded yes. They entered her quarters; the book was waiting on the table by the door for him. He took out his wand, and lighted the candle on the table, replacing it in the pocket of his robes afterward as he was not planning to stay. He gazed at her; she was especially beautiful tonight, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. Her eyes were deepest ocean blue.

“Severus, why do you think Professor Dumbledore allowed tonight’s outcome? I am sure he knows...” She stopped short and raised her brow. She wondered why McClane so fiercely had it in for Severus.

“The Headmaster is very wise Gwenevere. It has occurred to me, that it is no coincidence you were placed in this particular region of the castle.” He said quietly, actively fighting the urge to remove his coat and move beyond the threshold of her quarters.

“So our Headmaster is an accomplished matchmaker amongst his other infinite talents.” She mused, smiling thoughtfully at the idea.

“Perhaps. However, he could not possibly have known about the charm and the curse. Of this I am certain.” He reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist, preparing to kiss her.

“The Headmaster thinks highly of you, I noticed the unmistakable bond between you.” She said, moving her hands over his chest and lightly embracing his neck.
Snape’s features softened, obviously deeply pleased by her observation. She perceived his demeanor as profound reverence as he respectfully withheld verbal comment. Behind his cold stony veneer was such incredible depth and tenderness, exposed only to those who held the rare and elusive key. He kissed her softly. She looked deeply into his eyes, to see if his conflict had eased.

“Severus, you do look very tired, I am worried about you. Are you sure…” She said as she held him for a moment.

“I am fine Gwenevere, I have some work to do tonight and then I will sleep. Professor Dumbledore’s orders remember?” He was tired, but tried to reassure her nonetheless.

“I could give you a relaxing magical massage tonight, and then return home.” She offered in a silky tone reminiscent of a cool breeze on a sultry summer night. Her fingers played at his collar.

“It sounds… ‘Have mercy’… wonderful… ‘Give me strength’… really… “Now!” However, I must read your research project tonight and the chances of you actually returning home are nil, if I have my choice, and I cannot disobey the Headmaster.” He looked her in the eyes with the innocent calmness of an accomplished occlumens.

“Alright then, a quick kiss goodnight.” She said. She did not wish to delay his rest.

“Please, a wizard has requirements, Gwenevere, a kiss Goodnight, yes, but quick? I think not…”

He seized her close and steadied her tightly as his deep open kiss had its usual effect on her. She could no longer feel her feet touch the floor as he pressed her boldly against him, their hearts throbbing together as one.
After his departure, she lingered in the entranceway for several moments feeling slightly lightheaded as she savored the effects of the lengthy sensual goodnight. She contemplated a personal opinion she had held for most of her adult life; that in some ways, a kiss like that offers the deepest expression of love and intimacy two people can possibly share, especially when shared over a considerably extended period of time as was often the case with them. She picked up Boots, and the candle then turned and walked to her bedroom, planning to end the day with a good book set in the time of a muggle king whose reign started in the late eleven hundreds. It would help distract her from dwelling too intensely on the curse tonight, which would be counterproductive at best.

Snape poured brandy, grabbed a piece of parchment, and loaded his Gyrfalcon quill with black ink preparing to compose a letter to Igor Karkaroff regarding McClane’s “special assignment.” A sneer curled upon his lips as he envisioned McClane’s future little jaunt eastward, his assignment would surely prove to be very special indeed, in fact enlightening one might say. He penned angrily and rolled the parchment tightly then sealed it with a plain wax stamp. The exercise, along with Gwenevere’s affections served to elevate him to a better frame of mind temporarily.

He finished reading her research project and was once again impressed beyond description. He made a note in his calendar to submit it to the chronicle for publication. A second piece would render Dr. V. Collins a force to be reckoned with in the field of potions and would help speed her through regulatory classifications and potions board licensing if she were not a complete unknown.

The idea of spending two nights without her annoyed him as he knocked back the remainder of his brandy, feeling the pleasant effects of the smoothly aged amber as it drifted through his pronounced exhale. His thumb absently stroked the round base above the stem of the crystal glass as he thought of her now. He would face the dawn tomorrow without the pleasure of her turning to him and shamelessly begging his body heat with her velvety, sensual murmurs and tender kisses. He closed his eyes and imagined her creamy soft skin as he embraced her in his mind, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the tender touch of her hands. He was deeply moved just thinking of her this way and almost allowed himself to throw caution to the wind and go to her now against his better judgment but loosened the cuff of his sleeve instead, scrutinizing the dark mark with bitter disgust. He stood up abruptly, turned out lamps and went to bed.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

Professor Dumbledore appeared concerned as he regarded Professors Snape and Collins.

“Severus, may I please have a word with you and Professor Collins, in your office?”

“Certainly, Headmaster.” Severus said, as his unyielding icy glare fixed upon McClane.

“Please wait outside McClane.” Professor Dumbledore instructed while holding him back with the flat of his outstretched hand.

The three of them entered the office and shut the door. McClane tried to listen at the keyhole, but when that proved unproductive, he stalked the potions lab snooping around Snape’s desk and checking the cupboard doors to see if he could look inside.

“Relax Victoria dear,” Professor Dumbledore said kindly. The three of them sat down at the table together.

“Severus, I have some questions to ask you and I would like you to answer them without… elaborating.” He said, closing his eyes and waving his hand in a circular motion as if trying to think of the word amongst his irritation with the present situation.

“Yes Headmaster.” Severus appeared completely calm and unfazed by the unusual circumstances.

“Did you and Victoria spend the night together in your quarters last evening?” He looked over his glasses when he emphasized the word your. His mouth was a thin line and it pained him to spend valuable time with this type of nonsense just to mollify McClane.

“No, Headmaster.” He answered. Gwenevere turned a surprised look at Severus, but remained silent.

“Explain please, why Victoria was seen departing from your room this morning at 6:45.” Professor Dumbledore sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes under his glasses as he asked the ridicules question.

“She came to my quarters that morning to borrow a book before I left for the day.” He flatly stated. Gwenevere glanced anxiously from Severus to the Headmaster as she tried to imagine what all of this was all leading up to. Surely the Headmaster was aware that while Severus technically answered his questions with honesty, the whole truth was being efficiently concealed.

“Well, I thought as much, it seems that McClane has little else to do except spy so I will ask that the two of you cool things off until I can arrange to send him on a special assignment on Friday. He is driving everyone mad. As you know, I always know the whereabouts of students and staff at any given time of the day or night especially since I borrowed that handy little map from Potter a while back… yes." Snape turned his head and appeared especially interested. "whilst I don’t disapprove of the two of you spending time together, however know that those like McClane are watching and you may need to be a bit more careful. I know I needn’t remind you to be careful for other reasons as well." He glanced at Severus, referring to the curse.
"Severus, that was brilliant of you turning McClane into an ass. He deserved it and it did wonders for staff morale at this most stressful time before O.W.L. exams." Professor Dumbledore chuckled. “I had the pleasure of overhearing peals of laughter coming from the staff lounge the other day as a result of your creative transfiguration. Minerva especially approved of it.” He placed his hand on Professor Snape’s arm to emphasize the point.

“My pleasure Headmaster.” Severus said, with the look of subtle complacently yet unmistakable pride on his face. The Headmaster regarded the subordinate Professors for a moment from the position of mentor, peering kindly over his half moons.

“Victoria dear, you look radiant as usual, Severus you look like hell. Get some sleep tonight and that’s an order.” He said quietly.

“Yes Headmaster” He said, Gwenevere flinched and looked nervously toward Severus. The three of them appeared serious as they emerged from the office together.

“McClane, Professor Collins was visiting Professor Snape to borrow a book this morning, it’s as simple as that.” Professor Dumbledore said calmly.

“Well, that is a relief. I should have known as much, how could anyone possibly…” McClane scoffed. Snape gripped his wand and narrowed his eyes then took a step forward until he was stopped by Dumbledore’s words.

“In the future I would advise you to mind your own affaires. I don’t expect you to be seen in that secluded area of the castle again and to ensure it; you will leave on Friday morning on a special assignment to Durmstrang. Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank will teach the remainder of your er…Libanomancy class. Do I make myself clear?” He spied over spectacles at McClane, for the purpose of asserting his absolute authority.

“Yes Professor Dumbledore. Perfectly.” McClane said tersely. He turned and left the room.

Gwenevere gave Professor Dumbledore a peck on the cheek before the wise old wizard turned and said good night.

Ed and Claudia

The Doctor brushed himself down. Luckily there had been no heavy bits of debris, just more fodder for the fire. He reached into his inside pocket, pulled out his “pocket calculator” muttered something about “still downloading”, and put it back. He reached in again and brought out a penlight, which he shone up the rubbish chute.

“Ah, as I thought. There’s always one.” He moved his body further inside, twisting to shine his light and get a better look. Then suddenly he was gone.

“’Ere, did you see that Brian? Straight up, like a ferret up a trouser-leg.”

“Rat up a drainpipe.” Mumbled Brian.

Dave wandered over to investigate, and Brian begrudgingly got up and followed. The pair got to the hole, and both stuck their heads inside. It was a tight squeeze with the two of them, and they momentarily got their shoulders wedged together. With a bit of a shuffle, they managed to look upwards, and see where the Doctor had gone.

Not very far, as it happens. “Ah, gentlemen! Glad you could join me.” He had pulled himself up onto a service ladder, and had clambered up several rungs. He shone his light upwards again. “Look, up there. A service hatch in the side of the thing. We just need to climb up a short distance, and we can be out of here.”

“Blimey! And why didn’t you think of that, Brian?” said Dave, forgetting it had been Brian’s idea in the first place. “All the time we’ve wasted in this hole, and we could have been away.”

“A lot of good it will have done you,” said the Doctor cheerfully. “They’d have just thrown you back down again.” He started climbing. “Come on! I’ve been working on something to get you home.”

The two ageing friends fought for first place into the chute, in a way that would have made Laurel and Hardy proud. They were surprisingly sprightly for having had the life sucked out of them.

The stories themselves, however are totally original ;))

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

Severus sat sulking at the table whilst eating breakfast this morning. His distinctly virulent manner cautioned colleagues and subordinates alike to circumnavigate him if at all possible. Professor Parker watched curiously from the corner of his eye, as Snape abruptly finished his tea and strode with attitude out to the corridor.

Professor Snape’s teaching schedule was packed today leaving only a small break for lunch. His patience was being stretched to limits owing to the entire student body catching spring fever as the close of the school year drew nearer. By the middle of the day he was turning vicious at the first sign of chat during lecture or making a mistake obviously due to not paying attention in lab.

He assigned cruel detentions to the offenders. House points were diminishing at an alarming rate as the undercurrent of restlessness gained momentum and spread within the classrooms. Although not surprising, the students were exceptionally well behaved in Snape’s classed compared to some of the others. Professor Flitwick for instance, found himself levitating from his stack of books and across the classroom and into the corridor one afternoon while teaching a group of rowdy fifth years.

Gwenevere emerged from her office after having spent the morning studying for her potions class tonight and the afternoon absorbed in her notes concerning legal documents for Gringotts. The rap on the door indicated teatime as she quickly moved to answer; she was more than ready for a break. She was more than ready to see Severus.

“Hola Dobby, Estoy alegre verle, yo apenas ahora necesito un resto.” She said.
(Hello Dobby, I am glad to see you, I need a break just now.)

“Hola. La Doctora Collins, Profesor Snape necesita al parecer una rotura también. Él le ensamblará, sin embargo, él será atrasado. Él no está en un temperamento feliz hoy.” Said Dobby woefully. Gwenevere looked puzzled for a moment until she sorted out his Spanish.
(Apparently Professor Snape needs a break also. He will join you, however, he will be late. He is not in a happy temperament today.)

“Sí, . él es el mejor a evitar. Gracias dobby, yo le verá mañana.” She said, looking concerned as she took the tray from him.
(Yes, It is best for you to avoid him just now. Thank you Dobby, I will see you tomorrow.)

“Adiós. La Doctora Collins.” He said, as he waved to her from the corridor.

