Moscow, Russia. 0900 hours.


Feliks Spectre hurried after Sister Larisa, his footsteps echoing all the way down the grand arcade of Moscow's old train station. Witches and wizards flocked about in heavy autumnal robes - oblivious to the gangly young boy with his wan red hair and pale face. He wore an emerald green sweater over dark jeans, and the Sister had wrapped a rabbit fur around his neck because they wouldn't let him use his tattered coat from the cottage. They said he wouldn't need it in Scotland. Feliks had packed the coat anyway, as it would always remind him of living with the Almasy squibs in Siberia.

          "Stop dawdling!" Sister Larisa, a thin and pale-eyed woman, hissed in their native tongue before looking over her shoulder to urge him on. She had a no-nonsense way of dressing and an attitude to suit it.

He picked up the pace, practically running, leather suitcase dangling from one hand. They were to take a train and then a Portkey to England; and from there, he was told he would be apparated to his father's home. His father. Balfour Spectre. Feliks mouthed the name to himself, silently, just thinking of it. He had never left the cottage or the forest around it, not once in his life. Today alone he had travelled to Moscow! And now to England and beyond! Places he knew only from maps or books or what the other children said.

Sister Larisa slowed down as she reached the platform ahead. A glossy brown train had drawn in beneath the high glass ceilings of the station, and billows of steam hung in the dim morning light. Feliks stopped to stare at the train. His dark eyes tried to take it all in at once. He felt incredibly small.

They boarded and found an empty carriage, where the Sister let him sit by the window while she rummaged through her carpet bag for something to read. As much as he loved books, Feliks couldn't even think about reading. He was too excited, and would sit staring out of the windows from the moment they left bleak Moscow to the moment he reluctantly fell asleep watching the western countryside roll by.

Edinburgh, Scotland. 2100 hours.


             "Letter?" Sister Larisa nudged him, sharply. It was dark and they were both stood at the bottom of a hill, surrounded by tall trees on all sides. A light drizzle fell. Feliks couldn't see much else in the dark but he hastily dug into his pocket to retrieve a blue envelope. His father's name was written across it.

He looked up at the witch who had brought him all this way to another country, and swallowed hard. "What now?" he was beginning to shiver. She looked around them and then pointed upwards at the slope of the hill. Feliks put away the letter and his gaze followed hers to where the trees thinned out and other silhouettes could be discerned. He swallowed again. A chilly breeze cut through the forest.

Leaves rustled and the fierce wings of an unseen bird disturbed the canopy. This was the final leg of his journey, the moment he had anticipated and feared the most.

"Should I...." he turned back to the Sister but, to his surprise, she had already gone. "Oh." Feliks was alone in the night. Somewhere, across the forest, a wolf's howl protested the rainfall. He picked up his suitcase and began to climb the hill, shivering. He wished they had let him wear his coat.

As the many pines and firs disappeared bit by bit, Feliks could make out the house that sat at the plateau of the hill. It was bigger than any house he had ever lived or been in - if, in fact, you could call it a house. By the time he reached it across a vast terrace peopled by autumnal bushes, Feliks was ready to call it a castle. He raised his fist and, whispering the name Balfour Spectre one more time, knocked.

Nothing stirred inside the manor for a short age.

Was nobody home? He glanced around, at the forest and gardens engulfed in night, wondering what he would do if nobody let him in. Would the Sisters come get him? Should he knock once more? Feliks looked back and, just as he raised his hand again, the doors began to slowly swing inwards.

He hesitated. Another cold wind pushed at him (which rather settled it) so he quickly entered, and jumped when the doors shut behind him. The manor was wonderfully warm inside. It was hard to see everything in the dark but Feliks could tell that he was in a grand entrance hall.

"Hello?" he called in English, without response. Directly across from him a wide set of staircases led to higher floors. Tapestries and paintings and old statuettes languished in shadow, watching this new intruder. The only light he had to see by came from a room off his right - a flickering golden light. He dragged his suitcase along as he sought its source.

To his disappointment, the drawing room was empty. Yes, there was a lit fireplace - it was huge, the biggest he'd ever seen - but no one was around to enjoy it.

2230 hours


Wr-oof!
          Wr-oof!              Wr-oof!

He had been wrong. Feliks discovered that there were at least three dogs in the manor, enjoying the fire. They had been disguised as a pile of furs on a sofa - and of course they yelped when the young wizard tried to take a seat. One of the dogs was black and the other two.... they were as white as snow. Siberian huskies. The only breed Feliks had ever played with.

Their loud barks were frightening, and he had quickly left the room in his panic. The black dog followed at a distance. It didn't look mean. Feliks tried not to let it scare him as he walked back into the hall and then across it, praying for someone (anyone) to make an appearance.

Nobody did. However: he discovered a dining room and a study and a library and several smaller sitting rooms. And another fire, this time in the kitchen, where he also found candles in the drawers. He lit one at the stove before going back to the hall, where he could use the flame to have a better look at the walls.

The tapestries were written in a tongue he did not recognise[1] and the portraits were either absent or asleep. But the photographs! Feliks brought his candles close to these, where he found them on walls or on tables in the drawing room. Old photos of wizards and witches in these very rooms, or at picnics by a lake, or dressed in fine clothes at celebrations. Families. Couples. The recent pictures, now these he examined much more carefully.

Is this my father? he asked himself, or is this my father? at the face of every wizard who smiled back at the camera.

Question them as he might, there were no answers, and the hours rolled by in silence until at last he felt too tired to explore. He went to the kitchen in search of a glass of milk. Three cats had appeared from nowhere, so he poured them a saucer as well. And then he returned to the drawing room fire.

"Do you know where my father is?" he asked the huskies, joining them on the sofa and curling up to face the blazing hearth. The dogs snuggled up against him, and they huddled together cosily. "I did not think so..." Feliks mumbled with a heavy sigh in his chest.

Just as he fell asleep, he thought he must have been having the most fantastic dream! There were jellyfish on the ceiling. They were glowing beautifully - bluish purples and orange. Maybe all of this was a dream. Maybe he would wake up in the cottage tomorrow morning.

1.

Gaelic