I. Once Upon a Midnight Dreary[1]
Close to Midnight, London

Another year older, he hadn’t expected it to feel so easy. The years in passing had been much kinder than before, and now with the holiday behind him Gale was ready for one more year to pass. Kinder still, in the way he seemed to finally find a path he felt certain he was meant to travel, but there were still many miles to go. His health overall was on the mend, his mental state growing stronger as every new day passed, and in what he considered to be a healthy relationship Gale found something to look forward to. Doubts as always crept in, and though he knew the roads to be rough he hoped his lover was strong enough to seem him through to the end. Little by little all of the doubts faded, the fears turned only to the past, and those angry fires only ashes to subside. He built his castle now without it’s walls, and though outside it was winter—inside held only the spring.

The night was young, or so it felt now that his days were vacant of responsibility. A careless mist coated the cobblestone of the London’s oldest streets, and with every passing step he felt the rain grow heavier. In many ways he welcomed it, even the bitter cold that followed in its wake as it reminded him again of what it felt like to be alive—and how much of the last 15 years he had missed. Nightingale, enjoyed the time away from the castle, but he was starting truly miss his students. He missed the constant company they provided, and the way they kept him balanced as ever on the tips of his toes. It was easy to forget the past when the present was such a struggle, and every day a new adventure.

Gale settled into his routine quite well, enough that he didn’t have to see his counselors so much—this therapist very impressed that his condition hadn’t reared it’s ugly head, and that the night terrors hadn’t been so bad. He didn’t have to tie his hands to the bed anymore, and slept through the nights entirely. There were no monsters in the dark, nor did being in the castle bother him as once feared. However, Gale had to owe that no more to his students than he did his years with the M-o-M, and the department that put it all back together again.


In the direction of Dietrich’s, Gale let his feet carry him carelessly over the path he’d walked now a few times. He’d made an appointment to have a few places touched up on his tattoo, braches that weren’t as dark as they should be with how much scar tissue they snaked over. The artist had said it would take a few sessions, and he wanted to have it finished before the break was over. Maybe, he’d convince the Ole’ Bear out for a few drinks after so that he could see the man smile when conversation turned upon his lover. However, as the rain settled there in its miserable drizzle he had half a mind to simply duck into the closest pub just to warm himself over, but the streets were empty—eerily so.

With a sweep of his good eye over the long stretch of darkened windows, he felt rather alone, and even with the street lamps painting the stones Gale figured at least someone would be out at this hour. Listening then, he heard only his steps and gentle falling of drops of water as it collected at his feat.

Strange, he thought to himself, moving to cross the street and skipping a puddle there at the corner, and pausing only a moment to stare at the familiar sight of some sort of paper with a very tribal looking raven printed upon the surface. The water was still, even as the bit of misty rain fell, and the almost perfect circle of the streetlight finally shattered as if laughing when a man broke the surface with his boot. The stranger’s shoulder crashed into his own, breaking his concentration as well his balance, and Gale quickly turned to sneer at the man. Where had he come from?

“Hey watch whe—“ His hiss had started on the tip of his tongue, but the words were quickly silenced as his line of sight settled on a much larger flyer now. A poster painted on the wall. The same set of dark winged birdsonly this, and nothing more. Quickly he skimmed the insignia of his caravan, and stood frozen amongst the fortress of stone. Feeling rather small he looked up at the massive building that housed many flyers, from various bands to empty political promises he could only care about this one. Shrugging free from the fearful familiar feeling he pulled the collar of his coat up to shelter from the cold. The rain had chosen this moment to pick up, and Gale quickly pressed on. However, with every new door there came another poster, every window and every door was covered in the black winged ravens and some even had red painted eyes.

The still empty streets, and empty lights became more of burden than he could imagine; because he knew he wasn’t alone—not anymore. Refusing to make the first move he quickened his pace in hopes of getting to the busier streets faster than he could be found.

