This post is written from the point of view of Wren Wold, Wesley's little sister

---

Wren Wold always woke early. Like a bird, her brother would tease her. When they had guests at the inn, she had to get fully dressed and wear shoes and brush her hair before leaving her room, but they had no guests today, and wouldn't until after Christmas. The hallway of rooms stood empty, the doors unlocked. She woke before the rest of her family and padded through the house, savoring the feeling of the soft, worn rug under her bare feet, and stepping where so many larger feet had stepped as she descended the stairs and tiptoed over the cat curled up on one of the steps. She walked through the large living room, past the comfortable furniture arranged near the fireplace, past their old bloodhound who lifted his head and gave a thump of his tail, past the neat stacks of books and games on the bookshelves, past the white walls that were scrubbed clean every week of the fingerprints and scuffs all the visitors left there.

Their pudgiest cat wound around her ankles as Wren donned her coat and slipped on the boots that Wendy had left by the door. She went outside to the garden to watch the birds in the trees and listen to the critters in the bushes.

A rainbow of foggy colors graced the sky, peeking through the gray, drifting clouds. A cold rain started to fall.

She and her brothers were meant to return to their old house today in Wiltshire. It wouldn't take them long to get there, but they'd never visited before. It surprised her that her dad was willing to go, but he had been extra nice since Wesley had come home for the holidays. Wren had been trying to sort out how she felt about visiting. She'd dreamed about the cottage last night.

Her memories of the cottage were hazy. She remembered worn tiles under her feet. The mazes and doodles that Wesley drew for her. The greenhouses and the carvings on the table. The lavender scent of her mother's hair. Her friendly brown eyes that looked much like Wesley's. The high-pitched crying Wyatt had made as a newborn.

She couldn't remember being left alone for three days, but Wesley did.

Those memories were sometimes hard to separate from the memories she made now. Wesley mailed her silly drawings of ghosts, and they grew vegetables and fruit in the garden out back, and her aunt would hug her gently like her mother had, and her uncle's face reminded her of Wesley's and her own, and Wyatt still cried.

The rain fell harder. Wren held her palms out and cupped the water that dripped from the roof, then went inside to wake her brother.

She walked up the stairs, water dripping from her hands, and nudged open Wesley's door. She had a few drops left and flung them on his head, careful not to fling them on the cat budged up against his back.

"What?" He mumbled, rolling over. "Wren? What did you wake me for? Is it time to go yet?"

He sat up, his blond hair all over the place. He shook his head slightly at the damp.

"I had a dream about dad."

"Uh huh," he blinked and yawned.

"Your dad."

Their aunt and uncle were her parents. Wesley would know what she meant.

His mouth shut. He kept blinking the sleep out of his eyes. "Oh! Let me - wait, let me guess. Was he at our old house? Was there an elf? Was there snow?"

"Wesley," she said his name in a whine. Terrible listener, her older brother. "I'm going to forget."

"Ok, ok. Tell me."

"We were taking a walk in a field. It was warm out, like summer. My nose was pink, I could feel it getting sunburned."

She rubbed at her nose, looked in the mirror on the door. Her nose was pink from the cold outside.

"Ok." Wesley was wiping at his hair, staring at the damp strands, puzzled. Wren let out a snicker, and continued.

"Um, so what happened, what happened," she dug her big toe into the carpet.

"Why is my hair wet? And cold?"

"Oh so, I remember! Your, our, um. Dad," she paused after the name. "There was a hole in the ground, and Dad picked up me and Wyatt. Me in one arm and Wyatt in the other, and he leaped over it, and leaped really far. Houses and houses far. A whole block of houses. Maybe not that far. It looked really far."

"Ok, Wren," Wes had adopted his usual smile, wiping at his hair. "What happened next?"

"You! You wouldn't leap over. You just stood there on the edge, looking into the hole. And Dad got scared, and kept yelling at you to hurry, and his voice sounded like my dad's." Wren paused. The dad she remembered, the uncle who had raised her in this house. She glanced at the door, then back at him, "You wouldn't jump over."