Gwenevere suspected Severus was building steam, as pressure from the curse added to his rapidly rising rancor overall. She vowed to be mindful of his need for solitude now as she recognized his mood swinging ominously to the dark side. Severus was very much like her Grandfather. Intensely brilliant wizards require ample solitude especially when sorting out a difficult dilemma and Severus personified the character trait.

Just as Dobby predicted, Severus arrived a bit late and was not in a pleasant frame of mind. He kissed her rather quickly and was quiet through tea. He was neither abrupt nor impolite, however, he was distant and appeared preoccupied. Gwenevere sipped her tea quietly and was careful to not try and force a conversation but to simply listen to him when he chose to converse. Severus was inwardly grateful for her sensitive consideration of him, yet he could not express it to her just now and hoped that she somehow sensed this.

He finished his tea and had a quick look at her watch, announcing that he must go and teach a class. He kissed her goodbye and she took the opportunity to embrace him for a few moments longer than was usual, which he was again inwardly grateful for as he felt some of his tension dispel as a result of her touch. He strode down the corridor toward the dungeons and was still thinking of Gwenevere. He imagined how welcome a magical massage would be tonight, but he was unwilling to take the risk, a thought which served to rekindle his acrimony sufficiently enough to add another four students to his detention roster barely fifteen minutes into the lecture preceding dinner.

The six o’clock pm lecture for Gwenevere’s class was no less than brilliant, however it was delivered with an icy supernatural semblance which made Sir Nicholas’s death day party look like home for the holidays at Grandmother’s house. No one dared make a sound; even quills were quieted as they loaded ink. He paced and lectured non-stop for two hours, thus completing a twelve-hour day, before which she knew he had gotten little sleep for the reason that unlike herself, Severus didn’t sleep when he had conflicting issues to sort out. Gwenevere would treat him with kid gloves tonight.

“Class, make sure you are here early for the lab on Friday. You will be answering a set of questions to test your truthfulness before and after administering the veritaserum. You are all dismissed.” He spoke his closing remarks without looking up from his writing. Gwenevere shuddered to think of the questions he would formulate to test the truth potion if he was in such a foul mood when he composed them.

Oh dear, it's been made into a real hash of things, hasn't it?

Poor "Mary Anne." Poor Christopher.

Mary Anne’s long strides make quick work of the walk back to the set—and why should they not? With the demands of Sei’s kickboxing class and her fencing work, plus Jutta’s sensible program of exercise for her, she is in excellent physical shape. No strain at all, this walk, except for the rapid thrum of her heartbeat that makes her vision blink and flicker; dimly, she can hear Brandon behind her calling, “Mary Anne, please wait—“

As if he cannot catch up to her. Mary Anne stalks on, her lips closed in a tight line that bodes ill for the first person to cross her, from the lowliest clerk in the mailroom to His Directorial Majesty.

Brandon. There, just behind her. She can feel his presence, hear his step, but he seems to have decided that there is no point in trying to speak with her and simply keeps pace, escorting her back to the building.

She could almost relent. She should relent, should turn to the man behind her and walk into his arms—even if he did laugh at her, and a fresh wave of irritation and nervous energy overrides her inward protest. No, he wasn’t laughing at you, not exactly.

Yes, I’ve heard that one before. “I’m not laughing at you; I’m laughing with you.” Sure. Pull the other one. Right.

The entrance to the set, and Mary Anne slams open the door with the flat of her hand and sweeps through, heading down the corridor--

--and stops.

Turns. Looks.

There on the magazine stand by the door. There is that same Journal of Toxicology in which Professor Snape had been so absorbed. And there . . .

HE WALKS AGAIN BY NIGHT!

The headline seems to leap at her from the page of the tabloid rag jammed into the rack—the headline, and the photograph of Mistral, poised on the stairs that are unmistakably the exit of her flat.

That picture. Taken by someone who knows the business and is armed with an excellent camera: anyone with even a fleeting acquaintance with Mistral would instantly recognize his face, mercilessly distinct in the ambient light that picks out all the fine detailing of the wrought-iron staircase on which he is poised, caught between one step and the next, somber, brooding, and most appropriately mysterious. More than a hint of menace in the shadowing of those angular features. A superb example of the photographer’s art, worthy of a better setting than this sheet of gossip, rumours, and lies too carefully framed to become a matter for the courts.

Mary Anne remembers to breathe.

Behind, her a voice. “Damn.” The Director. “I thought they were all cleared out. Mary Anne, I am truly sorry you had to see—“

What, he’s not grilling me about why Mistral was at my flat? That is bad. No wonder Christopher thought--

Mary Anne forces her gaze away from the rack and turns to Brandon, who is looking at her with sympathy and without the least surprise. She can feel her lips move and waits for the words to come out. “Christopher, you knew about this, didn’t you.” It is not a question. She knows it is true.

He answers, nevertheless. “I saw it. Yes.”

A dull pain at her heart. It will not stay dull, she knows.

“Did you see it before . . . before you sent me . . .”

Brandon steps closer. No embrace, no touch of his hand, but for her even his shadow is a support, a strength upon which she can lean. “Yes, Mary Anne? Before I sent you . . . ?” That low, hushed voice. At any other time it would be balm to her nerves, but she can feel the prickling of tears behind her eyelids.

“Before or after you sent me the flowers, Christopher?”

“Before. I saw it . . . before.”

Mary Anne’s eyes close and The Director starts forward, prepared to help Brandon catch her and ease her to the floor; pale as Mary Anne is, he has never seen her face turn that colour. But he steps back as her eyes open and focus on Brandon.

“Christopher.” She inclines her head, and Brandon grimaces a little at the stateliness of the gesture, the effort at control: like a queen overthrown and in the hands of her enemies, making a good end as she bares her neck for the axe. “If you saw that, and still thought to—send me—“ She swallows. “Then I’m the one who has done you an injustice. For that, I am very sorry and I hope you will forgive me.”

Without waiting for a reply, Mary Anne turns and walks away down the corridor, trying not to run, not to hurry, only to get there, get into her cube with a door between her and the world, before sinking down on her chaise and burying her face in the cushions.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Gwenevere felt particularly invigorated this morning and ran an extra two miles as Boots watched from the sidelines. The Gryffindor Quidditch team practice session looked lackluster as ever as she slowed to cool down and stretch. She honestly couldn’t see how Severus could enjoy such a dull sport.
After running, Gwenevere took her tea with her to the bath, but Sir Nicholas was a no show, causing her to wonder if Severus had conveniently forgotten to remove the anti-ghost spell on the perimeters.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply as scented steam rose all around her. She began organized her thoughts, knowing that she would need to study this week and get ready for Friday’s difficult truth potion, she wanted to execute the formula flawlessly so that Severus would desire her assistance on the Azkaban order next week-- the genuine full strength veritaserum. The thought of assisting him with a potion of that magnitude caused goose bumps to appear on her forearms, she sunk lower in the tub for added warmth. She planned to borrow one of Severus’s potions books this morning; hopefully she could catch him before he left for the Great hall.

Gwenevere dressed quickly and entered the corridor. She stood at Severus’s door for a moment. He was just leaving and as usual, he answered before she actually touched the door with her knuckles. As she walked in, they locked eyes and their expressions softened as the vivid memories of last night’s lovemaking came to the forefront. Severus leant towards her and kissed her gently. Gwenevere noticed that Severus seemed preoccupied with his thoughts; there was a certain appearance in his eyes that suggested something serious was troubling him.

“Are you all right Severus?” She asked, as she narrowed her eyes with concern to assess his demeanor.

“Yes, I am fine.” He said, a sadness shown in his face, but vanished. She wanted to say more, but sensed this was not the ideal situation as he was on his way out. She was suddenly aware of the time.

“Severus, I don’t want to delay you, but may I borrow the book with the formula for veritaserum in it, just for a little while?”

“Of course,” He stepped aside so she could enter the den. “Help yourself Gwenevere. You know where it is.” He offered as he began putting on his coat and adjusting his collars.

“Thank you, I want to check something for Friday’s Lab.” She said as she entered his den.

“Read into the next level as well, will you? I will need you to assist me next week on the Azkaban order.” He said, trying to sound as though he knew for certain there would be a next week with her on a personal level.

She carefully lifted the book from the shelf then quickly returned to the entranceway. Gwenevere once again focused her gaze on his eyes. She handed him the book while she released his now shoulder length hair from his collars and straightened them for him. Her hair was still damp and fragrant from her recent bath and her touch was so gentle and caring. Severus found it addicting. She slowly took the book back from his hands.

“Yes, Severus, I will. Are you free to meet me for tea today?” She asked absently, thinking about his choice of words just now. He said need and Severus doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean.

“Yes.” He said, grasping the door handle, preparing to open the door.

“Are you sure you’re all right? Gwenevere searched his eyes again, the sadness had returned.

“Yes, a bit tired perhaps, that’s all.” He assured her, managing a hint of a smile that didn’t extend to his eyes.

She continued her concerned focus on him, how she wished they had more time. She kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth, as he turned the door handle.

*******************meanwhile********************

Leigh! *big ol' squeezy hug* Glad you're enjoying. Don't lurk--write!!! 8-)

Ed and Claudia

Ed was so full of thoughts and questions that he almost ran into the wall. He stopped abruptly at the dead end he had reached, frowning. He didn’t remember passing any more doorways, and she’d said the Doctor came this way, followed by guards. So where had they all disappeared to? He turned around to address the others, but they weren’t there. He cursed himself for dashing off ‘Claudia-like’. He grumbled. They needed to keep together. They’d never get away, if someone always had to be found. And this place was a maze if ever he’d been stuck in one. Which he had, several times.

He turned around and started to retrace his steps. Definitely no more doors. Step. No Claudia. Step. No Anton. Step. No bloody peroxide interloper. Who was he, anyway? She’d better be careful, things aren’t what they seem round here. Yes, but you didn’t want to stick around and protect her, did you? Shut up.

Arguing with himself now. Just great. Claudia wouldn’t be the only one in the family to be locked up when they got home. Family. Stop that!

The wall to his right slid open, and a group of guards came out, laughing at some joke. He stopped still. They spotted him, and walked towards him. He had nowhere to run, the dead end behind him, so he stood and waited to find out his fate.

“Ed,” one of the guards stepped forward, bowing slightly. “The Overseer has requested your presence. We’ve been looking for you.”

“What does she want?”

“Your presence. You are a guest and we wish to honour you. Please, follow me.”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

After leaving Gwenevere’s quarters at dawn this Wednesday morning, Professor Snape returned to his den. It was a time to reflect on urgent matters, which could be ignored no longer. The dark mark. The curse.

They now knew rules three and five and part or rule seven. Had they met a day later, he would be dead instead of wed on June twentieth. He didn’t like the way that the rules were constructed, and wondered if any of the unknown rules would prove impossible to follow owing to circumstances beyond their control, such as ‘the moon must be full on the wedding day.’ He checked, it wasn’t. They may not know if this has happened until day forty-one, when he simply failed to wake up. He wondered for a moment how the curse would take his life exactly. Would he be with Gwenevere when it happened? If so, he must prepare her for it if it was still relevant after Friday evening.

He did not harbor false hopes. Through the years, he had thoroughly researched evil curses like this one and knew that they were designed to prove infallible, this being the whole point of them. It was too easy to include a requirement that no one could possibly circumvent.

He wondered about the unknown rules. Perhaps he should have taken the anti-ghost spell away from her quarters this morning but he would not have Nick peeping-tom upon his Gwenevere, her voluptuous splendor was sacred, for the pleasure of his lingering eyes only. He was positive Gwenevere wouldn’t approve of Nick had she known what he had done.

Even though he may only have seventeen days left alive with Gwenevere, he resolutely decided to spend no more nights with her until after he told her the truth, if she would still have him. Its not that he didn’t have enormous faith in her judgement or that he didn’t think she knew her own heart—quite the contrary. He knew she loved him, or at least the man she thought he was. When the façade is stripped away and she sees him for who he really is, she will undoubtedly reevaluate her affections.

Let last night’s memory be their last if fate dictated such cruelty. And why shouldn’t it? How could he actually think that he could hold on to someone like Gwenevere? She was brilliant, beautiful and in demand by handsome wizards who lurked library passageways for hours just to have a glimpse of her. He wondered how many others were actually in love with her.

