There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far
Very far
Over land and sea
A little shy and sad of eye
But very wise was he.
Nature Boy by Nat King Cole


0945 hours. Spectre Manor.


Oh gods, his thoughts were on fire. Balfour could not have been asleep any longer than five or six hours when he found himself being roused by something very cold against his feet. Swearing, he pulled his legs away from the foot of the bed and clumsily sat up amid the tangle of blankets. In spite of the hour it was still quite dark - rain fell heavily outside and grey light gave the room a rather gloomy quality. He groaned tiredly, rubbing his face. This was the hangover from hell. Whiskey had apparently poked his wet nose under the duvet to wake him, and the Alsatian presently climbed on to the bed to join the two masters. He whined at them.

“Christ, what is it with you?” Bal grumbled, glaring. It had been the same last night when he and Johann had come stumbling home in the wee hours of the morning after Knox’s wedding in Cumbria.

Whiskey had chased them up the stairs, trying to grab attention, but they’d been too drunk and worked up over each other to care. To be honest, his head smarted far too much to care right now either. Balfour glanced next to him to note that Johann’s sleep had also been disturbed.

“Sorry, my love….” he reached down to tousle the head of dark curls - soothingly, if the other man’s hangover was even half as bad.

Johann Storm was dreaming. In a season of recent weddings, he was dreaming of yet another, and trying to organise the guests for photographs. The more he organised, the worse the guests became, darting off, looking the wrong way, chattering, and the more irate Johann became in his dream. Now Whiskey was there, trying to trip him up-

“.. My love…”
“Mhm?” Johann recoiled from the touch in confusion, part dreaming it was one of the terrible guests attempting to smarten his unruly black curls. His hand clasped Balfour’s, and he blinked, realising it was morning. “Oh!” Here was Whiskey too, pushed between them. “I was dreaming about another wedding…” He mumbled, the dream already slipping away from his waking memories.

His legs ached from the dancing and standing the previous day, and his head felt like cotton wool. Should have drunk more water before they went to bed. It was never enough. He needed a hangover remedy and a decent breakfast, in either order. Maybe something more before he even rolled out of bed...

But Whiskey whined and nosed at their clasped hands, tail thumping heavily on their feet.
“You hungry?” he asked the dog in sleepy confusion, “What time is it?” If the dog was being this pushy it had to be late. “Alright, alright,” he stroked the dog’s head gently, acknowledging his nudging.

Balfour smiled to himself fondly, watching his lover slowly begin to discern between dream weddings and reality post-wedding. He would never tire of these moments. Soreness and headaches didn’t compare with that blissful tug in his chest.Whiskey, on the other hand, possessed no such sentimental meanderings. It was really quite uncharacteristic! They’d fed him yesterday hadn’t they? He narrowed his gaze at the dog while he climbed out of bed - danced out bones creaked and cracked in their usual morning protest.

“Grizelda!” Bal called out, crossing over to an armchair to fetch the cosy sweatshirt hanging on the back. The house elf did not appear; not the one in question, nor the other elf they kept at the manor. Ah. “Shit. Forgot they’re with Knox.”

So much for breakfast or hangover potions in bed. His sister had borrowed the help to prepare for her wedding, and to sort out the clean-up. The Scotsman switched on the lamp on their dresser, an orb of yellow light that brightened up their tower room. Whiskey barked once, torn between receiving Johann’s affectionate strokes and wanting to spur them from bed.

“He usually lets us sleep in a lot longer...” Bal tugged on a pair of sweatpants and glanced at the framed mirror across the bed, where the wall clock was reflected. “I mean, it’s barely ten,” he frowned before returning to the bed to scratch behind Whiskey’s eager ears. The poor thing seemed rather excitable, for a pet accustomed to its owners coming home at odd hours.

“What’s the matter, boy? You alright?”

In response, another twitchy bark, and suddenly Whiskey was off the bed and dashing out of the door towards the main hall. They heard his padded footsteps on the tower stairwell, punctuated by a waiting pause at the landing. Balfour opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a series of impatient yelps. He exchanged a look with Johann.

Johann, still beneath the duvet, returned the look and added a bewildered shrug.
“Maybe he really needs a pee or something?” He suggested to Balfour, of the opinion that if his lover - as beast expert and Whiskey’s closest companion - couldn’t understand the unusual behaviour Johann had no chance. He blinked hard, and frowned through the hangover haze, “maybe he’s not the only one.”