Wesley stood from his bed and leaned in and looked at her very, very seriously. "You put snow in my hair, I wouldn't have jumped with you."

He ruffled her hair. The cat stretched out in his absence and stole the warm spot in the blankets.

Not snow, she thought distractedly. Just rain.

He shrugged, going over to his wardrobe. "I'm surprised you dreamed about dad. I wish I dreamed about him. I don't think I ever have."

"For some reason I did," she said in a small voice, feeling a little guilty because she could never remember and Wesley remembered a little.

He looked out at her from the wardrobe door, "My friend Sulwen has weird dreams. It's good you have normal dreams, probably."

There was something important that Wren wasn't telling him, something important she couldn't remember.

"Wesley," she took a few steps after him. "The pit?"

"Yeah?"

She could tell by his tone that she was losing his attention.

"It smelled really bad."

He looked excited rather than worried about this. "Number one or number two?"

"Ewwww," Wren shook her head. "Wesley?"

"Whaaat?"

"I don't remember what I was going to tell you. But the pit smelled bad, and you were just standing there."

"What?" he cupped his ear.

"I was saying, I don't remember what-"

"What?" He was grinning, looking away from her.

"Wesley!"

He gave her an unconcerned look. "Don't worry about it. We're going to the house today."

Wren nodded, unconvinced.

"Our old house on the farm," he smiled, his face lighting up, and Wren found herself smiling too, though she didn't remember Dad well, and only a little of Mum, and Wyatt didn't remember anything but the house they lived in now.

Wesley remembered for them.

Late morning, in the city of Bath

---

"Coira, if I ever hear you call your sister a dementor again, you will not be getting any presents this year," Asami Reid stood in the doorway of the study, hands on hips, looking stern.

Coira's mouth dropped open. "But she's being creepy!"

"I mean it," Sulwen's mother swooped in, a stack of parchment in her hands. "I don't want to hear that word come out of your mouth. The fiasco at the train station was bad enough."

Sulwen smirked, crossing her arms in her long, ragged shroud. She was only practicing for A Christmas Carol in a few nights. She couldn't get into trouble for that. She actually liked her role: Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. All she had to do was creep and point. Creep and point at Scrooge, who happened to be Virgil Carstairs, who happened to be a good friend of her aunt Abby's. Feliks was there too, and he actually enjoyed having lines and faking a limp. Her mother had wanted a talkative role for her, but Sulwen had felt nervous enough when they'd started rehearsals. Once she'd realized that she simply had to pretend Scrooge was a misbehaving boy in class, Sulwen had started to relax.

Her mother gave her a look from her desk.

"Sulwen. Go change out of your costume. Stop scaring your sister, or you won't be getting presents, either."

Coira giggled gleefully as Sulwen glided past her, head held high. Sulwen fluttered the sleeve of her black shroud in her sister's direction, and Coira's eyes bulged out of her head.

"Mother!"

"Both of you, out!"

Her mother did seem a tad on edge, Sulwen thought, slowing to close the door and follow Coira down the hallway. She'd noticed several letters going back and forth to Grandmother Reid, and assumed that they were making arrangements for the party on the 24th. What else could they be talking about? What was happening today?

"You don't even have any lines," Coira whispered over her shoulder. "You don't need to practice. Just be yourself. Creepy!"

Sulwen adjusted the hood over her head. This was too easy. Fixing a neutral expression on her face, she stalked down the hall after her sister.

This post is written from the point of view of Alan, Wesley's former neighbor in Wiltshire

---

Alan looked out the window at his farm, listening for the shrieking he'd heard the other night. Screaming, shrieking, like some kind of animal. He'd picked up the phone, then forgotten what he'd meant to do. It was the same with the lights. Late at night he'd spotted colorful, bright lights winking above the cottage in the distance, and every time he tried to describe it, picked up the phone, it faded from his memory. The singing, too. It kept him up at night.

He felt like he'd heard it all before.

Fog pressed against the window, and dread hovered on the edges of his consciousness. The air smelled heavy with rain. He shut the window and latched it.

