Feliks had not stopped walking, had not even looked up or at anyone as he passed them. He had stared straight before him as he walked to Greyfriar's office - a place he had been once with Uncle Sylvain and then once more to meet his Papa with Johann. The silver medallion burned against his chest under his jumper. Papa. Johann. They would know what to do with the medallion. The Headmaster would only take it away!

It was only when he reached the statue at the base of the stairs that he realised he didn't know the password to it. There was a knocker, he heard. His dark eyes dropped lower, then, finding nothing, rose higher - there was something collared around the gargoyle's neck.

It was made of brass; a more recent addition, something that the young wizard would have realised was an indication of Greyfriar's more welcoming policies, if he had been an older student. But he was new and the appearance of a knocker was only natural to him. Feliks reached for it, on his tip toes, and swung it thrice.

He cradled his precious package in the crook of his one arm, breathless. All he wanted to do was get this over with before someone else realised he had received a strange package. Before rumours could grow again. He had learned his lesson from before.

The Headmaster was greedy of Sundays. He did all he could during the rest of the week to ensure his Sundays were unencumbered by any need of a clock. Knox knew the time, though. There were several clocks in the Headmaster's quarters and he didn't go to the lengths of draping them in velvet. It was just about five. But it wasn't a bell that made him glance at a ticking face, it was the resonant clacking clang of the door knocker further down the tower.

Knox set down what he was reading and drinking, passed through to the spacious old offices, then to the door to the stairs. He opened it and ordered down the spiral to the griffin statue. "Let them in!"

Down below, the stone griffin animated and moved aside in just the same way as if someone had spoken the password. A way was lit for Feliks Spectre to ascend. While Knox awaited whomever the visitor might be, he made his hands busy moving around stacks of things that had settled in their wrong places.

"Come up, then!" he called out when he heard no footfalls.

He hesitated, when the statue swung aside to let him up.

Feliks knew he had to decide exactly what to tell the Headmaster and what not to tell. Was it still a lie if you gave someone a half-truth? "Come up, then!" Greyfriar's voice jolted him into action and he climbed the stairs with the package in his arms, frowning worriedly to himself. Werewolf things were taken very seriously these days. People had been kidnapped or found dead.

What if someone else died because he didn't tell the full truth?

"Professor." Feliks paused at the upstairs landing, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. "An owl delivered this to me when I was coming back from visiting Unc-- Professor Onuris."

He made himself walk up to the great desk, where he deposited the brown package with the claws of the werewolf hands peeking out from a gap in the paper. It felt good to no longer be holding the gloves and, unthinkingly, Feliks stepped back from the desk with a grimace. He couldn't believe how normally he had acted, slipping them on earlier. It turned his stomach.

Werewolf hands were human hands. They belonged to someone.

"Feliks Spectre," the Headmaster remarked upon more than greeted the young wizard. Knox went around the back of the desk as Feliks approached its front and when Knox came about he saw the paper-wrapped parcel. It was opened.

Feliks looked on the edge of upset. Knox speculated quickly but didn't linger. The singular event in the pattern of Feliks Spectre receiving unsavory mail glared and dominated all possibilities. He pulled the box towards him across the desk and flicked back the top. Some nice linen was still halfway wrapped around some rustic leather. Knox glanced up at Feliks before undoing the lot. When he saw what they were, and the texture was everything, he dropped them onto the desk.

The portrait of Dilys Derwent broke out in a shuddering wail.

Knox's head moved on a swivel, startled at the unexpected voice.

"Madam?"

The portrait of the passed-away Headmistress, the one who'd also been a healer and had a frame at St. Mungo's, looked up from her hands and looked as angry as she did afraid.

      "A horrible thing! A horrible thing to have done! Those don't belong here!"

She'd not spoken two words to Knox in years. He was dumbfounded, but he tore his eyes away to look down at the gloves made from human hands, then he covered them over with the linen.

"Feliks," he whispered. "Feliks, are you alright? Where is Professor Onuris?"

The wailing of the portrait sent Feliks stepping back and his hair went red almost instantly - her voice sounded how he felt, unnatural and angry. But his anger was different.

            "A horrible thing! A horrible thing to have done! Those don't belong here!"

It didn't anger him that gloves had been made of somebody's hands, so much that a person had thought it right to send them to him. What had he done to deserve this awful gift? Why could they not have sent it to another person, any person? Temple or Greer or even the Headmaster! Feliks tore his eyes away from the package. Greyfriar was speaking to him.

"I'm fine," he replied, pale in the face as his curls slowly bled back to their usual black. "Professor Onuris is in his hut I... I don't know, I did not go back to tell him. I came here first."