Gale’s heart beat in time with his steps, and he dared not venture from the lantern lights—the fear of the dark easily forgotten in the company of the streetlights, but through the eerie fall of the rain he heard something the heavy beat of the black bird’s wings as it came to land upon the lamp above. Her long large beak parted to give away his position, and before he could react a knife piercing and precise shattered the glass. Finally, in an explosion of pure force the lights went out one by one, and Gale knew that the only thing he could do now was run.

1.	Rated 'M' for mature content including violence and gore.

The air was crisp and cold.  The light pattering of rain from earlier had given way to a shadowy mist that hung low overhead, hiding the stars and making the night even darker than it ought to be.  The great clocks of London had not yet sounded the hour, but midnight had to be swooping in, marking the moment when few respectable souls would  be left to wander the streets.

That was one of the benefits of this middle of term.  No students; no reason for his colleagues to ask questions when he kept a late night.  Many of them were doing exactly the same, and Atash paid their own dealings no mind.  One of the qualities of the Durmstrang staff culture was the afforded privacy; so long as classes went on as they should and no property was too permanently damaged -- he'd heard stories that suggested that the infamous Ignan Storm had once learned that lesson the hard way -- then the Institute's professors were respected to do as they liked.

The cobblestones were wet from the mist as he stepped outside onto the thoroughfare of Knockturn Alley once more.  This particular stretch of London was never picturesque even in the day time, but at night, it was nearly eerie.  Only the sound of a few lone footsteps, distant down the alleyway, suggested that anyone else was about at all.  Atash tucked the paper-wrapped package into his cloak, glancing idly at a handbill of a printed black raven that had been affixed to the door he'd just used to exit.  He hadn't noticed it before; either someone had been very busy in the time since he'd entered, or he hadn't been paying as close attention as he ought to.

As if on cue, a raven called, and something up ahead shattered.  Atash went very carefully still, his eyes darting down the street.  One by one, the lights ahead were going out, leaving the alleyway bathed in darkness. 

Well.  The mage paused, his head tilted ever so slightly, as he regarded the darkness up ahead.

This play was a show of force; a clear statement.  Even so, it seemed illogical that it would be meant for him.  He might have enemies still, but none that would so overtly give him warning.  Atash glanced idly at the bracelet on his left wrist.  Most of the gems were dark, near invisible in the night's shadow, but the largest in the center was glowing a deep, eerie red.

So.  Danger, but not any sort that he would have predicted from before.  The mage silently rubbed his thumb against the gem to quiet it.  The simplest way out of this -- the easiest strategy to stay abreast of life -- was to avoid these dark moments.  Whatever was happening up ahead was no concern of his.  He'd simply happened upon the edge of some skirmish.  He felt no attachment to this place or these people, apart from a very few; there was no reason to go running into the darkness for them.  He could apparate out of the Alley, go back to his business, and spare the deadened lights no second thought until he scanned the pages of the Prophet for news in the morning.

Still...

The cobblestone street was already dark, but Atash still drew his hood over his head, adding to the shadows that hid his features.  It could be said that curiosity was the greatest failing.  The footsteps up ahead had quickened to a panic after the bird had called.  Whatever was happening was likely playing out now.

Fingers lightly grazing his wand, he started down the alleyway, his senses alert as he pulled the darkness like a cloak around him.

The White Rabbit moved through the streets just as his nickname pinned him, and Gale felt as though his feet hardly even touched the stone. His heart raced in his chest, threatening to burst through the cage that held it, but he did his best to ignore the deadly drumming. The path to which he was chased was a long and narrow one, and he knew they were trying to herd him in a direction. Gale figured it was within reach as their shadows started to close in, and he also knew that a dead end was upon him like a wave of stone.

A clear mind he pressed forward taking a mental note of the inventory he carried, the weaponry of his choice, and though his wand was safe in his boot reflexes moved over the scattered hilts of the various knives he kept on his person. One, two, three, and a row of singles that went along his spine; hidden well he made sure to only expose his defense until the very last second.