He loathed deceiving her this way, mocking her steadfast trust in him. She had the right to know the truth that she was sleeping with and engaged to be married to a Death Eater. How could he blame her for leaving him? If she left him though, it would break rule five and the curse would surely kill him. After hearing the truth, and realizing how long he had knowingly led her astray, she will certainly be furious, but she couldn’t possibly despise him enough to see him die. How would he handle such deceit if the tables were turned? He would be no less than livid, though, he could not imagine ever being cross with Gwenevere for any reason. Maybe she would marry him just to try and break the curse, for the sake of her conscience and then leave him afterwards.

He lamented his life so far, the significant events that had mattered most in his past. A memory flashed in his minds eye. He was receiving corporal punishment from his enraged father for not making the Quidditch team, as if a dashed dream and the humiliation of public rejection weren’t enough punishment for a boy. He dwelled on the lost opportunity to be awarded the Order of Merlin, and the annual rejection of his application to become the DADA professor, even though he was highly qualified for the job. Gwenevere’s choice to leave him would fit in with precedence. One would think that he would be accustomed to such devastating disappointments by now.

The thought of that damned dark mark turned him bitter inside, igniting a slow burning rage that threatened to consume him if not resolved soon. He pounded his fist on the desk. After Friday’s veritaserum lab, he would tell her everything while under the influence. It was the only way to do it, as he had nothing to hide on that score. He stood up and left the den, deciding that what he needed most now was a long hot shower.

Magda--"spoons be damned; this time I'd use a belt buckle." OUCH. And "Not now. Killing first, loving later." That's our George! I can't wait to see what will happen next.

Barbara--"Marilla, Anne and I had to share a room about this small . . ." Always good to see another AoGG fan. And also: "I'm only going to be here for a year -- two at the most." *snicker* Given the usual workings of FOF time, that's how long again? ;-)

Wonderful, wonderful reading.

Meanwhile, we seem to have an underlining problem--help, D.o.C.!

By the time I'd given my final orders and spoken with Leofric one more time, the afternoon sun had slipped below the horizon and it was dusk. I galloped across the drawbridge and through the town, paying no heed to passersby who were forced to run out of my path. My mind was focussed on one thing: getting my hands on Estrilda and dismembering her as slowly and painfully as possible. And spoons bedamned; this time I'd use a belt buckle.

Joya and the ladies were in the middle of the evening meal when I arrived. The Poitevin ladies greeted my return with sincerity and laughter, teasing Joya that I was such a devoted father that I could not stay away from my child for more than a few hours. Joya looked at me and raised her brows. Meanwhile Lady Suzanne called for another plate and goblet and Lady Christina moved her chair so that I could sit beside my wife. They kept up a cheerful atmosphere that was so lively I was able to stay out of it without attracting undue notice. Joya kept darting inquiring glances at me, and squeezing my leg under the table to get my attention. I concentrated on my meal, however, and refused to be distracted. Finally she gave up, huffing angrily under her breath.

As soon as the final dish was removed from the table, I stood up and announced, "If you ladies will excuse us, I must speak to my wife. Something has come up at the castle, pertaining to King Richard's impending arrival, and I require her advice."

Lady Suzanne waved a hand in dismissal. "Go right ahead, Lord Nottingham. We'll not disturb you."

"Thank you, my lady." I bowed to both of them, then hoisted Joya to her feet and out the door almost before she'd laid her napkin down. Not until we were halfway up the stairs did she start to resist me. I ignored her efforts and pulled harder. Her room was mercifully empty; Bertha must have been taking her meal in the kitchen with the other servants. I shoved Joya inside and kicked the door shut, dropping the bar in place to ensure privacy.

"And just kind of important advice -" Joya stopped abruptly, staring as I pulled out my sword and began to prowl the room. "What are you doing?"

I yanked open the lid of the largest trunk and poked my sword into it, stirring up the contents until the tip reached the bottom. "I'm searching for vermin."

"I see." She watched me repeat the procedure on the second trunk. "Actually, no I don't. What is this sudden curiosity about household pests? And why was it so important that you had to come rushing back here to satisfy it?"

I turned around and subjected the other contents of the room to a minute scrutiny. "Because this particular type of vermin is one we have run across before but thought we'd never see again. Are you storing anything under the bed?" I stalked across the floor and knelt down to sweep my weapon under the frame. There were no obstructions. I pulled it out again, brushing off the dust and straw.

Joya seated herself on the only chair in the room and folded her arms. "I'm waiting."

I sat on the floor, my back propped against the bed, and told her about my discovery. She listened carefully, making no comment although she was pale by the time I'd finished. Like me, she was calculating the opportunities Estrilda had had to do her worst.

She didn't say anything when I finished, just rubbing her arms as if she were cold. Finally she looked up. "Of course, we were looking for a man."

I nodded. "And would have never suspected a woman. Although she was definitely the husband in that marriage."

A faint smile curved Joya's lips. Then we both jumped as someone pounded on the door. "My lady? It's time for the young one's feeding." Bertha, and from the sounds coming through the wood, carrying Richard for her nightly repast.

Joya let them in and took the baby. Bertha was surprised to see me and even more taken aback to see the sword lying on the bed. Joya ordered her to bring the cradle, as Richard would be sleeping in our room this night. The older woman nodded respectfully and backed out the door, still looking a little wide-eyed.

While Joya ministered to the baby, I completed my inspection. The two windows opened out on the garden but were too high off the ground for anyone to climb to and too narrow for anyone older than a child to fit through. There was no wardrobe in the room, and no other entrance except through the door we'd barred again. The room was as secure as it was possible to be; there was nothing for it but to sit back and wait for Leofric to send word that he'd found Estrilda. I'd made it clear to him that I would accept no excuse for letting her slip through our fingers this night. And I was pretty sure that she was close by. When I went to the stables for my mount, I had checked with the grooms to make sure that all the other horses were accounted for. Estrilda would find it impossible to get far on foot in the dark, especially if she didn't know the town well.

I slept fitfully that night. While Joya curled up under the blanket, I lay fully clothed on top of it and kept my sword on the floor beside the bed, ready to hand if needed. She'd tried to cuddle against me, as we usually did. But I put her from me firmly, softening the apparent rejection with a rough kiss. "Not now. Killing first, loving later." She blinked, then nodded and rolled over to sleep.

We got word just after dawn. The sound of many horses milling about on the paving stones woke me up and I got to my feet just as someone knocked at the door. It was Leofric himself, looking unusually grim and breathing hard. His boots and leggings were wet. "We found her, my lord. You'd better come."

Any questions I had about his appearance vanished at his words. "Good work. Is she in the dungeon?" I secured my sword on my belt as I spoke.

He shuffled his feet. "You'd better come, sir."

I paused in the act of putting on my cloak. Something was definitely not right.

"George?" Joya's voice was husky with sleep. "What's happening?"

I looked over my shoulder. "Leofric's found Estrilda. I'm going up to the castle to deal with her."

"I'm coming too." She sat up, immediately wide-awake. "Wait for me"

"Please sir." Leofric's voice took on an edge of desperation; he was practically pleading. "You'd better come see things first."

I looked back at Joya. "No. Stay here. Something's amiss." She opened her mouth to argue but I lifted a hand to cut her off. "Wait here until I find out what it is. I promise you that I will do nothing without you being present. But I must make sure she's secure first."

Joya hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. As if to remind us both of other responsibilities, Richard set up a fretful wail, demanding nourishment. As Joya bent over the cradle, I slipped out the door and we descended the stairs to the street.

We urged our horses into a canter and didn't speak. My mind was racing. So much for Will Scarlet's "friend in the castle". He'd get no more help doing his dirty work. I imagined possible scenes: should I bring Scarlet up to the great hall so Locksley and Marion could watch when I confronted him with Estrilda? Yes, that might just work. Or else I could -

"Sir! Not to the castle. This way!"

I jerked my head around. Leofric and his men had turned off the road to the castle and were heading in the direction of the river. Puzzled, I pulled my horse's head around and followed them. We passed tanneries and breweries, industries that depended on access to the Trent, then the huts and cottages of the washerwomen who made their living doing the town's laundry. The paved road ended and we were riding on beaten dirt, little more than a path. Voices up ahead indicated a crowd and we emerged through the trees to find half a dozen men-at-arms standing around something on the ground. Peasants and workers along the riverbanks craned their necks to see what was happening, but fell back hastily when they saw me. I swung myself out of the saddle and looked around. There was no sign of Estrilda that I could see.

Leofric came up beside me. "Over here, sir. You'll see."

We walked over to the men. They fell back and revealed a lumpy cloak on the ground. One of them bent over and twitched the fabric back to reveal what it concealed. The peasants behind us gasped with one voice.

It was Estrilda. Or rather, it was the waterlogged remains of what had once been Estrilda. A path of bent grass indicated the place where she'd been dragged from the river and hauled to her present location. Still in the fine clothing of a lady-in-waiting, wearing shoes rather than boots and cloakless; obviously she had fled the castle without taking any precautions or changing her clothing. Her hair hung down and almost covered her face; her veil was probably still in the water. I leaned closer to ensure that it was really her, giving a close examination to the face and upper body, then nodded to Leofric. The cloak was dropped back into place and she was out of sight again.

"Well." I looked around. There really didn't seem much else to say. I considered the situation. "One of you find a cart and take the body up to the castle. Find an empty room away from the main hall and set men to guard it. Allow no one to enter before I get there. I'll follow in about an hour."

They nodded and got on with it. Leofric looked at me for instruction but I gestured to him to remain. As they worked I mounted my horse again, paused for a final look at the river that should have been Estrilda's final resting-place, and then set off for the goldsmith's house to collect Joya. She'd be dressed and ready to go, awaiting only my summons. I hoped we'd have some time to talk before we set out for the castle because there was much on my mind.

Such as who had thrown Estrilda's dead body into the river to try to make it appear as though she'd drowned even though the dark bruises along her throat and jaw indicated she'd been strangled first.

David Farrell (aka David Friedman) & Verity Lawrence (aka Verity Lavelle)

FoF Sets -- Dressing Rooms

"Well, this takes me back."

David Farrell slumped in the rickety chair in the tiny dressing room as his old friend Verity Lawrence paced the floor. "Takes you back?" he drawled laconically.

"Oh, yes," she said, turning to him with a smile, "remember the Greenguild Players?" She looked around the little room. "Marilla, Anne and I had to share a room about this small, at that tiny little playhouse in the West End." Her voice filled with warm nostalgia. "The McCoy." She turned to him. "We were doing Joan of Arc. You remember."

"I've not had the chance to burn you at the stake since."

"Quite," she rejoined, with a knowing look.

"You know," he said abruptly, "this is dangerous." She looked at him quizzically, as he continued, "What if someone finds out? This could ruin your career."

"Oh, come on," she shot back, "it's been in all the papers."

He snorted. "Fleet Street doesn't qualify as papers."

"Exactly." She tilted her head and looked at the tiny dressing table. "I'm only going to be here for a year -- two at the most. That's less time than I spent on some film sets."

"That wasn't day-in and day-out," he replied. "You're going to see these people practically every waking moment. You're just about going to be living here."

"I'm going to be too busy for any of it to matter, Savage."

"I'm serious, Verity."

The look she gave him was oblique, but her voice was calm. "I know you are. I just think you're a bit worried for no reason. Firstly, this is Britain. It's not like Hollywood, where someone will sell to the papers a complete list of your meals for the day and whether you scratch your nose at 9 am or at 9.15 as scheduled. Secondly, I don't intend to make an object of myself. As you said, I'm going to be practically living here. I'm going to be too busy for romance. And, thirdly and finally, there's no one here for me to date. Even the hairdressers are taken. Everyone's already paired off." She looked at him drolly. "Except you, of course. Shall we have a hot, steamy affair, like Jenn and Colin? We could scandalize everyone. Fleet Street could have a day with it."

"Oh, please," he said disgustedly. "You know you're not my type."

"Yes," she smirked. "You prefer blondes."