Alan felt better in town. Several days ago in town, he'd called Mark Wold on his mobile to let him know someone was living on Lucy's farm. It wasn't his business, but he'd felt the urge to say something. He'd hated to see the farm fall into such disrepair over the years. Perhaps the new neighbor needed some advice, or was intending to sell the land. He kept meaning to visit. He regretted that time he hadn't paid enough attention several years ago. That time when three young children had been left for three days, alone in their house, and he hadn't known until Wesley had appeared at his door, scared that his baby brother wouldn't stop crying.

Lucy and Walter, Wesley's parents, had kept to themselves. Lucy had spoken to him the most, stopping by with the kids after her husband had died. The kids had seemed happy to see him, especially the eldest, Wesley, who ran around playing with all the old appliances and poking at the toaster in fascination. They didn't have a telly, they said. He'd felt badly for the mother and couldn't imagine she'd ever leave her children by choice.

They'd been running or hiding from something, he'd suspected. But it hadn't been his business.

When she'd gone missing, first the cops had come, and then a peculiar detective who had nodded at the television and called it a fine wireless. Mark Wold, Lucy's brother, had adopted the three kids, and someone had bought the farm soon after. It had sat unoccupied until August, when the bright lights and strange sounds had started.

Alan hadn't expected Mark to return his call. He certainly hadn't expected him to ask if he wanted to catch up a few days before Christmas. Though he'd pretended to check his calendar, it meant a lot, the thought of seeing the kids again.

When the Wold's car pulled in, he opened the front door. Mark looked harried, telling him Wyatt had stayed at home with a cold, and handing him a batch of holiday cookies the kids had helped bake. Wesley and Wren clambered out of the car, so much taller since he'd last seen them!

He smiled a tad hesitantly at the kids. Wesley looked to his uncle, and gave him a quick hug. Wren waved at him and followed.

"I have one of these now!" Wesley went right to the television.

"A fine wireless?" Alan joked, and Wesley blinked.

"A - a telly! Ha!"

As they sat down to lunch, Wesley said he liked boarding school and had only received one detention so far. Alan couldn't help his look of surprise. He didn't think the Wolds were the boarding school type, and Mark changed the subject.

Later, after one too many cookies, they took Alan's truck out. Wren giggled at the tiny back seats and made Wesley switch with her dozens of times, inventing some story about how the seats were a hideaway for garden gnomes.

Wesley laughed, "No, they live underground."

"I know that. If they rode in the back of a truck like this, and got to look out the windows, they'd be less cranky."

Mark cleared his throat, and the kids quieted, though Alan didn't mind the chatter. He drove over the rough road until they reached the other farm. Weeds, thistle, and patches of grass poked through the mud and trampled wheat, and in the distance sat a small brick cottage nestled next to two greenhouses. No smoke rose from the chimney, and Alan relaxed his grip on the steering wheel.

"Whoever lives here hasn't done a thing," Mark muttered.

The kids clambered over each other to peer out the window, quiet for a few long moments.

Wren piped up, "The greenhouses are pretty, look. The glass is shiny and there's lots of greenery."

Alan only saw broken, dusty glass even from a distance. He put the truck in park, resting one hand on the wheel and the other on the stick shift. He kept feeling like he had somewhere else to be, something else to do.

Mark beside him pinched the bridge of his nose. He shook his head, peering down the road.

Wesley opened the narrow door in the back of the truck and hopped out. Wren followed. The sound of the door closing made them both jolt, and Mark rolled down his window.

"Kids?" Mark shouted in confusion.

"Come on!" Wesley took a few steps down the path, disappearing behind the trees along the property.

Wren hesitated at the edge of the road. Alan's mouth went dry as he glanced at the silent, dark cottage waiting in the field. The lights were out, but did they know about the bright lights at night? Had he told them?

"Mark," he made an effort to speak, glancing back at Wren. She stood like an anchor. Then she turned and followed her brother and the thought flew out of his head.

He put the gear in drive and let the car inch forward.