Despite the temptation to laze in bed, there was always plenty to do now they were up in Edinburgh. Without the elves for the day, they especially couldn’t be lazy. After downing a hangover remedy with the nonchalance he had once necked sleeping potions, Johann followed Balfour through the hallways of the Spectre house, both tailing the anxious patter of Whiskey’s paws. He caught sight of his hair on end over the neck of his dressing gown as they passed a glass cabinet and ruffled his curls in a vain attempt to calm it.

“My stomach’s suggesting it needs something fried for breakfast,” Johann pondered aloud as they reached the foot of the stairs, his feet automatically carrying him towards the kitchen when he realised Whiskey’s wagging tail had gone in the easterly direction. He spun on the spot and looked to Balfour with bafflement. What could possibly be more important than going out or breakfast, and be in the sitting room?

Something fried sounded perfect right now. Balfour was quickly losing any irritation towards Whiskey for dragging them out of bed - the idea of a hot and unhealthy breakfast was enough to make a man forgiving, and his stomach grumble. It did, in fact, emit an unsavoury growl. He paid it no attention because their four-footed guide appeared to have other, less tasty notions once they reached the entrance hall. The two wizards watched him attempt to lead them into the drawing room.

Bal’s countenance mirrored that of his partner. This was the dog that they counted on to warn them of uninvited intruders, the likes of Jebediah Layton! He knew how Whiskey behaved when such things happened… this was rather different. It was more to do with impatience than warning.

“Do you think we’ve had a delivery?” Balfour reached for Johann’s hand, intertwining fingers as he resignedly changed direction for the drawing room. They typically received packages in the tower, unless it was too big for the windows there.

Having left their room, however, he was beginning to get a sense that something in the manor was amiss. His head felt awful and he couldn’t quite focus enough to pinpoint the feeling. Maybe it was that he hadn’t seen the Fates anywhere, or that they hadn’t caught sight of a single jellyfish this morning. Or maybe it was the quiet, the eerie and waiting silence; stone walls holding their breath.

The drawing room curtains were drawn close but morning light slipped through the edges and a blazing fireplace poured out its own golden glow across persian carpets and flannel couches. Bal glanced around: Whiskey had gone straight for Ivoire and Sangre, curled up on the so--

He almost didn’t see the boy, buried as he was under the two snow white huskies. Balfour stared, and then released Johann’s hand to approach the sofa.

“We have a guest,” he spoke softly. The bairn was still sleeping. Above them, their entire haunting of jellyfish glowed a mixture of warm orange colours and troubled blue ones. “He must have arrived last night.” It was common knowledge between the couple that the Spectre manor would unlock its doors to any Spectre or any person in need of shelter.

Balfour stood there with a perplexed brow. He’d never seen this child in his life and yet there was something familiar about him, wasn’t there? The neat clothes and fur stole told him that there was nothing ragged or destitute about their visitor. Maybe it was his hair, that lurid red….

He reached down without thinking, sweeping a thick lock of it away from the boy’s face.

Johann had briefly entertained his imagination painting Balthair in the sitting room behind the door as he walked hand in hand with his partner. It would be an easy, convenient reason for the dog’s unusual behaviour. But fate was rarely idle in their lives, even when the devil personified was six feet underground.

“Quite,” he replied, just as soft but without the warmth. Although accustomed to the ways of the Spectre home, and learning them well, an intruder, even a slumbering one, could be a threat. His encounters with Layton, Ira and before then, Vedir and Landis had taught Johann to be on his guard the hard way.

He didn’t realise his wand hand sprung to his hands behind his back until he flinched his left hand to gesture against Balfour’s approach. Stood six paces behind, he wouldn’t have reached his lover’s shoulder without magic, and he kept his right hand tucked behind, hiding the fact he was armed. The bundle of human on the sofa with the dogs could as yet turn out to be a misidentified Spectre relative, and it wouldn’t do to scare the life out of him.

But the red. There was a creeping tension in his shoulders. His hungover mind already churning over possibilities, examining the face, appearance, the familiarity of Ira’s dogs. Behind Balfour, Johann sniffed the air on purpose, but found no note as hers hanging like a shadow. He traced his eyes around the edge of the room, looking for physical shadows.

“I only hope he’s alone.” Johann uttered, returning his attention to Balfour and their guest, pale fingers flexing around his wand behind his back.

Continued from here.