The medallion was already warmed to his flesh so he couldn't feel it as keenly as before. A part of him wanted to take it off and throw it on the table, to get rid of this whole memory. Except it belonged to his mother, and he had so little of his mother. Just a set of clothes and shoes and a photograph that cousin Raine sent at Christmas. And he did not like to disturb papa or Johann about it.

"I put them on." Feliks stretched out his hands, fingers, then clasped them into fists at his side.

The gloves were too big for him. A very big werewolf. "I did not know they were real until I put them on," he breathed and swallowed the sick feeling. "They are real, yes?" his gaze dropped to the hands then back up at the old wizard.

Knox wiped his face with his hand and his hand lingered over his mouth feeling stunned in place. Young Feliks seemed startled and confused. Knox felt about the same. The portrait of Dilys Derwent had disappeared and many of the other portraits craned their necks to see, muttering among themselves. It felt very much to Knox like he was on trial before the Wizengamot again.

In a moment, Knox removed his hand from his mouth and replied quietly.

"They do seem real."

Carefully now, he wrapped the gloves in the linen and placed them back in the box. He'd seen a werewolf's hands only once in person and there should have never been a reason to see them again, but here they were. He didn't know if they were some old artifact of a bloody history or if they were recently taken. He didn't know whose they were although he might venture a guess. What he did know was that he never wanted to see them again, and that sinister interest in Feliks Spectre had escalated.

He moved out from around the desk again, leaving the package, and gestured for Feliks to follow him down to the fire where there were chairs.

"It's alright that you put them on. You didn't know. And it's good that you came to tell me. Can you tell me anything else? An owl found you on the grounds?"

This was soon a matter for the Ministry of Magic and a letter straight on to Feliks's father was in order soon, but Knox could never leave curiosity untended.

He followed the Headmaster away from the desk, anxious. It felt like there was no reason for him to remain here: he wanted to run away, like he had always dreamed of running away from the Cottage in which he grew up. Except he had left the Cottage - and leaving had brought him here. Feliks sat on the edge of a chair as if he would have to get up at any moment.

            "It's alright that you put them on. You didn't know...."

His lips pulled down into a frown. He knew it was alright! But he didn't say so out loud; there was no Uncle Sylvain or Nicola here to help him if he argued with Greyfriar.

"I was walking back to the castle." Feliks closed his eyes for a second and pictured that moment, which couldn't have been more than an hour or so ago. "An owl dropped it," he opened his eyes, glancing back at the desk with a mixture of horror and curiousity, "and I opened it. There was nothing else."

To stop himself from reaching for the medallion under his jumper, Feliks clutched at his sleeves instead. "I thought it was a prank," he looked back at the wizard, "I can go now, please?"

In his years as a professor Knox Greyfriar had become accustomed to the short-sighted skittishness of students. They wanted nothing more than the encounter with an authority figure to end, most of them, whether or not they were in any trouble. In this moment, Knox shared the sentiment. He might guess that they both wished they'd never seen the grotesque things in the first place. Unlike, Feliks, though, Knox was obliged to see the evening through.

"No, I need you stay here for the time being."

He needed to be careful to make sure that nothing he said would sound optional.  He folded his hands on his knees. At first he'd had no idea what to do, but really, what would happen next would be fairly simple.

"There are times where we must be clear and economical of our movements. If you began out there, came here, and stayed here ... then we don't have to remember what you did after you left this room or who you saw or what you did. Because you were here.  The same goes for questions. I could ask you many and later someone else will just ask the same ones. Answering them, you're remembering only the previous time you answered them, and not the actual memory of the event."

He glanced up to the desk again on the other side of the space, then he looked again to Feliks.

"I'm going have an owl deliver a message to your father, both in his capacity as a parent, but also because of his job he's the most equipped to handle those horrible gloves."

He stopped himself short of sighing when the Headmaster said he could not leave yet.

Feliks was impatient - his only desire now was to find a quiet corner where he could examine the secret gift, the name engraved into it. He listened as Greyfriar explained why it was important to stay but none of it made sense. Why would he have to remember what happened after this? The important thing had already taken place and he had already told the wizard about it.

             "I'm going have an owl deliver a message to your father...his job...to handle those horrible gloves."

At mention of his papa, the boy sat straighter. That was right. Papa was head of his department now! That was the same department that did werewolf things, and it was also how he knew about how Ballentyne had been a werewolf hunter before. It made him feel a little better.

"Is that why I must stay? Is someone coming to ask me more questions?" Feliks was still raring to go but if there was a possibility his father would come, he would endure more of Greyfriar's company.

Feliks didn't object and Knox was relieved at that. Not every student was keen to have their parents called by the Headmaster. Fewer were excited to be questioned by intimidating Ministry officials. He got up and went to retrieve stationary.

"Yes, I do think so, and there could be many. You're the one who knows anything at this point, except of course, the, uh, gift-giver."