Mark turned in his seat to stare at him, his eyes clouded.

"I forgot something at home," Alan mumbled.

"Hmm? At your house?"

He didn't answer. The car crept forward a few inches, then a few more.

Mark looked at the road, "Hey."

Alan hovered his foot over the brake pedal.

"The air smells like rain. A storm is coming," Mark rolled up his window.

Meanwhile...

---

Sulwen crept after her little sister down the hall. Coira kept looking over her shoulder and squealing.

When she got close enough, she hovered her hands over her shoulders and let her long black sleeves droop.

Coira whirled around, "Stop it!"

Sulwen snickered, dodging as Coira swatted at her hands.

"Dementor!" Coira turned and ran up the stairs.

Sulwen's laughter faded. Hearing that annoyed her, but she couldn't let it show. It bothered her mother enough, and she couldn't let her know that she still thought about the day at the station sometimes. They didn't talk about things in this house, and despite opening up a little at school, Sulwen felt more comfortable with silence.

She moved through the archway where her sister had gone, and paused. Goosebumps prickled her skin. A chill frosted the air she breathed. Dementor? Sulwen hugged her arms, glancing around, heart racing. A black, ragged veil crept over the archway and hovered near her face. It wafted in an invisible wind. Sulwen's eyes widened. She leaned back.

The veil disappeared. The air warmed again.

Sulwen ran up the stairs, pushing the vision out of her mind.[1]

1.	Two Innocent Stars

"They're leaving us!" Wren whined.

Wesley paused on the overgrown path leading into the fields. The air shimmered around him, brighter than the sunlight through the clouds as it tickled his nose and dusted his eyelashes. He blinked, his usual slight smile fixing itself on his face. Magic. Magic was here. Magic enveloped this sad, abandoned place.

And if magic was here, this place wasn't abandoned, and it couldn't be that sad.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, hearing the engine of the car grow fainter. What were they doing? Trying to find a parking spot on an empty country road?

"I'm going, Wren. I'm going. What if she's here?"

"Who?"

He frowned. "Our mother."

"The air smells bad and makes my nose itch," she rubbed at her nose. "What are they doing? They're just driving away!" She stepped closer to the road and waved with both arms.

"You don't have to come with me. I'll go on my own."

Wesley took a step back, impatient. He took another, and another, away from the edge of the road, watching his sister gesture wildly. In Sulwen's dream, he'd visited his former house alone, and his sister was just slowing him down. It would be better if she stayed behind. He took another step back.

"Wesley!" Her voice rose. "Don't go! I can barely see you!"

The wind swept around him, cold and damp and without the shimmer he'd seen a moment ago. Wes took a step forward. The air shimmered and warmed, his nose itched. He stepped back, it dissipated.

"Don't be a baby. Come with me or catch up to the car."

She glanced to him and to the road and back again. Wren hated making split decisions and often chose the safest option when pushed to it.

"Bye!" He kept walking backwards, letting out a laugh. He stumbled over a rock and almost tripped.

"You're going to fall into a pit of smelly flowers!" She shouted, her voice sounding like it came from within a tunnel. She turned and hurried down the road.

Wesley waited until the car stopped, feeling mildly offended even though he'd wanted her to go. The door opened. Wesley stood still, hoping against all hope that they wouldn't see him. Wouldn't notice him. He sighed, expecting his uncle's shout at any moment.

The car started again. It looked hazy through the wall of magic. The faded silver color of the truck nearly blended with the sky and the clouds. The car sped up.

What? They were really leaving him?

"Ha!" He said out loud, victorious, punching the air. His stomach gave a nervous flop. Relief warred with sudden worry, like it did most of the time when he got away with something and then remembered why it wasn't the best idea. Sulwen had warned him not to come back to his old house this winter.[1] He felt a flash of annoyance. What did she know?

1.