Feliks Spectre slept and dreamt deeply. In his mind, he was lost in a garden labyrinth - tall green hedges on either side and a cloudy white sky above. Wherever he wandered there did not seem to be an end to the path, but he didn’t feel lost. Soon, he kept saying to himself, soon I will arrive.

            “...have arrived last night.”
“I only hope he’s alone.”

The voices were strange… the voices of men, alarming to anyone raised by a flock of witches. Feliks groused tiredly, realising he was being pulled away from sleep. He felt so warm. Warmer than he had ever felt in his life. It was heaven, swaddled in furs. Careful fingers brushed against his forehead and he pulled back in surprise, forcing his eyes open all at once.

Almost like it had never been there, the hand was snatched away. Feliks swallowed and gawked awkwardly at the tall bearded wizard standing before him. He quickly rubbed the sand out of his eyes, trying to sit up. The two dogs on the sofa only nudged closer to the boy.

            “Good morning,” the man tilted his head to the side. His accent was very strange. “Sleep alright?"

Not even the wizards and witches at the English train station had sounded like that. He was smiling the way the Sisters at the cottage smiled when Feliks did something funny. The Sisters! Feliks hurriedly dug into his pockets, pulling out the letter he’d been given.

Without saying a word, he handed it to the man. That was when he noticed the other person in the room. Another tall wizard with dark hair and the kind of face you only saw in book illustrations. Feliks recognised both of them from one of the more recent photos he had seen on the walls.

One of them must be father. He looked between them, mouth dry with sleep and worry.

Balfour was about to tell Johann that they obviously didn’t have anything to fear from a child, of all things, when the boy suddenly woke up. He looked as shocked to see them as they did to see him! And he had dark eyes, the darkest Bal had ever seen. It reminded him of somebody… or a photograph of somebody he had once seen…

There was something of a delayed response to his morning greeting. Their guest certainly looked old enough to answer for himself but, instead, hastily procured an envelope. His heart nearly stopped when he saw it. The make of it, the rich blue paper, the handwriting upon front that spelled his name in painstaking cursive.

Balfour suddenly remembered where he had seen those eyes.

It was when he was first given a photograph of his birth mother. She had those eyes. He took the envelope mechanically, smile disappearing. No. No, this was ridiculous. It couldn’t be. And Ira was dead, no fucking encore! Balfour observed the envelope in his hand and then glanced at Johann. The hangover was not helping.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he announced before stepping away, almost stumbling over a footrest. “Johann. It’s from her.”

The Scotsman fell backwards right into his usual armchair and turned away from the boy. He just couldn’t look at it. Him. Whatever this child was. Balfour broke the wax seal.

The uneasy feeling did not shift as their guest, seemingly mute in his surprise, rubbed his eyes and looked between them. Then the envelope. His heart in his slender chest missed a beat, maybe two, and his bright blue gaze sought Balfour’s with urgency, alarmed. Behind his back, his restrained arms broke free, reaching out, concerned at his lover’s sudden pale face. Never mind be sick, he was worried Balfour might faint on the spot.

No encores!

She couldn’t have sent them the present of a child messenger. That seemed out of her patterns, she never involved children. Well, apart from poisoning them. Johann swallowed audibly. Unless she had changed her face so dramatically this time. It would explain the dogs, but Whiskey would remember her scent even so.

Balfour fell into an armchair heavily and averted his gaze, leaving Johann stood between the two of them, looking from one to the other as his heart thudded in his ears. The younger face was confused, hurt, and Johann lifted his empty hand slowly in a signal to wait, to give them a moment. His lover’s body was screaming discomfort and anguish.

“It can’t be,” Johann uttered firmly, trying to be pragmatic, “Balfour. It can’t.” He swallowed down the threat of bile in his own thought at the notion and instead pointed his wand at the footstool, dragging it steadily towards him to take a seat in no-man’s land. It wasn’t the moment to tower over them both, but he wouldn’t pocket his ebony wand.

“Hello,” he greeted the young man on the sofa, also doing the inquisitive head tilt Balfour had at first. His tone was even, cautiously friendly. He paused, gaze dropping as he considered possibilities, and then returned his gaze to the new face.

“Maybe English not your mother tongue?” He tried in Russian this time, in what must have been an uneven and foreign accent. As he spoke, he studied the unfamiliar face, willing his unconscious mind not to see familiar features in it. “I’m Johann. Who are you?”