The wall was coming closer, upon him then in a matter of seconds, but Gale used the speed in which he was running to launch himself up and over the heads of the men by nearly walking up the wall until gravity used her greedy hands to pull him back down. With a heavy push of his feet he flipped backwards, a knife drawn he used the hilt to first aid in his right hook in an attempt to break through the decaying teeth that grinned at him like that of a Cheshire cat.

”Here now, Child! Hear us out.” One his attackers pleaded, but Gale didn’t give in. He knew the words that they spoke were mostly lies, tricks and deals that would do the devil shame—he would have no part of it. This much of his past was gone, and he turned his back on them long ago.

Too many now, Gale had lost count as to how many were left. The surfacing and submerging of the fight swept him back into the defense, his steps steady but not for long. His breaths came in heavy gasps as the assault stole the very air from his lungs, but running like this had never been in his character. He’d moved at first to gain the upper hand, was dealt a rather steady hand of spades, and now did his best to stand his ground.

Don’t look down, Nightingale! Engage! The ghost in his head demanded as the dragons in his chest wrapped their claws around his ribs to try and rattle free. How dare he get behind! One, two, three his force drove them back, long enough to free the wand from his boot, Use your magic. Go ahead. Coward. The spitting words a cross between a hiss and threat as he heard a voice from his past speak down to him as if he were still a child.

“No,” He growled as too large hands came to pin him to the stone. The force of the blow taking the air, and he could taste blood as it pooled in his mouth. His wand fell from his fingers, tumbled down over the stone walkway, and snatched up rather quickly by greedy hands.

”You listen here you little sh—“ The man’s words were cut off by the blood that was spit in his face, blinding him temporarily and causing him to let go long enough for Gale to lunge at the man that had his wand. However, before his body could even make contact a shaken hand took hold of his hair by his scalp and forced his head back. With a yelp, Gale found himself being held at the edge of a knife to one man’s chest while the blood faced fool from before turned to address him once again.

”Now all we wants little poppet is to have a talk.” Gale struggled against the man that held him until his feet were lifted off the ground, and the knife to his throat pressed against his skin until he could feel his own pulse against the cold surface.

It was a skirmish indeed.  The narrow alleyway had come alive ahead of him, a flurry of motion and sound as the hunters attempted to corner their quarry in a dead end.  This game of life and death, of predator and prey had to play out a dozen times a month on these streets; there wasn't a hint of alarm to suggest that the sudden life-or-death struggle was anything out of the ordinary, nor did the poor fool who'd managed to attract such attention cry out for aid.  The citizens here knew the rules as sure as anyone: eat or be eaten, kill or be killed.  In a place like this, the only salvation for the weak would be the mercy of his attacker.

Atash watched as it happened, the shadows still pulled tightly around him, clothing him in the darkness.  He had realized with a sigh that as soon as he'd made the decision to observe, that changed things; he couldn't very well watch some poor fool meet his end without offering what aid he could.  That was the problem with stories like these: they impacted you just as surely as you did them.  If he wanted to see a part of this, then that part would surely draw him in.

It was not a fair fight, and it had not lasted long.  One of the figures in the darkness had clearly taken the worst of it; he was being held against another chest, a knife glinting at his throat, as his long white hair reflected in the --

Kesali?  The mage blinked, and then looked again.

It had to be.  Even in the darkness, the man's appearance was so distinct that there was no room for doubt.  Atash frowned, his dark eyes trained on the men before him as he calculated in his head.  Of all the people he'd expected to happen upon in a dark alleyway, the Charms Professor was not -- well.  He reconsidered.  In the end, perhaps it wasn't that surprising.