The Dream

M - for references to past abuse

---

Lorelei Hunt stood at the back of her property on a patch of land furthest away from the road. Her eyes glinted cold and hard as she dug two graves with swishes of her wand. A stiff corpse levitated beside her. He smelled and looked like so many others she'd killed in her lifetime, his face waxy and frozen in a mask of pain. He wore the lime green Healer's robes she'd kidnapped him in. Robes that had been stained by death and cleaned countless times were now marked with his own death. She'd spent the night torturing him, making a pentral out of his soul before he'd died. A legilimens would be worth a lot to someone who wanted the skill without the hard work. He was worth nothing to her.

He'd had one job - to fix the damage that the dementors had inflicted upon her brother in August. To fix the mess made of his mind, to knit together what was left of his soul.

The Healer had only made it worse, causing Leander to retreat into a coma.

The wind blew specks of mud into her face. She swiped at her cheeks and nose with ragged fingernails. Never again. She would never be poor, or vulnerable, or alone. She'd made that promise to herself, and yet here she was, feeling the things she dreaded. Leander had always clung to the lives of others, unable to let go. Why couldn't he live, for her?

As a child, he'd once adopted a small stray dog and hid it in their bedroom. He'd loved that sad, skinny yipping thing, giving up the little food he had to it. When it had died underneath his bed, Leander had let out a howl of grief and anger that had woken both their parents from a potion-induced stupor. Though she'd been tempted to let him face up to it, she'd walked into the hall and taken the blame for his outburst.

Their house had settled. Leander had asked her to bring the dead dog back.

"Get over it," she'd snapped, angry about the new bruises that she hadn't done anything to deserve.

They'd grown up and fallen into similar patterns. She took the blame when things went wrong, she tortured, she killed. Leander left flowers on the graves, built an altar to the pentral he loved, soothed the unicorns he hurt.

After the dementors had attacked him, he drank the unicorn blood she gave him, and repeated the same name over and over.

Iona.

Since last night, Leander lay there not even sleeping, not even dreaming. No longer poor, or vulnerable, or alone, or anything at all.

A sour, sick feeling twisted her stomach.

Swish and flick at the dirt. Swish and flick, she dug the two graves.

She'd return to the cottage when this was done, and kill her own brother.

Her wand lowered as a truck drove by in the distance. Those damn machines. That nosy neighbor. The wards shifted and shimmered around the farm for a few seconds. She narrowed her eyes at the road for a long moment, then resumed her task.

Lorelei added a third grave, half the size of the others.

Swish and flick, she dug the three graves.

Wesley hesitated in front of the cottage he'd grown up in, looking for some sign of cheer. Moss crept up the brick walls and onto the patchy, faded roof. Paint peeled off the window shutters in pale yellow. The cottage sat dwarfed by the two large glass greenhouses bursting with greenery a short walk away. He kept glancing at the greenhouses. Someone was making use of the farm, but hadn't bothered to make it feel like home.

He stepped onto the bare porch, which had no funny frog statues anymore, no mat to wipe his feet on.

The wind chime jingled, and Wesley smiled up at it, only to remember, very vaguely, it was magical, and connected to something inside the house...

He raised his fist to knock, and the door flew open.

A house elf let out an alarmed squeak, and Wesley took a step back. He blinked at the elf's pale, sunken face and the rags she wore. Sulwen had mentioned a house elf in her dream, hadn't she? Had she mentioned the state of her?

"Go away," the elf hissed. "You're not supposed to be here."

Wesley opened his mouth, then shut it. Speechless, for once.

"Go away!" She repeated, starting to close the door.

"Wait!" Wesley stepped forward. The door was closing, closing, closed.

"This is my house!" He protested.

The shuffling of small feet sounded on the tiles inside. He raised his voice.

"My old house! I used to live here."

The door opened a crack, framing a pair of very large eyes. The elf studied him, frowning at his jeans and coat.

"Are you a wizard? Are you a wizard or a child?" She muttered, half to herself.

"I go to Hogwarts. I used to live here with my family. My mum-"

"You are a child. She said nothing about children. Just wixes, just muggles, but you're in school, you're a child," the elf mumbled low, clenching and unclenching her fists.

