III. Over Many a Quaint and Curious[1]
Early Evening, Market Drayton - North Shropshire

The little town that surrounded the Market Drayton couldn’t have been a more perfect haunt. The old stone walkways were abuzz with the many various shoppers getting in their last little bit of yuletide gifts. Shops with their thin old windows were full with various cakes, and crimson colored paper, little bows of beautiful gold hung at every post, and songs were sang on the corner market. Such happy smiles and Christmas cheer sheltered the town for the long cold winter to come, and despite how empty some pockets felt their hearts were full--all the way to the top.

“Good evening, and welcome.” A man’s voice called out over the little square, his long red and black frock as decorated as any of the elder pines, and whispered about with the sound of old brass bells as he moved across the old painted stage. A side-show really, to the much larger act that had the children a buzz, this was a promise of what the Spring would bring. “To the front dear, Children.” The old crow like man, with his deeply painted lines, and false smile welcomed the youngest to the stage where laughter exploded like the little sparks of light, timed to go off just right.

“And tell me,” he smiled to the youth, have you ever truly seen a reindeer fly?” The question warmed the hearts of the parents that watched, knowing well that these next few years would be the last to play such pretend, and any sort of proof became less than logical.

“Then step up my child, step up. And see for yourself.”

1.	Rated 'M' for mature content.

The rumor first reached Alvis’s ear in the bakery, where he’d been sent by his mother to retrieve their annual order of gingerbread for tomorrow night’s party. As he made his way through the long line of locals and tourists come to sample the Market’s specialty, he overheard a number of school kids his own age and younger discussing the supposedly brilliant show that had appeared, apparently overnight, in the town square. There were tales of a genuine Father Christmas, the old kind, not bright but dark and bristling with wild enchantments. Stories were spun of flying reindeer and dancing lights and wonders unlike any they’d seen. And there was rumor of real magic – no tricks, just real.

That was what finally won Alvis’s interest. He tied the order of sweets to the back of his bike and left it chained outside the bakery, trusting the town not to steal from one who belonged to them. He fell in with a group of boys from The Grove, a local secondary, and went mostly unnoticed despite his Ravenclaw scarf not matching their mix of red, navy, and white.

The man, with his wild black hair and rattling robes, was everything they’d promised and a natural showman to boot. He invited children onto the stage and the school-kids hurried and pushed to be the first ones up until Alvis was the only one left on the floor.

He held back, watching the man uncertainly. Surely, the rumors couldn’t be true. It couldn’t really be real magic. Not here. Market Drayton was a muggle town, parading magic here would be begging for a Statute of Secrecy citation. So what else did he have in store? What illusion could take in so many people so thoroughly?

He’d read once that curiosity was the fatal flaw of Ravenclaw house, leading them into trouble even when common sense warned otherwise. In this case, at least, perhaps it was true. Alvis hesitated only a moment longer before following his chattering neighbors onto the stage, still trying to judge the stranger’s intentions with every step.

The air was cold, but he felt nothing of the sort. The warm lights of the stage made up for the vacant emptiness that suffocated like a stone lodged in his throat, as the children seemed so enchanted with such willful hope that he wished the lines between Muggle and Wizard alike were less severe. As a child he’d never been given the chance to know such happiness as jolly old men who could wander through the brick hearth unscathed, and free from the fire—despite how many more logs his father had ordered against the stone.

Behind the curtain the stage became a maze of mirrors, one where little giggles carried like a white rabbit as they chased little illusions of a white cotton tail along the forest floor.

“There at the end! They fly! You see!” When in truth it was simply the shadow of the reindeer, their long dark antlers like tree braches over the moon, nothing real, nothing truly magic, but just as the rest started to filter away. Their parents holding tightly bundled bits of joy as they went on about the chase, and how the winter was beautiful inside the caravan—yet not cold. Pockets were lighter, hearts were too, but Jean-Luc’s words as he spoke to the Ravenclaw boy were heavy.