"All right, Lots," he sighed, resignedly. "It's your life."

"Indeed."

“What about me and Mistral?”

Brandon makes an impatient noise and Mary Anne pulls her arm free from him, stepping ahead to block the path.

“Oh, no you don’t, Christopher Brandon, not if you mean what I think you mean. Now, answer me—what’s this about me and Mistral?”

Brandon raises an eyebrow. “What do you think I mean?” A nasty tactic, throwing her own words back at her that way, but it gives him time to think. Already he regrets the mention of Mistral, regrets giving voice to these shadowy fears and doubts in the attempt to disperse them.

Mary Anne studies him through narrowed eyes. “I’d say you’re jealous, except that I never gave you cause.”

“Never gave me—“ exclaims Brandon, before biting back the hasty words. A long, calming breath. Better to tread carefully. “Mary Anne, perhaps it did not appear so to you. Perhaps you’ll think I’m foolish, but all I can do is tell you how it seemed to me.”

“You’d better tell me, then.” Shaking her head, Mary Anne wanders off the path toward one of the garden benches. “I need to sit down. If you’ve been jealous of Mistral, any crazy thing is possible.”

Even now, Brandon’s gentlemanly instincts do not fail him. He escorts Mary Anne to her bench with the deferential courtesy that is second nature, then positions himself warily at the other end of the bench, watching her face, gauging her reactions to how he will explain himself. How he will try . . .

To her credit, Mary Anne is waiting patiently. Well, patiently enough, for her. But that will not last if he does not speak, instead of fidgeting like a guilty schoolboy.

“I think it started during the yacht party.” Brandon nerves himself to look her in the eye. “I overheard your conversation with Mistral, when he was . . . playing with your feet. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but—“

“Oh.” An uneasy glance down at her shoes. “Well, you’ve seen him play with my feet before.”

“When I was there to put a stop to it if things got out of hand. So to speak. After that, it seemed—well, it is difficult to explain. So many little things.”

Little things, indeed. Do you have any idea how pathetic you must sound to her? Happenings insignificant in themselves. The memory of Cindie and her playful warning that he might want to hide his razor. “The appeal of a bristly Mistral has been noted by your Miss Mary Anne and she threatened to hide yours. I think she has ideas for a Bristly Brandon.” Shameful, to be so disturbed by such trivial incidents. But having begun this difficult course, Brandon presses on.

“And then, when I rang your flat and Mistral answered the telephone—“

“He had only stopped in to check up on me, since I’d been so out of sorts on the set that day. And he answered the telephone because I was putting dishes in the sink and couldn’t drop everything and run to the phone, not without smashing the teacups all to splinters.”

“And now there’s trouble between Cindie and Mistral—“

“There is? Since when?”

Seeing Mary Anne’s dismay, Brandon allows himself to relax a little; there is no least trace of guilt in her expression, no sign of fearing that she is responsible. “Since right after the Museum Gala.” A grim smile. “They probably think no one sees, but you can’t have that kind of electricity between two people without someone noticing when . . . well, you’ve seen them together. Before now, I mean. When they leave the room, it’s as if someone had dimmed the lights, isn’t it?”

Mary Anne nods. “Oh, I know. Trust me, I know.” A wistful smile. “Some people might say the same of us, Christopher. Do you suppose the whole set is talking, wondering what’s happened?”

“I’m bloody well sure of it.” He can see her eyes widen at his choice of words, but for once Brandon is past caring about guarding his language. There is no one to hear but Mary Anne and she will understand his reasons. “It’s why I followed you out here today. To get this settled before everyone could be gossiping about us, after they’d finished with Cindie and Mistral, of course.”

“I’m sorry to hear they’re having trouble, but I can promise you I had nothing to do with it.”

“In that case, I can only apologize for doing you an injustice.”

“Christopher. I am not interested in your apology, unless you believe me when I tell you that there is nothing between me and Mistral—“ Trying for the firm, clear tone that will tell him she means business, but the shake in her voice betrays her. That he could have thought-- But she can feel the heat rise in her face as she remembers the intensity of Mistral’s physical presence that evening in her flat. Lounging on her couch. The caress of his voice, the almost hypnotic dominance he can exert at own pleasure and will.

Enough. I don’t love Mistral, and I do love . . .

Mary Anne raises her eyes to Brandon, to find him staring at her with such naked longing that she hastily lowers her eyes again, feeling her pulse accelerate. Who says you have to walk to give your heart a workout?!

“Mary Anne, I’m sorry to have upset you so.” Brandon, hunched in misery at his end of the bench, resting his clasped hands upon his knees. “I’ve made such a---a pig’s breakfast of things. I should never have mentioned this to you.”

Mary Anne tries to rally her scattered senses. Troubled, yes, and angry that Brandon could have thought this of her. A little angry. But the impulse to help him when he is in trouble is a reflex as natural as breathing. “What, and have you still be wondering? I don’t think so. But I meant what I said. Do you believe me?”

“I believe you.” A pause. “In that case, let me also say I’m sorry for how I acted like such a cretin in your flat.”

“Christopher.” Silkily dangerous. “If I can’t speak ill of myself, then neither can you.”

“But I wanted to help you, my dearest, and I lost control of myself and frightened you instead—“

Abruptly, Mary Anne reaches the end of her small stock of patience. In one quick slide she is next to him on the bench and reaching for his right hand. “Shall I show you how much you frightened me?” Lightning-fast, before he can withdraw, she presses his hand against her tank top, long enough for him to feel the hammering heartbeat beneath his fingertips before he wrenches his hand from her grasp.

“Good God, Mary Anne, don’t do that!” Feeling his body respond instantaneously to the slither of fabric against his fingers, the heat of her body, the pounding heart. More arousing than all of these—that it is for him. It is Christopher Brandon who has this power, he and not another.

“Why not?” she blazes at him. “It’s nothing less than what I felt—all that night, I might add, just try sleeping when you’re feeling that way—and it certainly wasn’t fear. Listen to me very closely: Christopher Brandon the Mad Seducer exists only in my scripts! What you did was give a grown woman a kiss that she happened to enjoy very much, once she got over being surprised. So, you will not call yourself a cretin again where I can hear you. You’re a good man, the man I happen to love, and I won’t have you impugn my impeccable taste with this Domine, non sum dignus act you’re so fond of.” She pauses, frowning. “Though in my case I suppose it would be Domina instead—“

Brandon makes a small sound that he tries to repress—but cannot. It is no good to try. The choked noises break free as an absolute shout of laughter, and Brandon collapses into his corner of the bench, positively wheezing with mirth and ignoring the obvious danger signal of Mary Anne’s glacial regard.

“And just what, pray tell, has turned you from a sensible man into a passable imitation of a hyena?”

Gasping for breath, Brandon finally gives himself a shake and turns to her, still shaking with laughter. “Forgive me. It is only that—“ Again, a chuckle he cannot hold back. “My dearest, darling Mary Anne, in the midst of such a tongue-lashing as that, only you of all women would stop to correct a mistake in your Latin.”

Mary Anne flushes crimson as Brandon goes off into another attack of laughter, particularly as her mind obligingly conjures up circumstances, complete with vivid images, in which Brandon would address her as Domina . . .

No, better not go there!

She can see the joke, and at any other time would probably share in it. But now, with her nerves in shreds . . . no. Few things are more infuriating than having someone think you’re funny when you’re angry, and right now she is enraged, only just enough in control of herself to remain silent. Conscious even in her irritation of not wanting to hurt Brandon’s feelings, for he has lacerated himself enough today, she rises from the bench, striving for the utmost dignity as she walks away down the path and heads back toward the set.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Emergency Edition.

Severus’s shirt hit the floor and at that exact moment, the flame on the candle flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.
With one jerky motion, he lifted her in his arms and in between the cool crisp sheets. Slow kisses tantalized her flesh. Soft womanly sighs guided his touch. It was like fanning the flames of an open fire, as the heat pulsed between them. She was racing to the threshold of her endurance. He paused, trying to bank the intensity of her response, to savor the moment until it stretched to an hour. But he reckoned without his own consuming need. With mounting passion, he demanded her surrender, unleashing a haze of sensation that crackled like red sparks from the hearth. Two cries rose in the air as their ardor crested, and then mingled together before dying away into soothing murmurs and drowsy kisses.

Gwenevere listened to his heartbeat, unable to move a muscle. They rested for a time and then she slowly roused to gently brush damp locks from Severus’s brow and kiss him lightly on the temple before settling down beside him to sleep. He summoned the energy to embrace her and stroke her hair lightly with his fingers. They lay there, relaxed and drifting toward sleep when Gwenevere remembered something important.

“Severus, I almost forgot to tell you something about today.” She said, with a sleepy sounding voice, as she lay enfolded securely in his arms, in the dark.

“Yes…” he said as his kiss brushed her forehead on the place where he continued leisurely stroking her hair with an index finger.

“I know what rule number five is now.” She said. Severus stopped. The statement jolted him awake.

“How did you learn rule number five Gwenevere?” Surprised tones were evident.

“Sir Nicholas told…” she started to say.

“Sir Nicholas!” Severus jumped up suddenly, but relaxed upon remembering that he did in fact place the anti- ghost spell on the perimeter of Gwenevere’s residence before adjourning to her bedroom tonight. Then he remembered Nick’s comment this morning and a new flash flood of anger washed over him. He tried to sit up again in a fit of agitation, but Gwenevere turned upon him and held him down, their hands locked over his head, she kissed him until she felt him relax once again. Yes, she had surprising strength for a woman; then again… escaping from under Gwenevere’s nude body was not exactly high on his agenda at the moment; not by any stretch of the imagination.

“Are you ready to listen now?” She purred, nuzzling his neck.

“No doubt.” He said as he slid his hands out from under hers and ran them over her back. She was intentionally bruising his neck.

“Er, before we get too distracted, what was it about rule five?” He asked. She shifted her weight in order to reach the nightstand.

“I wrote it down Severus, you may need to light the lamp to see it properly. There is another candle in the drawer as well.” Her voice trailed off as she took the parchment from the nightstand and handed it to him. He turned the page toward the window where a very fine sliver of moonlight shone through an opportunity in the cloud cover.

“I can manage without it.” He said, though he would have used the lamp had he been free to do so. Gwenevere’s penmanship was exceptionally legible.

“The wedding must take place in the springtime on the 40th day of the first meeting; counting the meeting day as day one and the wedding day as day 40.”

Severus reread the rule in his mind and panic ripped across his face. He reached for his wand, which was on the table beside the bed. He stood up and put his shirt on then seized the nearby lamp.

“Gwenevere, find a calendar please, quickly.” he said as he lit the lamp.
She leaped out of bed and put her dressing gown on. Gwenevere took the lamp to her office and located a calendar in the top drawer of her desk, handing it to him without delay.

“Severus, what is it?” She didn’t like the worried look on his face.

“Springtime.” He said stoically. While Gwenevere held the lamp for him, he counted the days starting from twelfth of May being day one and the twentieth of June being day number forty. June twentieth was the last day of spring and so June twenty first was the first day of summer.

“Our wedding day is the twentieth of June.” He said. “The fortieth day and the last day of spring.” The gravity of the situation impacted them significantly as they got a greater indication of the twisted mind they were dealing with in Sir Kevin.

“It’s getting late, come back to bed.” He said.
They returned to her room and settled once again under goose down. Severus folded his hands behind his head and propped his knee up and out of the comforter in an attempt to lower his body temperature slightly. He considered opening the window. Gwenevere rested her head on his chest and absently caressed his ribcage with her thumb. They were both somewhat relived to know that the threat of rule five could apparently be safely eliminated.

“How does Nick know about rule five then?” He asked, letting his curiosity get the better of him.

“He talks to the victims of the deadly curse and finds out how specifically they died. He told me that the rabbits are eager to help us dismantle the curse.” She said quietly.

“Gwenevere, Rabbits?” He asked.

“Yes, the curse victims are called rabbits where Sir Nicholas is.” She said sleepily.

“I know I am going to regret asking this, but why are they called Rabbits?” He asked, maneuvering his other leg from beneath the down.

“Because they spend most of their time behind closed doors behaving like… well, rabbits.”