Now, at least, there was no doubt that he would step in.  A colleague was a very different matter than a random stranger, upon whom he could assign any kind of history or motivation.  But even so, Atash stayed still in the shadows, his gaze locked on the others like a hawk.  The man who held Kesali had said that he wanted to have a talk.  In such odd circumstances, the Iranian mage couldn't help but be curious to see what he had to say.

"I have nothing to say to you," Gale spat in answer to the man's reasoning for being here, "I'm not interested in what you have to say. I don't care that my father is asking for me." He put up as much fight as he could with being cornered like this, the iron of the knife making his skin crawl, and his eyes burn.


"It's not that poppet, he's not well...He's not asking for you out of kindness of your heart, you have something he needs, you have access to Hogwarts, and he wants to see you." The man ran his hand over Gale's cheek a moment before the Professor spat in his direction.


"I have nothing to say to him either. I have no reason to see him. I'm not part of that anymore.  And he should have thought about that when he left me--" The words were not able to be finished as he was struck again, but this time the stars he saw behind his eyes were enough to ignite the rage. While his body went slack a moment he felt the man behind him relax his grip, the knife at his throat dropped a little so that the man's laughter filled his ears. This was the problem with clowns, and Gale would never understand why Jean-Luc would ever have traded in his Romany knights for such fools.


Gale could taste the blood in his mouth, but used this character flaw in the other as an opportunity to break free. The hand that held the knife was a quick twist, the wrist breaking in his hands like bits of glass, and the knife freed upon impact. Gale forced his elbow against the sternum of his captor, before pressing a foot into spit-face's groin to render him useless for only a little while.


His wand...he needed his wand. He had a knife, and that would do for now. The men still circled in, laughing at their fallen companions and pinning their prince without means of escape. They wouldn't make the same mistakes twice, and Nightingale had that look in his eye that told stories of their fates about to fall at his feet. He wouldn't fall so easily, and if he was to go down a few of hearts would be taken out as well.

This was quickly becoming -- how was it that the English phrase went?  Curiouser and curiouser.  As intrigued as he might have been by Kesali, he hadn't imagined that the man would be quite this interesting.  Atash stayed silent, cloaked in the shadows, soaking in every word.  If he had been imagining a mysterious meeting for some sort of story, he couldn't have dreamed up one that was better.

A wayward father, demanding access to Hogwarts.  And Kesali refusing to give it, it seemed.  Again, this was curiouser and curiouser.

The dark men did not seem to like the Charms Professor's lack of amiable cooperation.  Atash would have stayed silent for a few moments more in order to discover why this mysterious elder wanted access to the school, even if it meant a few more knocks for his erstwhile colleague, but this time, when they struck, Kesali responded in kind.  The one-eyed man was quick, both deadly and desperate, and within seconds he had broken free, though the laughing circle of shadowy men began to close in once more.

Atash let out a quiet sigh as he drew his wand, aiming it ostensibly at the ground a few meters away, halfway between himself and the closest of Kesali's opponents.  Oh well.  There would be other opportunities to draw out further answers later, even if they required a bit more active of an inquiry.

"Kakkabu," he murmured, and cast the spell.

Months ago, when he'd first come to Hogwarts and the autumn shadows were only beginning to draw long, he'd warned the erstwhile Charms professor not to experiment with certain Semitic spells indoors.  This was clearly one of them.  The enormous, searing ball of light -- at least as big as a man -- exploded not from his wand, but from the sky above, shooting down like a rocket and slamming into the cobblestones.  The shockwave as it hit was tremendous; the blazing body exploded outwards upon impact like a small star gone supernova, sending a visible wave of concentric light rocketing outwards across the alleyway as the ground shook. 

The light was blinding, building still like the thrum of his heart as he felt the whole world around him start to shake. The falling of stars, one by one, seemed as though he’d found his end. They say that death was like a tunnel, the light there at the end a welcoming feeling, of heaven on earth as the body passed, but Gale could still feel the pain. He could taste the blood on his lips, and shiver in the misty rain. Their voices, never stopped, laughter still though further now into his imagination than he dare to go.