Feliks didn’t understand. The wizard did not even open the letter and now, the smile and the soft voice was taken from him as easily as the hand had been. He stroked one of the dogs, looking down at the floor self-consciously. Had he done something wrong? What if his father didn’t want him? Would the Sisters come take him back? Would they be angry? Feliks pressed his lips together, to stop himself from crying because he just couldn’t go back now. Not after seeing how big the world could be.

Not after seeing what could have been his home.

             “Maybe English not your mother tongue?” he realised the other man had come closer, and was addressing him in Russian. It sounded clumsy in his mouth.

“Privyet.” Feliks looked at him, speaking in brittle voice. “I speak English. My name is Feliks. I come from…” he switched to Russian hesitantly, “Kottedzh[1]?” They had apparated from his old home so he didn’t know where exactly it was.

Not wanting to disappoint the wizard, Feliks kept talking. But the more he spoke, the darker his hair grew - and the brilliant red became an earthy, auburn colour. “They say I am a Spectre. Not an Almasy. They say my mother is dead now so I cannot stay with them.”

He wanted to look at Balfour (and it must be Balfour if this man was called Johann) but he was afraid.

1.	“The Cottage”

The envelope contained many pieces of parchment. To Balfour’s great dread, the first was a certificate of birth; it looked rather like the real deal. An official stamp and an enchantment of authenticity marked it as a document of a wizarding hospital in Moscow. In response to the cyrillic print, Ira Almasy had scribbled in English.



He did not have to read much further down to see that she had named herself as mother, and him as father. Balfour placed this on the side table, rubbing his face frustratedly. The dates fitted. Not that he expected otherwise, even if this was one of her tricks. The other papers were less official.

A letter signed by somebody called Sister Masha explaining that the boy had been in her care since he was six months of age, raised amongst Squibs of the Almasy clan. She explained that he was unfamiliar with magical communities, and allergic to lemon curd. He did not like to eat roast aubergines. Finally, the last note was only one sentence long.

Ira’s script simply asked: “Would I lie to you?” and, on a corner of the sheet, a crimson lip mark. Balfour almost threw it into the fireplace.

But he got the better of his temper. “Johann,” he collected the contents together and handed them across to him with a serious expression. His gaze flicked to the boy. Feliks. To Feliks. Balfour hadn’t been listening to their conversation but he could tell he wasn’t coming off as particularly welcoming. Wasn’t his hair lighter than that?

“Is there a way we find out if this is true?” he asked Joh, without looking away from what could very well be his son.

At the verbal response, Johann’s eyebrows raised in surprise. They lowered of their own accord as he concentrated on every word. Feliks, good choice. He tried to remember the translation for the word Feliks switched languages for, recognising it as some sort of home. Not a town he knew, certainly.

Encouraging, Johann nodded, though as much as he listened to the young man he also listened for signs of Balfour behind him. He wanted to look round, but equally he didn’t want to look away from their intruder.

“They say I am a Spectre…”

Merlin.

Johann nodded, small, rapid nods in understanding. He wanted to swear but he held it in and his head became a cacophony of yells and declarations, some more violent than others. They had to stay calm, and he could do that. He could hold it together. It wasn’t as if this situation had not arisen in another guise amongst family.

“Well yes, maybe.” Johann replied in English, thoughtful. Balfour’s address brought his attention away to reach for the bundle of papers. His eyes swept over Balfour’s expression first, unable to truly imagine what was going through the other man’s mind. Keep your head, he wished in silence.

Johann glanced back to Feliks, blinked and stared a little harder at his hair colour and then turned his attention to examining the contents of the correspondence. It was comprehensive, fresh, the ink of the letter from the Sister the most recent. He lifted the paper with Ira’s hand to his nose and sniffed systematically before examining the lipstick up close. It had dried, and held up to the light rudely forcing its way between the curtains, showed it had long dried and oiled the parchment. Her perfume was there, though so faintly now it could have been a trick of his mind.

“Is there a way we find out if this is true?”

This. Johann lowered the birth certificate back to his lap and gave Balfour a firm but sympathetic expression.
“There is a way, and I have done it before.” He blinked, glanced his eyes away from Balfour in Felik’s general direction, “though I will have to step out to the office.” The way Balfour looked, Johann felt reticent to consider leaving. Unexpected fatherhood was a horrific shock, and disbelief was only to be expected.

He took a shaky breath and reached out to Balfour’s nearest hand, leaving his wand beneath the papers on his lap as he squeezed in solidarity. It was the best he could do in absence of sweeping Balfour into his arms, sending him to sleep and uttering it was all a bad dream and he’d wake up soon.