Severus recalled the rabbits in the dungeon experiencing ecstasy after the PolyJuice potion, and actually smiled widely, however, the event remained unobserved owing to the total darkness in the room.

“Severus?” she said.

“Yes?” He almost laughed, but not quite, being more a clearing of the throat.

“Do you suppose spirit world sex is as good as living world sex?” she asked, freeing his torso from the comforter then continuing her slow caress of him.

“Oh, Master of all creation, let it be so!” He said, as he rolled his eyes skyward in mock praise. He paused to consider the ramifications of Gwenevere’s clever plan.

“How brilliant of you, Gwenevere, to employ that daft twit into something useful like necromancy.” He said. Yes, Severus was quite pleased indeed.

“Accept gifts whencesoever they come. Sir Nicholas is just misunderstood, He’s actually quite pleasant under the proper circumstances; once you get to know him.” She yawned and her hand, which was upon him, grew suddenly still.

“Well, judging from his comments this morning, he is getting to know you too well for my liking, I have a mind to…” He complaints fell upon deaf ears, as she was now sound asleep.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

Their involvement grew to the point of making further conversation undesirable.

“…You must be getting rather tired Gwenevere.” He said, slipping his curious fingers inside her dressing gown near the ties. He was positive he didn’t recognize this black silk creation.

“A bit perhaps, but I am not ready to say goodnight just yet…” she said, before threading her fingers through his hair and increasing the pressure of the next open kiss. She tasted brandy.

“…Who said anything about saying goodnight…?” he said after several minutes. He stood them both up and grabbed his wand, putting out the lamps as she playfully urged him forward. Another off-handed flick of the wand sent a large golden spark ricocheting off the doorknob in the entranceway as they passed by. Boots ran and hid under the bed.

“I see you are not planning to reenter the lounge tonight Severus.” She said as they left it and entered her bedroom moments later.

“I must make certain… that you are properly tucked into bed and kept warm… as it is very cool and rainy outside…I know how you get easily chilled…and the effect it has on you... It is only your welfare I think of Gwenevere.” He purred between lingering kisses that slowly reached her throat just below her ear as the lamp went out and he set his wand down on the nightstand next to a lighted candle secured on a very early, and rare Victorian candle plate. The wick was flawed and the beeswax was almost completely spent causing the flame to hiss tiny sparks as it glowed with minimal light. For reasons known to him alone, he left it burn.

He untied the loose knot and parted Gwenevere’s dressing gown. It slid from her shoulders and down her back to the floor. He paused as his heart pounded and desire overwhelmed all other emotions. She was a goddess, a living fantasy. Her voluptuous figure, barely clad in low-cut black lace, greatly taxed the garment's resilience. The design could be seen as an instrument to punish unsuspecting men with pain and possible death by anticipation.

He watched with rapt fervor as this dark vixen, encompassing every lustful thought he had ever entertained, continued her unrestrained quest to pleasure him as his clothes landed the floor.

It was almost time to extinguish the faltering candle as only his shirt was left to remove. He detached the first cufflink and accidentally dropped it on the floor between them. Gwenevere knelt gracefully to rescue it, dropping it down the front of her lace garment for safekeeping. Severus gripped the bedpost for additional support and his heart pounded hard, she was inundating his senses.

Hot minutes later, the cufflink and its mate clattered to the nightstand. She played at the buttons of his white shirt, as Severus manipulated the tiny black zipper, plowing betwixt silk lace ribbons running down the center of her intimate apparel. She shuddered and sighed when the tension eased, as straps cleared her shoulders and down her arms. He set his gaze rigidly upon her, escalating their devotion to the next level.

A wince of emotion flashed across his face as she stepped closer to him, closing the minute gap between them. Severus gulped and closed his eyes as he felt his shirt begin to slide slowly from his frame. Her eyes fixed upon him, tracing him from head to toe in the dim candlelight.

Claudia and Ed

The Doctor picked up a piece of debris from the ground, and poked the fire with it. There had just been an extraordinary revelation about the goings on here, but he looked as relaxed as a Timelord can ever look. After a moment, he looked up, and spoke to Dave, who had just finished his jig, and looked like he was trying to remember what he’d just been talking about.

“How do they do it?” The Doctor asked, finally. “How do they take the life-force?”

“Well…” Dave sat back down, and leaned sideways round the fire, and closer to the Doctor. “I’m no scientist. But they encourage all these baths and showers. I thought they were just hygiene freaks to begin with. But there is a nice calming drug they put in the stuff, so you breathe in through the steam. I reckon that’s when they do it. I don’t know mind, but that’s what I reckon… of course, they could just steal it while you’re sleeping.”

“Hmmm…” the Doctor tapped his chin with a finger. “The first thing we need to do then, is get out of here. Then we can see about getting you home.”

“Can’t get out of here,” said Dave. “Can’t get in the lift. Can’t call it down. No button. Only opens when someone comes down in it. And only people that come down in it are those guards. And they save all the really mean and ugly ones to be the guards,” he pulled a face. “And I wouldn’t want to be tackling with one of those.”

“There must be some other way out.” The Doctor got up, brushing down his trousers, and started to wander over to approximately where the lift had come down. He slid his fingers over the wall. The wall was smooth, there was no sign of a doorway. He worked his way along the wall. “There must be something…” he muttered.

Brian grunted, and Dave jumped. Brian didn’t make much noise, so it was rather unexpected. “What was that Brian? What did you say?”

The Doctor looked over at the duo sitting by the fire. Brian grunted again, and nodded towards the rubbish chute. “Up.” He said.

“Don’t be an arse! You’d need to be strong to climb up that chute. And then if you did get half way up, they’d dump a load of rubbish down on yer head, and knock you back out again. Just like that spider.” He waggled his fingers imitating the insy wincy spider rhyme.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

“ How was your trip to London?” He asked, leaning back and pulling her into a comfortable position within his arms. He handed her the brandy to keep her hands occupied for a short while. She happily settled in, she could feel his beating heart.

“It was productive, I collected the Romeo ring and took care of the banking. There are some transfer documents in my office for you to sign when you are ready.” She said. He nodded thoughtfully and kissed her hair, whispering a deep thank you as he did.

“Did you have difficulty finding the ring?” he asked, training his laser focus on her cleavage, which was framed in black lace and visible at the top of the dressing gown. The ties on her gown beckoned him relentlessly and teased his rampantly growing curiosity. He took a sip of brandy and found that lack of concentration made it difficult to swallow. Suddenly, he was aware that Gwenevere was communicating with him through the use of words.

“I didn’t find it immediately.” He heard her say and watched as she lasciviously twined the rim of her glass with the slightest touch of her middle fingertip. She brought her fingertip to her lips and sucked briefly like a kiss, then resumed. His thoughts orbited lazily as if in a dream and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath in a vain attempt to refocus on his intellect. Her voice sounded far away as she continued.
“Boots helped me locate the back room where you found the Juliet diamond.”

He interrupted the mesmerizing distraction by reaching for the velvet box containing the Romeo ring. He set his glass down and opened the box. Black pupils dilated and focused as he took the ring out and studied it very carefully. “Interesting.” He said quietly.

“Is it to your liking Sir? She asked, taking his free hand in hers and kissing the palm.

“It is.” He said, placing it back in the box. “ I wonder why the ring would have a snake engraved on it if Kevin was ophidiphobic?” He said absently.

“Possibly Kevin is not the one responsible for having commissioned it.” She said. “Perhaps it was actually Romeo who designed it as an amulet against Kevin.” She politely thwarted a yawn. It had been a long day for her and she was feeling no pain, unlike Severus, Gwenevere was not yet accustomed to the late nights they were keeping recently. She was more used to six hours sleep as opposed to three.

“That would make sense perhaps, I will show you the ring box that contained the Juliet diamond, there is a snake engraved on it as well.” He said.

“Severus, didn’t your Quidditch team play the Gryffindor’s this morning?” She asked, suddenly remembering.

“Yes they did. I am pleased to say we conquered them mercilessly and to a complete and utter disgrace thanks to you.” A contented smirk curled on his lips.

“What do you mean?” She asked, puzzled as to how she could have anything to do with it and secretly wondering how anyone could possibly sit through one of those games let alone find reason to be enthused.

“Er…nothing at all. How was your meeting with Voltaire?” He asked, changing the subject. He was extremely suspicious of Voltaire calling upon his Gwenevere for assistance so soon. He abruptly finished his brandy.

“I looked over the file and suspect it will go to trial in the end. It is a tetchy corporate accusation with several unrelated complications. I agreed to write an analysis and recommend the best plan for legal action, but it was child’s play compared to your vault relocation.” She teased.

Having finished her brandy her hand was once again free to roam, causing him to gently lift her jaw towards him so that lips could slowly meet for another prolonged kiss as they lost themselves completely to a place known only to them, a place that few could ever describe.

“Try me now, and see if I run.”

Mary Anne looks up into Brandon’s face, and what she sees there makes her take a hasty step backward. I’m not afraid, I just want a better look at his face, that’s all. Brandon’s response is a mere shift of posture—not a step forward, not the least appearance of stalking or pursuit, and yet it places him maddeningly within range of her once more; there he is content to wait and prove to her that he will not be found wanting. If either of them is going to run . . .

It won’t be me. In what she hopes is a not too obvious imitation of Claudia, Mary Anne plants her hands on her hips and glowers. “How would you suggest I try you?”

Those eyes never leave her. “However you like. Decide what will satisfy you.”

She had never thought she could be irritated with Brandon. Well, hardly ever: an event of the same rarity as being struck by a meteor—and yet, that infuriating calm, that placid assurance in his face that he is the one in control of this exchange . . . I should just turn around and keep walking. But . . .

Mary Anne lifts her chin and stares at him. “Then kiss me again,” she challenges, “like you did in my flat, and don’t treat me like—“

How Brandon is or is not to treat her must remain lost to history; again, that subtle adjustment of his posture, hardly perceptible as an advance, and yet he is there with his arms around her, drawing her into one of the shaded arbors near the South Rose Garden set, her head falling helplessly back against his arm as he draws her nearer to him . . .

Head falling helplessly back against his arm? Please. Don’t make me laugh, and don’t act like you’re in one of those trashy novels, either. You can very well help it, if you choose . . .

Mary Anne does not choose. This, despite her challenge, is not like the kiss Brandon had given her in her flat; that had been outburst, an explosion of anger and sorrow together with desire, and had startled Brandon as much as it had her. This is invitation—not the explosion itself, but the slow burn of the fuse. Invitation, and provocation: he does not immediately claim her lips—the better to hear her soft exclamations as he devotes himself to her throat and shoulders, exposed by the scooped neck of her tank.

Yet there is nothing in this to make her trust him the less, for he is clearly master of the situation and of himself. And of me? Well, we’ll see about that.

“All right, then.” Shakily, as she withdraws herself from his embrace. “I’m convinced. You won’t run.”

“As I said.” Brandon offers his arm. “Would you like to finish your walk?”

“First let me make sure I can walk,” she retorts, accepting Brandon’s arm as they continue along the paths through the Garden set. “So, then, why did you run? That night, I mean. What on earth got into you?”

Brandon grimaces. “Too much champagne, for a beginning.”

“Oh. Well, that’s flattering, I’m sure—“

“Perhaps I deserve that, but may I be allowed to finish?”

“You may.”

“Thank you.”

They walk on for a moment in silence, before Brandon clears his throat and continues. “I have this . . . idea . . . that for every woman, and probably for every man as well, there are occasions when they are in extraordinary looks, for no reason that anyone can name. No matter how beautiful the woman or how handsome the man, there are times—“

Mary Anne nods. “I know exactly what you mean.” There flashes through her memory an image of Brandon in his costume as Prince Sirki: he had still looked like himself as well as the mysterious royalty he had played, yet there was something about him more powerful than the sum of both; all had felt it that night and been drawn to him irresistibly.

“You understand; good. My dearest, you were . . .” Accustomed though he is to paying her compliments, Brandon fidgets as though he expected to be disbelieved, bracing himself for the accusation of flattery. “You were as beautiful as I have ever seen you. Indescribably so. From the moment I called to pick you up at your flat, and you were so excited about the evening and the party, and so glad to see me . . .” A fleeting smile. “I hope you were glad to see me.”