“It’s the one time of year that everyone can see that Magic is real, son. Not just the few privileged enough to have it.”

Alvis tensed at being directly addressed, but his hands went for his scarf, not his wand. He tugged the muffler tighter in spite of the relative warmth of the space behind the stage, hesitating at the entrance to the maze. He strained his ears. No heaters, not that he could hear anyway. Or perhaps they just ran quiet? He turned the thought over in his mind a moment before lifting his face to catch the showman's dark-eyed gaze.

"I suppose that's true," he said softly. For the first time it occurred to him that growing up with magic as an unquestioned truth may have taken as much from his childhood as it gave. Wizards had their fairy tales, to be sure, but the sense of wonder just wasn't the same when you saw the impossible day to day.

Wait. No. Alvis broke eye contact, severing the brief connection. The thought was his own, but the nostalgia and melancholy that birthed it were not. Really, he had to stop this habit of only making eye contact with people he didn't know and figure out some other way to understand them. Skimming a stranger's mind was just rude.

Still, it wasn't like he could give the information back now...So, nostalgia. Tinged with melancholy, both held at a distance so as not to overwhelm. There was emptiness there too. Loss. And fake smiles. A liar then, but perhaps not a malicious one.

His eyes wandered back to the maze, steering his curiosity with them. "Is it a spell that makes it bigger in the back, or just a trick of the mirrors? You obviously know of magic, even if you're not using it here."

The boy was endearing, even if he were not his own. A son of one of the locals he imagined, on break from Hogwarts. He hated coming to towns like this during the Holidays, when children of magic were scattered about as if ordinary youths, and simply belonging. They had never belonged, not to one place, never to one town, but sometimes when he had his own son beside him during the ride he could see Gale wanting nothing more than to stay. But what was this light there in this stranger's son's face? Was that wonder? Fear? Or simply the thirst for adventure.

"It's not magic, not real magic, not here at least. No," Jean-Luc bent to meet the boy's eyes, looking through the little frames that perched on his nose as if they were windows to the world, "Not here. It's just a trick. A mindless muggle trick. Like this, pay attention son." He held out his hand, empty, and showed the boy the back--bare.

A scarf he pulled form his sleeve, crimson in color covered his hand only long enough for elegant fingers to walk down his wrist and with a few choice words pulled the silk from his palm that was now filled with gold coins, and with the passing again of the scarf the silk had changed colors only to reveal a small white rabbit whose nose sniffed the air while he nibbled on a bit of gingerbread.

"But this is nothing in comparison as to what you can do, now is it?" With a snap of his fingers the stage started to change, the mirrors rotating on old brass gears to fold away, and the back of the caravan turned into a rather fitting throne room for a very lost king. A fire was burning, warm in the little stove, a chair waited by it to which Jean-Luc sat, and through the little windows the outside could be seen. The show still went on, but now only on the lip of the painted space as the back was now occupied. 

"Why don't you tell me your name, Little Ravenclaw?"

"But this is nothing in comparison as to what you can do, now is it?"

Alvis shook his head, absently rubbing the rabbit's head with two fingers. True, muggle illusions couldn't hold a candle to real magic. They were only tricks, after all, games that fooled the eye and mind. But there was still something to be admired in good slight-of-hand. "You've got clever hands, sir. The skill's very impressive."

The man snapped his fingers and the stage transformed, gears groaning beneath the wood. Alvis stepped to one side to avoid a moving wall and peered through the gap between two mirrors, trying to catch a glimpse of the mechanisms. He liked clockwork. Gears and springs still worked in Hogwarts but were, in his opinion, grossly under-utilized. When the room had settled Alvis hovered nearer to a window than the fire, keeping an eye on the outside world and ear on the show that continued onstage.

"Alvis Norling. My family lives in the village to the north. Always has." He eyed the man in the firelight, wondering what he might have said to earn a private audience. "And you, sir? You are?"