A bruise mottled her jawline and Wesley glanced away, uncomfortable.

She made a shooing gesture at him with spindly arms. "You need to leave before she gets back."

"Who?"

"The witch. The witch," she sputtered. "I can't say."

"My mother?"

She gave a little gasp, her eyes widening further.

"No one's mother! Not a mother! A witch! Listen! She's a horrible witch! You must leave!"

He backed away. "My mum's name is Lucy-"

"Shhh! It's not safe!"

The door started to close again. Wesley took another step back, then paused, the bruise reminding him of the neglect of the house. She looked so miserable.

"Do you want to come with me?"

Half of her face showed behind the door. One eye stared at him for a long moment without blinking. She gave a shake of her head and shut the door.

Wesley stood there, recognizing an anxious feeling in his stomach. It felt like he had eaten too much or not enough. The windchimes were still and quiet. He looked at the clouded sky, and flinched in surprise as a snowflake fell on his nose.

He turned around and started down the path to the road. Wes shuffled his feet, kicked at stones.

He made it into the field when a howl broke the silence, a cry so full of rage and grief and pain that it froze Wesley to the spot. He took a wild glance around the land.

It was coming from behind him. From the house. From inside the house.

Wesley glanced over his shoulder. It went on and on, worse than anything he'd ever heard.

The noise stopped.

"Run. Run!" The elf screamed at him from the window, just as the yelling started up again.

Wesley ran. He ran down the path through the field as snowflakes fell on his shoulders and his head.

Lorelei's head snapped up. Screaming. Howling. Who was making that horrible noise? She wanted to make it worse or silence it.

It sounded familiar. It came from the direction of the cottage. Her brother?

A snowflake fell onto her cheek and melted, stinging the scratches she'd left. She scanned the farmland as the noise continued. The wards had shifted earlier. Someone must be looking for the legilimens. Someone must have betrayed her. Someone had woken her brother.

Her brother was awake.

Dumping the corpse of the Healer on the ground, Lorelei took a step away from the three graves and waved her wand, her other hand clutching an explosive potion in her pocket.

Pop!

She apparated in front of the cottage. The howling continued, on and on. As she glanced toward the empty road, the door opened.

"He's awake, he's awake!" The house elf screeched over the noise.

Lore raised her wand and moved into the doorway, her heart thudding with possibilities. Dead or alive. Useless or useful. Her brother, or just another corpse. 

The howling stopped.

Leander sat on the narrow bed in front of the fireplace, his back to her. He sat so still and so quietly that she glanced around the cottage, her ears ringing. He liked to watch the fire. He was sitting up on his own.

"Leander," she said, her voice a warning.

No response.

Lorelei pointed her wand at him, holding onto the spark of anger that had given her the strength to dig those graves. She wouldn't hurt him, not like she'd hurt her father. He'd be dead in an instant. She wouldn't turn him into a pentral, not like her other victims. He would be free.

"Leander," she tried again.

He was awake, but no better than before the Healer. Still, she remained in the doorway. The words stuck on her tongue. The slippery sick feeling was back, twisting up her stomach.

This would be easier if he'd continued screaming.

Past the open door, a rustling sounded in the field. Lorelei looked over her shoulder, glaring. What had woken him in the first place?

"He's awake!" The elf tugged on her cloak.

"Hush," Lorelei said softly, her hand reaching towards the flinching elf, her index finger pressing against the elf's mouth, her eyes lighting with suspicion at one point in the field.

Wesley ran through the field. At the pop of apparition, he turned his head, glimpsing a woman in a gray plaid cloak. His mother's cloak.

He tripped, a gust of wind at his back.

He hung in the air, suspended.

He hit the ground. He bit his tongue. He groaned, jarring his knees and wrists against the cold, hard mud.

Animals skittered away in the underbrush, rustling the weeds and the long grass. He put his palms flat on the ground and instinctively started to stand. He had to keep running.

The howling stopped. A sudden wind blew over him and hovered, heavy and humid and warm. Wesley stayed still, catching the scent of sunshine and lavender over the rot of damp foliage and the taste of blood in his mouth.