“I’m always glad to see you, Christopher.” Quietly.

“Yes. Well, thank you. But—“ One hand lifts in the age-old gesture of bewilderment, then drops to his side again. “I had too much champagne at the gala, and when we returned to your flat and you were so grieved by the pictures . . . and I could not fathom it, Mary Anne; could you not see in your own mirror what I was seeing? I thought to reassure you, but what happened, you know, and I was worried that I might have frightened you instead—“

”Just goes to show you how differently we see things. I wasn’t frightened, exactly . . .”

No. The memory of that sleepless night, burning and shivering . . . no, not fear.

“ . . . but I was worried about you, Christopher. You seemed a little preoccupied at the museum, and you must have had something on your mind, to lose track of how much champagne you had. That isn’t like you.”

“No. I—“ A sidelong glance. “I did have something on my mind, as you say. I had been thinking about . . . you and Mistral . . .”

That stops Mary Anne in her tracks.

“What about me and Mistral?”

The Director got up from his desk and moved to exit via the door which led to the office adjoining his. Usually the sight that would greet him was Linda seated there unflappable and in control of his appointment book and visitors. Linda also oversaw the tour groups and took the guest directors around to get acquainted with the sets and the people. He winced recalling the havoc in the lunch room when she’d had to leave and Therese had stepped into the role and escorted Hugh Laurie about. He’d gotten an earful from the chef about the commotion interfering with the enjoyment of his cuisine. While the Director personally felt that the term cuisine was a bit pretentious when applied to the lunchroom’s usual faire he didn’t want to be on Pierre’s bad side. The fellow was rather over blown but he could do things with chicken that were miraculous. Now, Linda was on a week’s holiday spent assisting a friend who had chosen to adopt a child orphaned by a war in its home country. A worthy effort and a cause near and dear to his own heart. Fortunately, he had Cindie in place this time and she knew her to be organized and not likely to allow visiting directors and cast members to become combatants in the lunchroom.

As he moved he contemplated the serenity of the last few days. He’d worn the Dirt Shirt which Mary Anne had bestowed upon him and had actually found a suit of a russet brown that hadn’t clashed. It wasn’t his colour really but he’d made sure Mary Anne had seen him in it and was satisfied that he’d done his duty. The braces of that peculiar green colour which Therese and Cindie had given him after their little jaunt was another matter and he pushed that conundrum to the back of his mind. Best to deal with that one another day. Since Brandon, Mistral and Dev had been similarly gifted he didn’t feel the need to be in the forefront of resolving that social nicety.

His thoughts rambling along these unprepossessing lines he segued into the outer office currently occupied by his assistant. The cultivated calm was shattered in an instant. Cindie was fighting what appeared to be a losing battle with a stack of forms, an electric typewriter and a bottle of white-out. She banged the typewriter’s carriage with the flat of her hand, “how does Linda manage on this thing!” She glared at the Director as his entrance coincided with the crescendo of her frustration.

The Director attempted to reason with her. “You know Linda prefers the typewriting machine to the word processor. She likes the direct contact with paper and ink and she says its easier than having the forms on the computer.” The reasonable tone was a tactical error on his part.

“Well its stupid. I can’t get the box thingies to line up with the letter thingies and it’s a mess. You should have hired a temp.”

“Linda will be back next week, I’m sure she can fix everything then.”

“Oh, so now you think I can’t do the job?” Her hand moved to her hip as she swiveled her chair around to face him full on, “well let me just remind you that I’ve been doing this job, and doing a bloody good one at that thankyouverymuch, and my job, which is actually three jobs these days, and you haven’t had a good word to say about any of it.” The Director might have tried to reply to this but she didn’t give him the opportunity. Eyes narrowed she continued her tirade. “I’ve been rehearsing my scenes, rewriting them, handling the contracts for the new cast members, trying to do these blasted forms and playing receptionist. That …stupid Trudcheon is gone so I’m doing her work too. If you think you can find someone who can do better you just go ahead, I’m doing the best I can but, but, I can’t…” She finally faltered and seemed to run out of steam.

The Director moved over to her. “It’s all right, I’m sorry. Of course you’re doing a fine job.”

“I’m trying but….” Tears seemed imminent. Good grief, what had he said?

Tears must be avoided at all cost. Unfortunately, the Director’s normal omniscience seemed to have an uncharacteristic flaw. “Why don’t you and Mistral knock off early today and have a nice relaxing dinner? He’s done filming and I can manage the rest of the day.”

The Director saw Cindie stiffen. The tears were averted as she acted as though he’d sluiced her with a bucket of cold water. Perhaps that wasn’t a good idea.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

He kissed her again slowly, and then letting their lips brush lightly decided to celebrate with a small detour before resuming the conversation. His kiss traced down her throat and to her collarbones as his fingers lifted the edge of her thick dressing gown to expose a hint of black lace. A sensual bass sound emitted from deeply within him as the prospect caused him to shift his weight slightly to allow for more room where needed.

Gwenevere responded, she was acutely aware of his state of mind. A much stronger wave of vertigo stirred him as her hand patiently slid up the length of his lean muscular thigh. He cleared his voice and placed his hand upon hers to halt its progression before it arrived at its rapacious destination, regrettably, altering his position to the defensive.

He wanted to finish their conversation first and satisfy his piqued curiosity about her meeting with Voltaire. Moreover, his control of the situation was crucial in keeping the dark mark concealed.

Flirtations with such matters of importance hung in the balance, a curious mix alternating precariously between exhilaration and dread. He felt exhilarated while in the presence of extreme danger and intrigue. He knew the sensation intimately through his work with the Order and actually thrived on it. The dread was associated with unacceptably high stakes. This was a foreign notion to him until now.

The possibility of his untimely demise as the direct result of being discovered by his enemies was something he could live with. The thought of meeting with his end after slow and painful torture, unimaginable for most wizards and all muggles, by the killers who presided over the dark world was inconsequential to him.

When he dwelled on the thought of losing Gwenevere, through breech of trust or worse yet, through the distinct possibility that she would never be able to accept his past alliance and concurrence with the epitome of pure evil, it exposed the raw edges of uncharted emotion suggestive of primal fear.

“Perhaps you should change your socks?” suggested Spike.

She looked down at her bare feet. “I’m not wearing any. Perhaps you should just stay here?”

“What, and miss all the fun? What will you do for comic relief?”

“That’s usually my job. Come on then, I’d hate to lose them now. We’ll never get out of this place.”

They ran, and Anton Gruber had stopped to wait for them. Claudia touched his arm. “Thanks, don’t want to lose you now.”

“I hope I can be of assistance. I feel as if I’m always following, in this… place. It is quite an unusual experience.”

“I know. What do you suggest?”

“I would prefer to find a map, rather than wandering aimlessly. Maybe they have maps on walls, at junction points? Then we could locate the Doctor’s travel machine.”

“I haven’t seen any so far, but good idea. We should really catch up with Ed first, and find the Doctor. It’s no good if we are split up. Maybe the Doctor found a map in the computers?”

“If not, I can probably help,” Spike waved his hand above his head, trying to get their attention.

“We would all of us, have something to contribute,” agreed the Anton Gruber. “And I really must get back to the palace as soon as I can. I had not intended to be away for this length of time.”

“Don’t worry about that - you’ll have been away no time at all, as long as we can make it back to the Tardis.”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Severus stepped in and greeted Gwenevere in a manner suggesting he missed her at least as much as she missed him today. She lingered in his embrace as he slowly rubbed her back with his large warm hands. He whispered something close to her and her body seemed to melt into his. She closed her eyes to fully concentrate on his special touch, the sound of his voice, and the delicious scents from the Hogwarts Great Hall mingling with his own unique and very masculine ones.

“Alright Gwenevere?” He asked, enjoying the intimate embrace. He was momentarily concerned that there may be something wrong by the way she held him so tightly, but dismissed it as simply the result of the absence and the distance between them all day.

He could feel his pulse quicken as he kissed her hair and felt her hands caress him. A slight wave of vertigo swept through him as he vividly anticipated being with her tonight. He planned for an early retirement.

“Yes, I missed you today that’s all…” She said, kissing him hello once more. “Thank you for my letter…” He wondered if he could convince her to go off to bed at seven thirty tonight, and practice some-- no, all of the suggestions in the letter.

He removed his coat and robes as she plucked a small blue object form the pocket of her damp cloak and accompanied him to the living room. With wand in hand, he flicked it toward the fireplace, calmly commanding “Accendo” before setting it on the table beside the stack of mail and a midnight blue velvet ring box. She watched fondly as he loosened his collar and strode to the cupboard, taking out two glasses. He paused to read the label on the new bottle of cognac. It was Remy Martin 1738 AR.

“I picked it up in London today. I do hope you like it.” She said, as he opened the bottle. He joined her on the sofa and handed her a glass.

“You have exquisite taste Gwenevere.” He said, evidently pleased with her selection.

“I think so.” She said, referring obviously to Severus as she set the glass down and kissed him again. Then again…

“I missed you at tea today.” He told her, intentionally leading the conversation. He recalled his own dismal tea; her state of mind at that time was significant enough to cast an intense bearing on his consciousness; one that could not be ignored.

“I had a short visit for tea with my grandmother before returning home. I was thinking fond thoughts of you though.” She said, as she gave him a very sexy look with an arch of a braw then politely sipped cognac. It had a visible effect on him.

“Yes, I know…” He said, feeling the relaxation spread through his frame as a result of either the information he had just received or the brandy; a combination of both perhaps.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

It was early evening when Gwenevere arrived home. She set her parcels down with the aid of the dim light cast by torches in the corridor and rummaged in her pocket for a match to light a nearby candle before hanging her cloak on the brass hall tree. Boots trotted into the living room and halted. He was highly disappointed to find the fireplace, in fact the entire place, dark and cold. He wondered where the low voiced man with the pointy stick was-- the one his mistress petted now instead of him. He decided to go for a quick snack to help banish the unpleasant feeling of envy from his heart, food always helped.

Gwenevere turned to find an ivory-tinted envelope sitting on the small table by the door. It reminded her of the congratulatory note she had from the Headmaster upon her return to her quarters the morning after becoming betrothed to Severus. She recognized Severus’s bold penmanship, as it scrawled beautifully her name in sepia ink, and smiled warmly as she thought of him.

She reached for the sculpted bronze letter opener sitting next to the envelope. The uniquely sculptured pheasant was signed by an Austrian artist and bore the AR foundry mark, establishing the antique as a rare and valuable collectors item. A dear client, now deceased, who was extremely satisfied with Gwenevere’s direction of his financial portfolio, graciously gave the piece to her years ago as a gesture of his esteem for her formidable financial faculties.

She cleanly sliced open the envelope with the semi-sharp blade, taking care to mind the wax seal mid way down the back. She held it near the flickering candlelight, casting long dark shadows on the walls in the small room, and studied the image deeply embossed in the blue wax. It depicted the Ancient Coat of Arms of Snape; ermine on an azure stripe with three castle gates and a bucks head crest. She recalled seeing similar on a pair of solid gold oval-shaped cufflinks he occasionally wore.

She removed the ivory vellum stationary, redolent of the rosemary distillation used for apothecary purposes in potions making. She immediately recognized the fragrance and it aroused her senses. She concluded that Severus kept this stationary in close proximity to the narthecium located in his den. Although the effect was no doubt inadvertent, as one would require a predisposition to potions making to appreciate the peculiar scent, Gwenevere found it...alluring.

She read the letter silently as written from his hand and tried unsuccessfully to control her erratic heartbeat and breathing as his romantic words heated her blood and favorably impacted her feminine foundation like a thunderbolt. The chilly atmosphere suddenly became warm, to the point of subtle discomfort as she whispered the postscript aloud:

Dearest, I will be dining in the Great Hall tonight and will look forward to your company subsequently, S.

After reading his note, she smiled in anticipation and carried it, a parcel, and the candle to her bedroom, lighting the lamp and another candle on the tables adjoining her bed. Gwenevere tucked the letter away in a special place inside a drawer where there were several bundles of letters tied with white silk ribbons; written to her by the few people in her life held closest to her heart.