"I thank you," Jean-Luc spoke quietly watching the curious way the boy looked in on his turning plates, and cocked a small smile, "But my tricks are nothing compared to yours I would wager."

Though the outside world was a bit dark now, the street lights still burned brightly against the black night, but started to flicker when the show kept going. Outside that window there were men surrounded by the crowds, pulling objects from pockets, and removing memories of those the few that caught them. Alvis would have a full show of it from his vantage point, but perhaps what would upset the boy even more was the package that was now missing from his bike.

The rabbit certainly seemed to be enjoying his cookie.

"And do you often let yourself be alone with strangers, Little Lamb?"

In truth, Alvis had begun to wonder the same thing. He'd let his curiosity get the better of him, drawn in by the riddle of the man's strange demeanor, his tricks, his mirrors and his clockwork. Catching a glimpse of the men in the crowds coming away with things that weren't theirs -- though his bike, on the next street over, was too far to see -- brought the reality of his situation back into focus.

Again, his hands lingered on his scarf rather than searching out his wand. The orange-wood branch wasn't easy to get to anyway, as he'd tucked it close to his stomach, underneath the layers of hooded sweatshirt and threadbare sweater. After three and a half years of school he'd gotten in the habit of having it, but he certainly hadn't expected to need it tonight. He wasn't allowed to do magic during the holidays. Yes, there were allowances made for self-defense, but he hadn't been attacked yet. Just closed off in a small room in the back of a traveling stage with a man he didn't know who had awarded him a rather disconcerting nickname and seemed, at the very least, blithely compliant in the thievery going on during his show.

Just that.

Alvis drifted away from the window and closer to the fire, no longer able to watch his muggle neighbors be taken advantage of from behind a glass. He cleared his throat, choosing his words very carefully. "Strangers are not particularly common here, sir. Magical strangers even less so. It is our custom to welcome the traveling witch or wizard as a friend. It makes lives easier for all involved."

He didn't bother with self-imposed manners now, catching and holding the man's eye in an effort to gauge his intentions. Did he know of the thievery? That much was obvious, he could see it plain as day. Did he organize it? Yes, it took barely a glance to know that. He was the master, the center-stage show, drawing attention from his lackeys in their work. Was there remorse, then, or only more lies? And what did he want, bringing Alvis back here?

"Of course, you make the situation a rather complicated one to judge. You know Ravenclaw, so you know of magic, but you don't use it. Are you able to? Or is it all like your slight-of-hand -- a colorful distraction to draw the eye from your true intent?" Alvis licks his lips nervously, hands and shoulders shuttering a bit with his next breath. He gripped the scarf to hold himself steady. There was not, necessarily, anything to fear. Yet.

"You still haven't introduced yourself, sir. That seems rather unfair."

"Of course, you make the situation a rather complicated one to judge. You know Ravenclaw, so you know of magic, but you don't use it. Are you able to? Or is it all like your slight-of-hand -- a colorful distraction to draw the eye from your true intent?" Oh what a precious boy, his wide eyes and little glasses were a conundrum to his persona. They gave him a colorful look of youth, all the while making him seem far too beyond his years.

"Slight of hand, Poppet. That is all," Jean-Luc said with a small smile, the feature warm on his lips, "I never went to school you see, and a wand never did take to me. I do however, have a boy who was lucky enough to be deemed worthy of your magic. I believe he is a Professor there now, my...how time does fly." The raven haired man enjoyed his view of the boy from his throne, and listened to him ask for his name.

"You still haven't introduced yourself, sir. That seems rather unfair."

"My apologies, Darling Child, but my name is Jean-Luc."

A man came in then his back as stiff as a board and his shoulders slumped forward as if his spine had been broken once only to reform like a hook, "Today's loot." He said with a grim grin and dropped the bag, while another road in on Alvis' little bike, "And this was just outside waiting to be taken. Looks brand new."