It felt like summer on the farm again, his favorite and least favorite season. Summer was when his father had used to scoop him up in one arm and Wren in the other and swing them around. Summer was when his mother had painted the window shutters a bright yellow. Summer was when his father had died one year, and when his mother had vanished years later.

He lay there on his stomach, tears leaking out of his eyes. The warm wind brought all those feelings back, good and bad. It reminded him of that day at the train station less than a week ago, when a dementor had glided onto the nearly empty platform, bringing a freezing chill and bad feelings. The creature had looked at Wesley with black holes for eyes and seemed to know how much Wesley missed his parents. It had flown towards him, and then something - a wispy white thing - had blocked its path.

They'd called it a patronus. It had come from that blond lady related to Sulwen.

What was the other thing, Wesley had asked, and no one had answered. He'd seen two things. One wispy animal thing, and one human thing, that had felt just like this warm wind.

He understood then. That redheaded woman wearing his mother's cloak and living in his mother's house was not his mother.

A drop of rain fell, and rolled down his neck, cold under the collar of his jacket. The warm wind slowly rolled up and joined the clouds.

Lorelei cocked her head, looking for movement in the underbrush. Something large enough that needed chasing off or killing.

"Lore," her brother spoke behind her, his voice hoarse.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her brother shifting his posture on his own. Looking at her. Seeing her.

He coughed once. "Lore," he repeated.

Lore, he said. Not Iona. Iona. Iiiii-ohhh-naaaaa. Over and over, a hymn to what he'd lost.

Her brother was awake and alive.

Lorelei moved towards him. Her pentral screamed in her head, wanting her poor, vulnerable, and alone. Lorelei's face twitched, shoving the pentral's presence away.

His red-rimmed eyes fixed on her. He lifted a hand, palm up.

The anger slowly seeped out of her, leaving her shaky and sick.

Slowly, she curled her fingers in, and cuffed him hard on the side of the head.

Hello! Finally! She laughed, the skin around her eyes crinkling.

The house elf gaped at the two of them in horror, then crept to the front door, and quietly shut it.

This post is written from the point of view of Mark Wold, Wesley's uncle

---

Mark Wold clenched the steering wheel in his car, driving down the rough road. He itched to move faster, to speed up to his sister's old farm, but he kept a steady pace and looked carefully. Children did dumb things like run off into fields and run into roads.

"Wren. Wren? Keep looking out the window," he glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

"Sorry, I forgot," she looked up quickly. "The path is by those trees up ahead."

Why couldn't he remember? He'd passed the farm on his way to Alan's farm, and he'd stopped by it again when Wesley and Wren had gotten out. It should be familiar. He should remember the abandoned fields, the cottage and the rundown greenhouses in the distance, his own kids leaving Alan's truck, and yet he couldn't. His breath came quicker and he fought back a sense of panic. What could do this other than magic?

Magic had taken his older sister Lucy. It had chipped away at her self-esteem and made her feel badly about coming from two normal parents, two muggles, they called them. She'd started a family out here in the middle of nowhere, in such a mundane, humble place, finding her own world rather than reuniting with the muggle world, but they'd gotten her in the end anyway. Wixes had found her and hurt her. He felt it in his gut.

When he and his wife had adopted Wesley, Wren, and Wyatt several years ago, he hadn't quite prepared for the likelihood of those children leaving for Hogwarts. It had started with Wesley, his bumbling sweet boy with the sense of adventure and no sense for danger. He'd almost been hurt at the train station. A demon had come after him and the few wixes there. Demon-tor.

What had come for him now?

Rain fell, fogging the windows. Mark jabbed at the defrost button on the dashboard, slowing a little more.

The first inklings of doubt trickled into his mind. Wesley had left the car and gone down the path, Wren said. He didn't remember that. He remembered all of them sitting down at the table and eating lunch with Alan. He'd told Wes not to hog the crisps. He'd lectured the children about staying in the car while he spoke first to whoever lived on Lucy's farm. They'd left in Alan's truck to see Lucy's farm. Then they'd headed back to Alan's house.