Gwenevere revived herself after a long day in the city and changed into something more comfortable, beginning with something new that Severus would certainly appreciate once the appropriate time arrived. She hung her clothes in the armoire, and walked to her office located diagonally from the bedroom and placed some documents on her desk. She picked up the mail then walked toward the living room, carrying the candle and lighting the lamps there as well. She restocked the cupboard with cognac, and sat down for a moment, absently shuffling through her mail when there was a quiet rap on the door. Boots jumped off the sofa and hurried toward the entrance as Gwenevere placed the mail on the table and walked over to open the door.

Servants stared in shock as I raced past them, down one staircase, across the hall and up the other one, leading to the chamber where the Locksley's were staying. My breathing was loud in my ears and I had no thought but to cleave Estrilda in two, either sideways or top to bottom. Locksley retainers whirled around as I erupted onto the landing in front of them but were too slow to stop me. Pure momentum hurled me at the bedchamber door and then through it, sending it into the wall so hard it bounced. From their seats beside the fire, Locksley and Marion looked around and gaped at me.

I must have been quite a sight. Hair flying, chest heaving, sword gripped in trembling hands. "Where is she?" I croaked. "Where's that witch Estrilda?"

Marion came to life first. "Estrilda? What do you want with my lady-in-waiting?" Locksley began to fumble at his belt for a weapon.

"Your 'lady-in-waiting'?" I snarled. "Ha! Lady waiting to kill my wife, you mean!"

They stared again, once more frozen in place, then began babbling questions and demands at me. I ignored them and looked around, reviewing the options. The small antechamber we stood in was impossible to hide in: no tapestries on the walls, no wooden wardrobes or chests to conceal anyone. On my left was the door to the large bedroom that Locksley and Marion slept in, and on my right, another door that led to a smaller chamber that the women servants probably used. I pointed my sword at it. "Open that door. Now."

Nobody moved. Locksley had a dagger in his hand by then and only the grip Marion had on his arm prevented him from coming at me. I viewed the possible threat with a detachment that surprised me. There was only one thought in my mind: to murder Estrilda.

Behind me came sounds of running feet and shouted orders. I didn't bother to look around; I knew who would be there.

"We're here, my lord. What are your orders?" Leofric had arrived. The sound of his voice was soothing to my ears.

I glanced to the side where he waited with drawn sword and ferocious scowl. "We're looking for one of the Lady Marion's women. Medium height, dark hair, sharp nose. You probably questioned her earlier." He nodded. I resumed. "I want both rooms off this chamber checked thoroughly. If she's not there, then take the castle apart stone by stone if you have to but find her and hold her for my attention. Understood?"

Leofric nodded again, and crossed to the small chamber's door. He kicked it in with one movement, and stepped over the threshold. I followed him. Two pallets on the floor, neatly made up; two small chests and one large sack of what was probably soiled clothing. No tapestries or curtains to hide behind. Leofric glanced at me and I jerked my head over my shoulder. He nodded. We retreated to the antechamber.

By now that small room was quite crowded. Other men clad in battle mail had arrived and were dispersed against the walls, subjecting the Locksleys to a keen and unfriendly visual inspection. As we entered, they immediately looked to Leofric for instructions. In the midst of my boiling emotions, I was pleased at this further evidence of my new lieutenant's skill in training my men. Since I didn't recognize any of them, these were obviously some of the new recruits from the outlying farms. Obviously I could have an entire army at my disposal if I wanted.

We made short work of the Locksley's bedroom, poking swords under the bed and over the canopy, pawing through clothes chests while Marion squawked angrily in the background and even inspecting the garderobe. Once we were assured that there was nowhere for even a shadow to hide, Leofric and I returned again to the antechamber.

Locksley had worked himself into quite a temper by this time and the moment I appeared he shoved his way through the thicket of guards to my side. Hands on hips, he began to repeat his earlier demands and insults indiscriminately. I looked at him with total indifference. His opinions about anything were unimportant to me at the best of times and this was closer to the worst of times than anything we'd ever faced in each other's presence before.

I waited until he paused for breath. "Shut up." He stared. I continued. "I am not remotely interested in anything you have to say. My men will spend the rest of the night searching this castle for Estrilda. Leofric, you have your orders." My lieutenant nodded once and left the room, half a dozen men following on his heels. The remainder spread out against the walls and watched closely. I looked back at Locksley. "You and Marion will remain here for now. That is not a request, but an order."

Locksley stared at me; I think shock had paralyzed his speech. Turning, I headed for the door.

"Wait!" Locksley found his voice again. "Where are you going?"

I stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. He stood with his arms folded, trying to look heroic and on top of the situation. Behind him Marion was wringing her hands. I glared at the both of them, furious that they had brought a homicidal madwoman into my home. "I am going into town to protect my wife and child personally. I will repeat my previous order: Do not leave this room. Food and beverages will be brought to you. Your men may retain their weapons but they are not to leave the hallway outside this room. I will not answer for their safety - or yours - should these instructions be disobeyed." I turned again and this time made it out of the room.

Phil Allen & Barbara Vanders

Barbara's Flat

Barbara tossed her keys on the table. Her briefcase went beside them. With a sigh, she went into the kitchen and opened the icebox. She wasn't really hungry, but she knew she ought to eat something. Chicken breast. Frozen vegetables. That'd do.

A baking pan and some majoram later, the chicken was in the oven and the vegetables were ready to be heated on the burner. She reached over and turned on the CD player. Some music while she washed the morning's dishes and got her lunch ready for tomorrow...

A soft, plaintive voice rose:

"...Tongues that diverge can be traced word by word
In patterns of sounds that are softened or slurred
While meanings they've shed make words rich to the ear
Persisting like echoes that scholars can hear..."

Barbara froze. This was Phil's music. He must have been playing it the last time he came over to visit. She could imagine him still in this room, some echo of him, his lips pursed in concentration, fingers tapping on the side of the stove.

By nature, the patterns that shaped how we live
Still flavor the ways we transgress and forgive;
Like shadows cast over the face of the scene
Ghost pictures burned into an old phosphor screen.

Burned by ghosts. They weighed on her, scarring. Mum. Dad. Bernard. Transgressions, yes. And what transgressions. Failed daughter. Failed wife. Failed mother. Failed artist. A ring of failures, one for each of the cardinal directions. Cardinal failures. And no forgiveness in sight. Her only skill lay in making sets, it seemed. Artificial, temporary things. Nothing of permanence. Nothing good or right or true. Only stories. Fictions. Lies. Her only long-lasting accomplishment was in the commercial creation of fakery. The ghost of reality.

Forgive me the patterns that make it so hard
To reach for your love with a heart love has scarred

And she wanted to. She wanted to love. To be loved. To have that warm protection, that feeling of coming to safe harbour, that one true thing in her life. She wanted him back.

I know you have no way to fathom or place
Old joys and old hurts my reactions retrace--

She was weeping.

Cynthia felt Anton stiffen next to her and saw the Vicomte’s features freeze. Hans Gruber took a step forward into her field of vision. He was tall and straight and poised. She’d previously thought Valmont incapable of appearing unsettled but he seemed so now. Her employer’s son bared his teeth. He reached out toward the Frenchman who gamely extended his own hand. The handshake was a study in the male art of power as diplomacy. Hans spoke to the other man, “But I’m sure you meant no offense.”

Valmont had his options. He could pretend he meant something else and bluff the thing out, he could wait and see if Hans challenged him to a duel or he could trust to the inspiration of the moment. Valmont, being neither stupid nor cowardly chose the last. In sincere tones he lamented to the Gruber’s in tandem, “I saw how you both went to help poor Mrs. Brandon. So difficult for her to imagine what her husband went through. I only meant, Herr Gruber,” here he looked at Hans, “that you must regret the time you spent in HIS company before you saw HIM for what he is.” Now he drew all three of them in with his eyes, “I know I do.”

Valmont and Hans hadn’t quite entered the room and Valmont did not appear inclined to do so. Giving ground to Hans he smiled and nodded to each of them, inclining his head fractionally more when he came to Cynthia. “But I shall leave you.” He gave a full body shrug that seemed to settle his feathers. “No doubt you have family matters to discuss.” The Vicomte departed in a wake of dignity and unruffled manners. Hans did not spare the Frenchman a second glance but entered the room to greet his father.

Anton introduced his assistant to his son and wondered that these two had never met face to face prior to this day. The younger Gruber sat next to her and Anton took a seat in the winged back chair set across from them.

Cynthia wondered at the Vicomte’s remark which had preceded Hans’ appearance. Had Hans once worked with that atrocious man? It seemed impossible but she knew there was still much to this story about which she was in the dark. Even more peculiar was that Hans did not seem to rise to the bait which had initially been meant for Anton and had been much more reserved than she would have expected given the inflammatory statement. She would ask Anton about it later but it seemed an injudicious thing for Valmont to say. Meantime she was enjoying this stolen bit of time between the testimony of the witnesses. It was a pleasure to become acquainted with Hans and doubly so to be able to look from father to son and see the tree and acorn.

“So, Miss Cynthia,” the same ‘zo’ she had heard from Anton countless times, “it is a pleasure to meet the woman who seems to have the rare ability to convince my father he is permitted some time for recreation.

“Oh I don’t know, Herr Gruber, weddings would seem to be their own inducement.” He assumed he was referring to his father’s absence from the Glasswork’s during the Brandon nuptials.

“Do please call me Hans.” His mouth relaxed a fraction as she gave him dispensation to omit the ‘Miss’ and he continued, “It was still good to have him there. He is looking well from the change of scenery, do you not think?”

“You needn’t answer.” Anton did not appear prepared to be discussed in the third person. While generally courtly in manners he dispensed with them now as they were momentarily superfluous. Even with the three of them alone now in the room his inquiry to Hans was still left vague. “You left everyone well, I trust?”

“Yes, everyone.”

“It is a pleasant surprise to find you here.”

“It evolved that my attendance was desired.”

“I see. No doubt you left business affairs in good hands.”

“Naturally.” A pause. “Some matters are best tended by one a step removed.”

“A very small step.”

“Ja. But still preferable.”

Cynthia watched the oblique ping pong conversation with fascination until a page arrived to indicate that it was time to re-enter the courtroom. The next witness was to be called.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

During the long train ride home Gwenevere starred out at the darkness. She watched the glistening raindrops, illuminated by the running lights, as they accumulated on the window and slid downward, flying away in tiny silver streams. Boots was licking himself dry adjacent to her whilst nestled in the black silk lining of her wool cloak.

She had stopped to visit her grandparents in Suffolk before catching the last train home. Granddad had kissed his beautiful bride of over sixty years and went outside to tend to the livestock leaving Gwenevere alone with her so that they could have a long overdue heart to heart conversation.

She recalled the wisdom wrought by the years of contemplative living, which enveloped the advice her grandmother gave to her while they had shared a comforting pot of tea together. A tear welled in her eye and streamed down her cheek, mirroring the raindrops on the outside window as the loving words echoed vividly in her head.

“Gwenevere, years ago I tried to protect you, I wanted you to be happy, and to not get involved and settle for someone who was the wrong sort for you. You would have been miserable, felt frustrated and trapped within your own life. Unfulfilled.
You are very special and you needed to find someone who could respect and interrelate with your complex mind as well as your beauty, a man who could love you in every respect; in mind, body, and spirit and whom you could love and respect equally in return for an entire lifetime. Such a man is quite rare but worth waiting for I expect.
Gwenevere, you have found him in Severus. Know that my heart aches for your cruel circumstances. Spend every minute you can with him and love him all you can, while you still have time. None of us really know for sure if we will still be here tomorrow nonetheless your situation is very volatile and you cant afford to waste a moment. Love is what is most important here.”

Gwenevere wiped away the tear and thought about her grandmother and the curse, and about Fritz and the case. But mostly, she thought about Severus, and how terribly much she missed him today.