"So it does," Jean-Luc said rather droll, and watched the boy for his reaction. But the men saw him first, and turned their attention on him,

' Look it here! Look at this little 4-eyes. Oh my, aint you a tiny thing.' The men in their vintage clown suits, patched with red and trimmed in bells went to fawn over the boy, 'We keepin' this one, Luc?' The clown turned a look to their master who seemed rather bored of the whole ordeal with his chin in his hand watching,

"Thinking about it. Little Ravenclaw, what do you think?" The men started to inspect the boy closer, touching his scarf and ruffling his hair, admiring the fabric of his jacket as if coming up with other uses for such fine material.

"That you bike son?"

Poppet. Darling. Little.

Alvis swallowed hard, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as though he could hide behind them. All these affectionate pet names unsettled him, coming from a stranger. The accompanying ripples of parental affection -- tied to the talk of "his boy" the professor -- made it no better. There was an odd tinge of possession to the exchange as well, like an animal contemplating how best to lay a claim.

And then there were his henchmen, both of them full-grown and wiry. Alvis was tall for his age to be sure, so suddenly finding himself the smallest person in the room added another level to the discomfort. The brief surge of panic and anger that coursed through him at the missing gingerbread was quickly swallowed by the dawning horror of his situation and the 'flight' instinct screaming for him to run.

The clowns closed in. Alvis backed away but found himself pinned, hands in his hair and running along his clothes. And he'd been told that he had no sense of personal space!

"We keepin' this one, Luc?"

Alvis nearly choked on his own air. Keep him? What in all hells was that supposed to mean? He wasn't some stray to be taken in off the street. And the response from Jean-Luc, 'Thinking about it.' Thinking about what?

"I...I don't understand." Even as he said it, Alvis's mind flickered to the memory charms he'd seen at work in the crowd. Horror struck him right in the gut. They couldn't, wouldn't use that on children. Would they? They were thieves and cons, were they kidnappers, too? Blackmailers? Human traffickers...?

"That you bike son?"

 Alvis tugged his coat from the man's grasp, feeling the familiar shape of his wand beneath the fabric layers. He cleared his throat in an attempt to harden his naturally soft voice. "Yes. It is." He drew himself up, gaze locked on Jean-Luc.  "I appreciate your hospitality, sir. But I really must be going now. My parents are expecting me home. If I'm not back soon they'll call the police. And --" He gulped. "And we've got friends in the local branch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I would hate to bother them so late on the night before Christmas Eve."

The last part was mostly a lie. There wasn't really a 'local' branch of the MLE. Not much point, with the ease of Apparition and relatively few magical disruptions. While he was certain the MLE would be reported to if anything happened to him, it wouldn't be the family's first line of recourse by any means. Rather, he was banking on the men having only a passing knowledge of wizarding culture. Maybe the threat of their magical misuse being exposed would be enough for them to let him go.

Jean-Luc watched the boy answer his own question, come to the conclusion as to what was going on as if he had discovered new land. However, there wasn't any sort of new hope on his little face, and he swore he could almost feel the boy's fear.

"I appreciate your hospitality, sir. But I really must be going now. My parents are expecting me home. If I'm not back soon they'll call the police. And --" He gulped. "And we've got friends in the local branch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I would hate to bother them so late on the night before Christmas Eve."


The men around their King laughed, and in such a way it seemed that the words the boy spoke were of some sort of truth; perhaps only if he were wanting it so. The Illusionist wasn't aware of any branch of the MLE that was within range, but times could have changed since they were here last.

"I suppose you are right," He spoke as he lifted a hand to silence his companions, "Though I would not consider Christmas in a point of your favor, Son. Do you think that if you were as precious to your parents as you think, they would have sent you out at all?" His exposed palm was filled then with the boy's package of gingerbread and he moved to extend it.