The ground beneath him was as solid as ever, the stones bitter and cold, and the fear that filled the air made Gale’s lips part with a small nearly insane smirk. He didn’t need to see the man to know to whom the star belonged, a force to be reckoned with. He could have laughed, adding flair to the already faltering mind, but instead he searched still for his wand.

Stunned, the men shivered in their steps, fighting a world to which they had little power over, and knowing not of what was to come next. The half painted faces of the clowns turned to stone shock as they tried to venture through the process of running. Fight or flight wrapped greedy fingers around their throats stealing away the air from their lungs as some moved forward and others moved back.

Nightingale could hardly feel his feet beneath him, the trembling ground throwing his equilibrium off, but perhaps it was the power of the Mage’s spell. Through the single line of his sight he swore he saw gravity reverse, little stones lift up into the super nova as well his own center pull up into the light. It was incredible, absolutely breathtaking in the sheer forced and size of the star. Again, Gale found himself wanting to reach out and touch the supernova, feel the warm bits of stardust on his fingers like before, but he kept his distance. With his head pounding and his face throbbing he wasn’t sure he would be able to even reach it.

“No,” His voice hardly broke the rumble, “Run!” He wanted to get his point across, that this wasn’t his fight, that he could handle it on his own, but in that moment the action started again. One last push to get what they wanted, Gale was to his feet instantly, springing into action to both protect the mage and be clear of his star. He turned on Atash like an animal to it's prey, his silver eye flashing with the warning,

"This isn't your fight." Gale's voice was like a hiss, the blood slipping down his porcelain skin to mimic the shattering of glass, "Don't kill them." He suddenly gave in, coming down from the built up rage that always chased around his feet during any soft of confrontation.
 

Even on a night like tonight, when he'd done little besides cloak himself in shadows, such a spell-casting wore at his soul.  Kakkabu was not the sort of summoning that one could launch again and again; for most mages, calling down the heavens was meant to end a fight, not to serve as an opening salvo.

The spell had its intended effect, in that it got everyone's attention.  Atash shielded his eyes against the worst of the blinding light, and when he blinked through the stars again, Kesali had twisted free of the mess of men.  The dark men were shaken: some standing there stunned, some already scattering.

He would have been satisfied with that, so long as they didn't try to regroup, but then Kesali burst from the darkness in front of him, all silver flashes of snarling anger.  Atash raised his wand instinctively, already in a guard position, as the pale-haired man with only one eye threw out his warning.

"This isn't your fight.  Don't kill them."

The brilliant white starfire was already fading, falling away in spurts and waves as it burned itself out.  He would have been breathing more heavily than he was, but Atash had had years to practice not showing it.  He met the other professor's gaze coolly, his eyes searching, his own expression a mask.  The night, it seemed, kept getting more interesting.  He would not have expected this ghostlike man to show any sense of responsibility toward his tormentors -- but then, Kesali obviously knew them quite well.

He regarded Kesali silently for a moment, an unreadable glint in his dark eyes.  It seemed redundant to point out that if he'd been intending to kill them, rather than to scatter, he would have adjusted his aim by a mere few feet.  For now, Kesali was making it clear that he didn't welcome outside involvement.  And so Atash arched his eyebrows, but silently tilted his head -- as if he were ceding the floor once more.

"Very well," he said, raising his wand.  Now that he had interjected himself, he could hardly leave himself undefended -- but defense did not need to come in the form of a star from the heavens, not when a near one could serve just as well.  He raised a hand to shield his vision, and then said firmly, "Nebû," as the same brilliant, blinding light that the Charms professor had seen once before exploded from the tip of his wand, once again forcing the shadows back.