Wasn't Wesley at Alan's house, safe and sound? Didn't that make more sense?

He pinched his nose and shook his head. They should turn around.

"Wren," he said calmly.

She met his eyes in the rearview, looking worried.

"Dad. Keep driving."

Wesley walked on the side of the road furthest away from the property line of his old house. He shivered from the rain, feeling numb and empty. He didn't know what to think. His mother wasn't living there. Some other witch was, with a howling man and a sad elf.

The last time he'd made this walk to the neighbor's, it was after his mum had left. He didn't know at the time that she was missing. That she'd stay missing. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

The sound of a car made him pause. The blue sedan slowed on the road, then stopped.

Wes stood still, blinking the rain out of his eyes. His uncle?

His uncle hurried out, leaving the door wide open. He rushed towards him, his face a terrible mix of relief and worry.

"Wesley!" He gave his shoulders a squeeze. "What happened? Where have you been?"

Wesley smiled, inexplicably. He felt nervous and didn't know how to explain it.

"Come on, come in out of the rain," his uncle shepherded him to the car.

In the driver's seat, his uncle buckled his seatbelt and stared into space. The windshield wipers moved back and forth every few seconds.

"We should go," Wes said, fidgeting in the passenger's seat. His stomach hurt.

A hard kick jolted the back of his seat and Wesley jumped. He looked back at his little sister, who crossed her arms and glared at him.

"Wren?" His voice cracked. He'd never been so happy to see someone.

Wren looked out the window and swallowed, "I remembered the rest of my dream."

"Yeah?" Wes said after a pause.

Her eyes met his.

"I told them to come back for you."

This post is written from the point of view of Jeeny, the house elf that Lorelei took with her from the lakehouse

---

A cold rain fell, washing away the small boot prints on the ground. The house elf glanced out the window, no longer able to see the boy. She glanced back at Lorelei, digging her nails into her palms. The witch was ordering her to finish what she'd started out there, to bury the dead Healer and fill in the other two graves.

Two other graves?

The witch smiled cruelly and patted the elf's face. "Lucky creature. I'll keep you around a little while longer."

The elf looked at Leander, feeling a rush of resentment. She'd wanted him to die, just like she wanted Lorelei to die, if only to be free of them.

"Dead, dead, dead," he muttered, running his hands over his face. "Iona's dead. I can't see or hear her anymore."

Good for her, thought Jeeny, passing on beyond their clutches.

Lorelei stared at him, wand in her hand. The witch's fingers tightened one by one over the wand handle. Her eyes flashed, then went cold. Angry, then cold again.

The house elf stared at Lorelei, who stared at Leander, who stared at his hands. Finally, Leander looked up. He looked at his sister. He stood on his own, using the mantle for support.

Lorelei's eyes cleared and she pocketed her wand.

A car sounded in the distance. The house elf's ears perked, and she made an effort not to turn her head.

"Who was on the property earlier, Jeeny?" Lorelei's gaze drifted to the window.

Jeeny's eyes widened, and her heart beat fast as she stammered, "The - the neighbor was on the road again."

Jeeny's fingers twitched. Lorelei's gaze dropped to the elf's hands. Jeeny swallowed, stifling the urge to hit herself. A child, a child, a child was here. Lorelei had said nothing about warding against children. Nothing about warning her children had come. Just wixes, just muggles, just intruders. Not children. Not those who had used to live here.

The elf's hands steadied.

Lorelei turned away.

The witch's hold was slipping, slipping, slipping. Her face had changed too often, weakening the tie that had prevented Jeeny from leaving with the child.

Just as Jeeny felt a surge of relief and hope, and raised her hand to snap her fingers and pop outside, Leander spoke.

"Then why were you yelling run?" He asked her quietly, so genuinely puzzled, leaning on the side of the fireplace.

Lorelei's gaze snapped back to her. Her eyes flashed, then went cold.

The elf shut her eyes, steeling herself.