"Do you always do their bidding? A child you still are. Would it not please you more to run away from here? Live without rules or regulations? A world where you are free to smoke, drink, and swear? Even magic has its limits, boy. But you…" He reached out to touch the boy's chin, lifting his face a little, "You could show them all."

Alvis pursed his lips to avoid saying something he might regret and stared at offered package of gingerbread. The clown's fading laughter still played on his nerves, tearing down the weak brave front he'd erected before. He'd never been good at hiding his own anxiety. The three men in the room were not outright malicious, least of all Jean-Luc himself. But he didn't like the way the clowns eyed him, or how they thought of him less as a person and more as a commodity to be collected.

He dared to venture a bit closer, reaching for the food he'd been sent to retrieve. If Jean-Luc questioning his parents'' motivations was searching for a psychological weakness to exploit, the first attempt solidly struck out. "Good parents, parents who care,  trust their children with responsibilities. Including, on occasion, the ability to take care of themselves."

"Do you always do their bidding?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Alvis snatched the gingerbread back and clutched it to his chest. "They're my parents. They never ask more of me than I can handle."

He tried to retreat again, but found his path once again blocked by the two clowns, keeping him within the ringmaster's reach. Jean-Luc held his gaze, speaking lightly of freedom and running away, of worlds without rules, smoking, drinking, swearing.

Alvis shook his head. "I'm afraid that I don't share those interests, sir." Though he couldn’t help thinking that Jean Luc had clearly not visited a boarding school in the last several decades. Even Alvis knew that there were people to speak with at Hogwarts to if you wanted to get your hands on firewhiskey or gillyweed.

The next offer, though...that was harder to dismiss. Because there were limits to magic, not necessarily due to its nature but due to how it was taught, the assumptions people made and what was and was not considered 'proper.' Perhaps that was why he did not recoil when Jean-Luc's hand wandered close to his face, tilting it up to meet those dark, calculating eyes. Alvis worried his bottom lip with his teeth and stared at the man, unblinking, turning the words over in his head with what he could gleam off the man's true intentions before coming to a final conclusion.

"I appreciate the offer, Mister St. Laurence," he said, not realizing that he'd just dropped a name that he had not been given out-loud. "But I don't need your help to show anyone anything. I can prove all that I need to on my own."

"Good parents, parents who care,  trust their children with responsibilities. Including, on occasion, the ability to take care of themselves."

At this Jean-Luc's brow lifted to question the boy, the smirk on his lips fell away and his eyes almost looked sad, "Yet here you are, and where are they? Not knowing their precious son has found himself in a little bit of trouble, you see. I had a boy once, and I let him go. He never came back. It's sat with me all these years, and now look..." His spider like hands motioned to the men, "I have many sons whose parents did the same thing. 'Trusted' them to do the right thing. And look where that got them, kidnapping innocent children." A small hissing sound escaped his lips as he dismissed the men, and standing by the boy.

"But come, we should return you before your family comes looking no?" He offered the boy his hand, to help him through the dark should he need it, but left the bike. However, before Alvis could protest the night air struck them, the cold bitter wind sent shivers down the illusionists spine, but there was more than just the chill to unseat his nerves.

The town was empty now, and eerily so. Had that much time truly passed or was it another illusion cast by the ragtag band of outlaws he kept as pets? Either way, Alvis would be left with the abandonment the lack of community often made one feel, and even all the lamp lights were put out.

His bike also was still by the tree.

"And you are sure this is the world you wish to return to? One that has carried on without you now? They haven't come looking for you yet, are you sure they even miss you?" He knew how horrid his words sounded, and thought of the day he didn't pick Gale up from the station. This was his sick twisted way of getting back at himself, a cursed horrid cruelty to the entire ordeal, and he knew it. He wanted Alvis to feel lost and alone, stolen and broke down. Because, this was what made for perfect run-aways and members of his family.

"Come away little, Lamb, and you won't have to ever feel forgotten again." He touched the boy's shoulders with both hands, and did his best to fight off the cold.