Phil Allen & Barbara Vanders

FoF Sets -- Barbara's Office

The voice buzzed in her ear. We need to expand the Gringott's set Lee was telling her. I'm going to have Gwenevere... and she began to describe the upcoming episodes. The Snape storylines were very, very hot right now and the Director was taking advantage of that. There were going to be more Hogwarts rooms, more Diagon Alley shops, more of Knockturn Alley, more, more, more.

Barbara doodled on her notepad, half-listening to Lee's description, half-creating according to request. A window casement for a wizarding shoppe. An arched doorway for Hogwarts. She promised Lee some preliminaries by Wednesday next and hung up. She stared down at her doodles, eyeing them for inclusion in larger, more permanent designs. Pillar, window, door, Phil.

She halted. Phil. She had doodled his name, too, in elaborate curlicues at the top of the page. And over here, along the side, in three dimensional block letters. And along the arch of the top of the Mirror of Erised, Phil's name in gothic blackletter. She sighed, thrust the pencil back into the can on her desk and cradled her forehead in her hands. She couldn't help it. She missed him. Fiercely. He was part of her life, woven in. She lumbered around, not knowing what to do or where to go, all her habits of thought and action in disarray. No fresh new view on her problems. No understanding soul to confide in. No one to trust with the secrets that had bent and broken her work, her self. No ease. No rest. No clarity. And no joy at all.

But what could she do? It would be cruel to him for her to attempt to reconnect. He wanted so much more than comfortable friendship, more than ease, more than rest. And those things he did want set her screaming to the hills. A man who loved -- and loved deeply -- enamoured of a woman who was incapable of love. A Greek tragedy if she'd ever heard one.

She lusted after him. That much was true and shocking to her. Desire... was so foreign. An old acquaintance, long forgot. She could curl up next to him, stretch and purr. She could imagine their bodies coming together. It was their hearts coming together that failed to materialize in her imagination, though she could visualize his hunting for hers and coming up empty-handed and baffled.

She supposed she could introduce him to more women. Or, rather, have his co-workers do it. Let him meet other women, deserving and willing and capable of loving. She imagined him with some indeterminable woman on his arm, more of a faceless form than a person. That was all right. She imagined him with Sue or Isabetta or any number of the single women on-set -- and whenever that general female became someone specific, she felt a pang under her breastbone, as if her ribcage was suddenly far to small for the organs inside it.

The constriction of her breath stayed with her as she tried to imagine Phil with anyone. She was selfish and lustful enough, it seemed, to want him on her terms; she obviously didn't love him, as she couldn't keep him on his terms.

She didn't want to keep him. But she couldn't let him go.

Please change the end of this sentence into a

paragraph break:
"You don't find it interesting?" she asked. "I thought you'd have thousands of ideas to pour into this." ,p>

Thanks!

David Farrell (aka David Friedman) & Verity Lawrence (aka Verity Lavelle)

FoF Sets

"The first thing we're going to need are the police offices," Verity Lawrence was telling her head designer. "American, of course." David shifted in the chair. Meetings. He despised meetings. "Immediately after, we'll need to film a few exteriors for establishing shots."

"New Orleans, right?" Bane asked. The New Orleans set designer was tall, towering over both Verity and David himself. How he managed to shove those long legs under the desk, David had no idea.

Verity nodded. "Later, we'll need some private residences and a few hotel rooms. Eventually, of course, we'll need the French Quarter. And at the end, we'll require a cemetary." What? A cemetary? David thought a bit. You know, Verity never said whether my character would survive this storyline. Damn.

"Uhm --" Bane interrupted, "you know, they don't bury people in New Orleans." He leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms behind his head. "They put them above ground, in tombs. Otherwise the dead float around during floods." Bane made bobbing motions with his left hand, right hand still tucked up behind his head.

"Float?" Verity was incredulous. She gave him a measuring look. "How do you know?"

"Friend of mine was from New Orleans. N'awlins," Bane corrected, with a drawl. "They've got some very old jokes: 'All it takes is a good rain to raise the dead in New Orleans' and 'Being dead never stopped you from getting around New Orleans,'" he smirked.

"Really!" Verity was getting excited now. Lovely. Just lovely, thought David. If she channelled any more Happy-Happy-Go-Go vibes, she could be renamed 'Britain's Answer to Goldie Hawn.' Verity leaned in toward Bane, pointing out parts of his preliminary sketches that she liked. She cocked her head to one side, listening to the designer talk about his sources, where he got the ideas, and why. Her face, alive, paid him full attention. Their voices were an unintelligible buzz in David's ears. Oh God. I think my brain is going to melt. He contemplated ... napping.

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

"All right, screenplay is being taken care of," Verity checked off a list on her little notepad, "we've met with sets and costuming. What else do we have here today?" She hummed as she flipped through her to-dos for the day. "Lighting will have to wait until set construction, music until post production..." she trailed off, thinking. She turned to David. "And how have you been today? You've been very quiet."

David grunted.

"You don't find it interesting?" she asked. "I thought you'd have thousands of ideas to pour into this."

"I will once I get a script," he replied. "You know I start with the text."

She sighed. "True, too true." Her head tipped to the side. "So, Savage -- how're the elocution classes?"

"The accent is vile -- you're lucky you don't have to use one." David shook his head. "I have no idea how these people can understand each other. Listening to New Orleans natives is like listening to a New Yorker who's taking Quaaludes. Their mouths make the most amazing leaps of faith."

"Going well then," she replied briskly, rubbing her hands together. "Excellent." She flipped a few pages in her notebook. "When do you think you'll be ready?"

"Give me a month."

Shock. "A month?!"

"I told you the accent is vile, Lots. Why couldn't you pick Virginia as a plot locale, I don't know."

She gave him an abashed look. "Sorry." She stared down at her notepad for a moment. "You're a natural at accent work, Savage. Is it really that bad?"

"Yes."

"Right." Silence. ".... But ... a month?!?"

"That's what it's going to take."

She sighed.

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

Verity shook hands with the short police officer. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graff."

"It's Detective Graff, actually," he replied. "But you can call me Miles."

"How did the Director explain my request, Dete -- Miles?" she asked.

He scratched the bridge of his nose. "He said your scripts needed a once-over to match US and international law."

"The plot is going to operate in the US," Verity warned. "So we'll need details of how their police and their courts systems interact." She jotted into her notebook. "How different are the law structures between the US and the UK."

Detective Graff -- Miles -- frowned. "Lots."

David snorted. When the short detective looked up at him curiously, David amended. "That's her nickname, you know." His fingers moved in the shape of quote marks. "Lots." David gave Verity a sly look.

"Thank you, Savage," she replied crisply. "I really did want those personal details bandied around the workplace."

"No problem, Lots."

Miles' grey eyes glinted in amusement.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

Professor Snape sat at his desk silently taking attendance while the third-year class settled at their usual tables.

“Today, we will be mixing a potion that you will all wish you had taken on the day of your O.W.L. exams yet regrettably… it has no shelf life to speak of.” He stopped to sneer sarcastically.
“The Draught of Anamnesis is designed to clarify and enhance the memory. The ingredients are located in cupboard six.” He flicked his wand and the doors to cupboard six opened at once.
“Do be careful with the powdered eland horn; don’t inadvertently inhale any of it. And one blastodisc means one blastodisc. Adding more may result in the drinker remembering the violent and unsavory emergence from the womb. You have ninety minutes. Start.”

Snape looked about the room and saw to his displeasure that no one moved. He turned his head sharply and glared at one of the Slytherin students sitting directly to his right, who had quietly cleared his throat in Snape’s direction and indicated the empty blackboard with an exaggeration of his eyes. Snape sighed heavily; impatiently flicked his wand and the list of ingredients and instructions suddenly appeared.

“Time is of the essence, I strongly suggest you all begin.” He said icily. No one dared to snicker at the irony; they simply busied themselves with collecting the ingredients they needed as quickly as possible.

Snape paced between the tables and absently tapped the palm of his hand with his wand as if it was a whip, snapping at the students when he caught them making a mistake such as not stirring properly or not promptly recapping the ingredient tins.

He glided back to his desk and announced that it was time to fill a flagon with the potion sample and bring it forward for testing. The students quietly lined up with their potions in hand, they had noticed that Snape seemed nastier than usual today and wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible as not to provide a target for him. He abruptly penned the lab notes as he tested each potion and heavily criticized the smallest deviation from perfection. All were relived when he finally announced the end of class and cleared out at record speed.

Snape collected the lab notes and swept into his office, slamming the door behind him. He threw the notes on the table and commenced making tea for one-- after briefly considering the possibility it was not worth the bother.

He took a sip of tea, his thoughts were focused on Gwenevere and the nagging uneasiness he felt concerning her meeting with Voltaire. He sensed that Gwenevere was in an exceptionally pleasant frame of mind at the moment and wondered if it owed to the current company she was keeping. He stood up and strode toward the door on his way to the second floor, leaving his mug of steaming tea virtually untouched.

But both ways, the story is in my head, and each post is usually written just before it is posted. I may also write posts out of order (saving them for posting later), writing the beginning, middle and ending, and fill in the bits inbetween as I go along.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

The Jeweler looked up from his Daily Prophet to see a well-dressed witch and her cat enter his shop. It had been a quiet day and he was pleased to have such a 'pleasing' interruption.

“May I be of service to you madam?” he asked politely, somewhat taken aback by Gwenevere’s piercing eyes. They were silver, like liquid mercury.

“Yes sir, I am interested in purchasing a man’s wedding band.” She efficiently stated.

“Did you have anything specific in mind?” He asked.

“No sir, I would like to see every ring you have in the shop, if I may please.” She said.

“Very well madam, follow me please.” He said. He was experiencing déjà vu for the first time.
The Jeweler watched as Gwenevere glided past the narrow glass showcases in the client viewing area searching for her ring more by intuition than by sight. A second wave of déjà vu washed over the Jeweler and retreated.

Boots leaped atop one of the showcases and was batting his tail irritably when Gwenevere caught up to him. He got her attention and suddenly jumped down and quickly trotted to a discrete door at the back of the showroom and acted as though he wanted to enter the concealed room. She followed him and stopped.

“Excuse me sir, can you tell me what is behind this door?” Gwenevere asked.

“Yes madam, that is a work area.” He said, eyeing Boots with curiosity.

“Are there any rings in there now?”

“Yes Madam, however, I dare say nothing that would interest you perhaps. One would wish to consign them to storage.” He assured her.

“Please, I wish to see them sir.”

“Very well Madam, as you wish.” He sighed and reluctantly opened the door, motioning her inside.

She glided past dusty glass, letting her intuition be her guide. Boots was vocal as he waited by the last table where Snape had found the Juliet Diamond days before. ‘Thrice the brindled cat hath mewed’ she thought to herself as she approached him. Boots nuzzled his mistress affectionately before leaping to the floor with a balanced thud. Gwenevere peered into the velvet-lined case through the clouded glass. There it was-- the Romeo ring. She was positive of it.

“May I please take a closer look at that one, sir?” She asked.

“I’m terribly sorry Madam, that ring is not for sale at any price, as it has previously been purchased. It belongs to a set of rings which are governed by a strict protocol that cannot be altered under any circumstances…I am expecting a witch to claim it in the near future, but obviously you cannot be…”

“Sir, I believe you are mistaken.” She said. Gwenevere took her hand from her pocket and placed it in plain view so that the Jeweler would notice the Juliet diamond. The Jeweler looked at Gwenevere with amazement surely the insufferable dark wizard, the very one who was here previously cannot possibly be marring this stunning gentle creature. He looked closely at the Juliet diamond to be certain it was genuine.

“I cannot leave without the ring sir.” Gwenevere planted her feet and crossed her arms as he glared at the nervous Jeweler.

“Very well, as you wish ma’am.”
The ring was made for Severus; it was platinum and had a tiny dark Slytherin-green emerald embedded in it. Upon closer inspection it became evident that the emerald was actually the eye of a snake’s head, subtlety, and artistically superimposed on the ring with barely a whisper of detail evident from afar, but meticulous vivid detail when examined closely. The ring was a fascinating work of art.

“I will prepare the Romeo ring for you, Madam.” The Jeweler resolved to say. “Thank you sir.” She politely answered.