This night and every night, he would go walking down empty streets, vacant lights inside abandoned buildings, with only the rain as his company. He often haunted the halls of the castle much the same, but in the light of Atash’s star Gale felt himself standing in the face of the maker and as though he belonged no where else. It never failed to impress him, never failed to capture the words on the edge of his lips, nor to make him weak in the knees. A pale little hand, desperate for the sanctuary of something solid—something grounded, reached out to touch the robe of the Mage, but he dare not take his gaze from the star.

Little bits of different languages, stepping stones into one another, all cried out at once, amria…amria aster The Romani slipped into another, небеса and into another, until the entire chorus of cultures all came to the same conclusion that this man could not only draw down the moon, but move the very stars in the sky. 

Even in the rain, the little drizzle of mist had stopped long enough to watch it all, confused, he wondered if even God himself watched in wonder of it all. Was it just an illusion? Gale’s curiosity got the better of him, and without thinking—without so much as looking back he removed his tiny little glasses and perched the silver frames on the end of his nose to get a better look.

His vision was blurred, and for a moment he forgot why as he stood beneath the star to study it. The scientist in him tried to ponder through the possibilities, and the professor in him wanted nothing more than to share it with his students. With bodies at his feet, his steps did carry over the stone as if it were an ordinary day—nothing wrong, nothing just happened, but when he still could not get his good eye to work in time with his thoughts he rubbed at it beneath the glass only to pull away his fingers covered in blood.

And it all came crashing down.

Nightingale’s hands trembled, his whole body to follow while his mind processed what just happened. From the beginning to the end he replayed the whole night, and dropped his head into his hands as it became a bit too much.

“I have to get you out of here,” He whispered from behind his palms as he tried to steady his rabbit heart, “They will come back.” The shock of it all started to subside and the reality of his own injuries flared to life. He hurt, everywhere, having not been in a fight like that for well over a year now he was surprised he was still even standing, His vision blurred enough, that now all he could see was through a pinhole of his good eye, and even that was starting to fail.

“I need to sit down,” he murmured through his bit of panic. He felt sick, and when the ground came much faster than he was prepared for Gale realized his words a mask of the truth, I’m going to pass out. 

And it all came crashing down.

"I have to get you out of here," the pale wizard had said, and Atash had barely arched an eyebrow in response.

"I need to sit down," he'd added, and then the White Rabbit was tumbling, as if the day was done and all of his battle cries could be left to the first light of the morning.

The mage caught him by the arm with his free hand -- too rough to really catch him, but just enough to keep the man's silver head from splitting against the ground.  Clenching his teeth, he considered the impossibility of the situation.  Kesali, in no shape to continue -- and Atash could feel the wear of his own spellcasting, the trembling fatigue that was only now starting to fester, but which would surely grow worse if he stayed here with the intent of waging future battle.

The men had all scattered in the wake of his star, and the light mist, which he'd barely noticed while he'd been cloaked in shadows, was steadily growing into a drizzle.  Somewhere before him, a gust of wind caught a flier that had been pinned to the wall and sent it spinning through the darkness, until it finally drifted to a stop in front of him and settled into a puddle, the lines of the inked black raven with its bright red eyes bleeding together as the water set in.

His options were limited.  Leave Kesali here, or -- ...Atash sighed, eyeing the unconscious man that he was only barely supporting.  He jerked his wand, canceling the light spell and plunging the alleyway back into darkness.  It wasn't really two options at all.

So back to the Rabbit Hole it was.  Back to Hogwarts.  He could deposit Kesali in his bed, and they could all pretend that this was merely another episode of the man's midnight madness.  But a thousand armies couldn't fix the reality of this, nor a dousing with holy water.  There was something more to all of this, and he couldn't unhear what he had heard.

"You have access to Hogwarts, and he wants to see you."

Somewhere in the darkness, a raven called.  That was enough of a warning for him.  Atash hefted the unconscious Charms professor upwards, draping his arm over his shoulder and shifting to get a better grip on him, and then apparated away, leaving only the shadows behind.