The silence struck Alvis before either the cold or the wind. Utter silence. Not a presence to be found. It wasn't quite like being cut off during the Body Swap, more like the ten-kilometer stretch of empty road between his village and the Market. The people were simply gone. They were alone.

Alvis did not take the illusionist's hand, his arms occupied with the packet of gingerbread held close to his chest. He kept half an eye on Jean-Luc as the man spoke, edging closer to the bike. It was cold, yes, but not so cold that he'd seek a stranger's comfort. Let alone this stranger.

When he turned, briefly, to lay the gingerbread back  on the pannier rack, Jean-Luc's hands suddenly closed over his shoulders. The chill that ran up Alvis's spine had nothing to do with the cold. He swallowed, his fingers hesitant to tie the package into its place. The whisper wrapped itself around his mind, tempting, enticing...

"Come away little, Lamb, and you won't have to ever feel forgotten again."

Alvis closed his eyes.

The thought of leaving home stirred up moments he'd forgotten. Not a full memory. Snippets. His mother holding him in her lap, her arms tight like the grip of a Devil's Snare, refusing to let go. Great-Aunt Niamh, shouting at someone in the red robes of the DLE. Whispers of dark wizards. An autumn and a winter when he'd not been allowed to leave the shop alone.

He opened his eyes again, releasing a shuddering breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "They came once," he muttered, half to himself. "They'd come again. I won't do that to them a second time." Firmly, deliberately, he shrugged off Jean-Luc's hands and strapped the gingerbread to the back of his bike, "I've never felt forgotten. Not by them. I'm not the one who got left behind."

With the package secured he turned back to Jean-Luc and held the man's gaze. A memory flickered to the surface of the ringmaster's mind, one laced with bitter regret. Alvis had gotten better, in the last month, at picking items from others' minds. Though he could not yet follow the thought back to its source he could grasp it long enough to get a feel for its shape.

"Did you do it on purpose? Or was it...carelessness, on your part? Did you forget your own son?" He shook his head. "I'm not going to be the one you want, anymore than the rest of them are. My family has never forgotten me."

What an amazing little creature this boy, his mind as sharp as the tongue that lashed out, yet he was as calm and collected as the sea at night. Alvis managed through the questions as an adult, despite his youthful appearance and child-like curiosity. Truly, he was an amazing child, and one Jean-Luc would mourn not having under his care.

"They came once," he muttered, half to himself. "They'd come again. I won't do that to them a second time."

Those words struck him, a last attempt at settling the boy's opinion of him filled his lungs until it escaped form his mouth in a quiet sigh, "They came once? So you make it a habit then? To worry them sick well into the night...have you run away before, Little Poppet?" Outside the once whimsical caravan it seemed rather eerie without the lights, and Jean-Luc took a seat on the hitch as if he were part of the painted figures along the wooden surface--just as faded and worn as they were.

"Did you do it on purpose? Or was it...carelessness, on your part? Did you forget your own son?" He shook his head. "I'm not going to be the one you want, anymore than the rest of them are. My family has never forgotten me."
 
For what seemed like a stretch of minutes nearing a half hour, he was silent. Pondering through the very idea of it all. No father would ever just leave their child, so it was not carelessness, but yet Jean-Luc had given him up so easy. So was it? He certainly hadn't ever thought that Nightingale's better life would have been such a struggle.

"I did not forget him no, not on purpose, but he had a lesson to learn. Funny how that works." Jean-Luc couldn't believe that here he sat with his arms folded over his chest, feeling very much like the child now speaking to Alvis who was certainly far more mature than he could have ever imagined.

What an amazing little boy this one was. He would have to keep tabs on him.

"But do not distract me with talk of my Nightingale," With a flick of his hand he waved the subject away, his over decorated lace sleeve excusing the topic, "Tell me about you running away. Let us hear about the boy who worried his parents so, hmm?"