“Feliks, this is Balfour.” Johann introduced, looking back to the younger wizard. “As you may imagine, this is quite a surprise.” He applied a little more pressure to Balfour’s hand, knowing that surprise was a moderate word for the the horror actually unfolding in the room. His own heart was thudding unevenly in his chest as he sought the part of him which could forge documents under pressure. It didn’t gel well with the stance he took when addressing his young maternal cousins.

“Are you hungry?” He asked, “We were just about to make breakfast.”

Not for the first time, Balfour wondered what on earth he would do without Johann Storm. He couldn’t even imagine what the course of events for this morning would look like if the other wizard had not been here - had not offered that warm and comforting hand to take his own, telling him without words that they would weather this together.

Most comforting, of course, was knowing they could confirm all of this. Even if he had dreaded suspicions of the truth.

He squeezed back and rose to his feet, forced to observe their guest as part of introductions. Feliks stared up at him from the sofa…. looking terribly fearful, which sent a spike of agitation through Balfour.

“Why don’t you two go ahead and start on some food then?” he glanced at Johann before any other answer could be made, “I need a spot of fresh air.” Not wasting time, he drew his wand and flicked it smoothly; in one movement pushing open the drawing room curtains. Grey morning light flooded the space, mutedly caught on the surface of gleaming glass cabinets or polished tables.

It was drizzling outside. The estate and the forest beyond looked washed out. Balfour pursed his lips together, blowing a whistle as he made his way out. The dogs scurried off the sofa to their master. He glanced back at his lover and then at Feliks, who stared longingly after the huskies.

Had the child been here since Whiskey tried to tell them last night? Longer? Johann was right to ask about food. “I won’t be long,” Bal reassured them before disappearing into the hall. He accio’d his cigarette case from the study, and the great doors of the Spectre manor shoved themselves open for him while his hounds ran ahead.

The cold, damp August air rushed to meet him. He strode out, barefoot, and stood on the terrace to light a cigarette.

Feliks was starving. He pilfered a glass of milk last night but had otherwise not eaten since lunch the day before, though it was easy to forget hunger in the excitement of waking up here. The drawing room, fully lit, was much bigger than he realised - he felt quite small. Even smaller when the beautiful huskies slipped away to follow Balfour. He’d never before stepped foot into a place like this.

The wizard was nothing like what Feliks imagined. He had always pictured a large and jovial figure, like one of the hunters they would see in the forest near the Cottage. This man was different. Feliks didn’t know how to describe him: it was like everything around his father fell into line without anyone realising it. But then Balfour Spectre was gone.

His absence felt like both disappointment and a relief.

Feliks climbed off the sofa, glancing up at Johann eagerly. His stomach made a sound and he crossed his arms across his chest, hoping the wizard didn’t hear. “I can have a hot cocoa, please?” he asked in a polite manner.

The teaspoon stirred the cocoa on the long kitchen table before Feliks. It lifted from the creamy surface and gave a little shake before dropping to the table beside the dog-themed mug, issuing a dull ring. Another teaspoon was still stirring the teapot, while two mugs, decorated with glitter and childish handwriting, waddled along to join the pot, trailed by a sugar bowl and the milk jug. They had come from the Atreus flat, and survived eight months since Christmas where young Spectres had decorated them as gifts. Using them that morning had a subconscious reasoning to attempt to reassure Feliks that Balfour wasn’t alien to children. The initial reaction, to Balfour’s credit, hadn’t been explosive, but it had been distinctly chilly.

While the breakfast crockery formed a parade of sorts for their guest, Johann broke eggs carefully into a pan, by hand rather than magic. He kept the figure at the table in his periphery vision as best he could.
“So fried eggs.” Johann asked rhetorically, turning away from the pan to give Feliks a smile. “But no lemon curd or aubergines?” They were odd things to be mentioned in a letter. “Well, there’s jam and honey, and we don’t eat aubergines for breakfast, or very often at all.”

The teapot’s lid had rattled back into place, the second teaspoon now prostrate beside the cocoa one. Johann reached for his ebony wand and flicked it at the fireplace with precision, flipping the row of bread slices so they would also toast the other side. Grizelda always burned them, but it was about the only thing she ever did incorrectly, and was forgiven.

“Do you know what time you got here?” Johann asked, venturing a question about the situation rather than food or hunger, now that breakfast was on the way. “Or how you got here?”