Knox began penning a letter.

Mr. Spectre,

My regrets contacting you of a Sunday, but my request is the height of injury. The matter concerns both your fatherhood and your vocation. When you arrive, you'll understand why I shall not provide any explanation now. Suffice it to say at this time that Feliks is safe and has a tale to tell. If you roused Ballentyne or someone who shares her expertise, I would not object.

K. Greyfriar

That done, he opened a window and summoned an owl. The cold winter air rushed in and rustled papers and agitated open flame in the lanterns. A great horned owl arrived from the owlry, collected the letter, and was gone.

"It could be a little while," he said. "We'll wait here. There's a chess set there and I've a book or two that might be sufficiently distracting. Or I'm sure there's a house elf listening who'd bring us tea."

A half past six[1] in the evening


He was already dressed when he got back to the manor in time to receive Greyfriar's owl. It was late in the afternoon. Balfour had seen Johann off at Platform Seven and a Half[2] just that morning; a regular hazard of loving a man who works on level five was periodically having to lose him to some work trip or another. To pass the time, he'd pottered about wizarding London and ended up checking in on his department at the Ministry, where Mrs L was inexplicably working a weekend shift. She ordered him home.

And good thing too, or he would have missed the owl.

The wizard stepped out of the fireplace in Greyfriar's office, its blazing green flames framing his embarkment as one long leg followed the other. He brushed the ash out of his hair and needed a moment to adjust; there was always surreality in being back here as a parent.

Yet there was no time for nostalgia - directly before him his son was sat, across from the Headmaster with a tray of tea things between them and a thick tome in his lap. Feliks was up from the armchair like a shot; his gangly limbs, awkward, disguised the same grace Balfour exhibited. The book tossed aside carelessly but perfectly, tea cups dislodged to no end.

           "Papa!" he exclaimed, eyes shifting to the space behind the older Spectre.

A feeling of worry and jealousy pricked him. Balfour knew Feliks was expecting Johann - he tried not to notice the fleeting look of disappointment. "Still in one piece I see!" he overcame the jealously quickly, going to give the boy a quick hug and tousling his hair fondly. "I'm told you have a tale to tell me." At this, he looked at Greyfriar.

"Good evening, Professor." Bal smiled, trading familial warmth for something more professional. "I thought it best to come alone, and we can owl for the Werewolf Wing if need be."

1.	Approx. forty minutes wait for Knox and Feliks.
2.	Trains to continental Europe!

Balfour Spectre appeared and his son burst up to see him. The types of parent/child relationships numbered like the stars and Knox thought Balfour and Feliks lucky to have one of the better ilk.  For their sakes of course, but he was hoping it would serve the worser part of this situation well, also.

Knox rose and approached Balfour to shake his hand.

"Thank you for coming. I know that the welcome for mysterious letters is quickly worn out," he said. Knox was shielded by his status and stature from accusations that young women wix endured, accusations of theatrics and of speaking overlong, and well he knew it.

     "Why is it still here!" came a voice from above. "Oh, Morgana, it's still there. Greyfriar, you lout, have a heart! They ought not be here!"

The portrait of former Headmistress Dilys Derwent had returned and could see that, indeed, the box containing the dismembered and finely cured hands of a werewolf had not been moved from the center of the large desk at the top of the office.

"Madam...!"  Knox lifted his hands in deference. "They'll be gone soon, I promise you. There's no need to raise any alarms. Mr. Spectre here will help us."

Knox nodded to Balfour and then spoke to Feliks. "I'm going to show your father. Perhaps, you should wait down here for now."

To Feliks, his father was a more a giant than any person. It was the result of having spent so many years imagining a man and then meeting him only to find somebody quite unexpected. Papa spoke to people strikingly, like he didn't have to think or worry about what he was saying, the way some people did, like he wasn't throwing up words the way Greyfriar did or selecting them incisively in the way of Professor Storm.

That was why he wished Johann was here. Johann was easier to talk to. If he had come, Feliks might have showed them the medallion.

             "I'm going to show your father... wait down here for now."

He nodded, eyes flicking to papa's face. Balfour was no longer looking at him but at the desk, his attention drawn by the screaming portrait. Feliks sat on the edge of the armchair automatically as he watched his father follow the Headmaster to the table. And again, this was a new aspect of papa. It was his father at work.

His shoulders tensed as the wizard delicately unwrapped the linen inside the box and looked inside. Feliks braced himself for horror - yet Balfour's countenance was simply thoughtful.

Werewolf hands. Gods, they looked like something you would find skulking in a corner shop on Knockturn. Except... if you were to find a pair of werewolf hands in Knockturn, it would be from a different time and place, when the rights of werewolves were assumed as none at all instead of disputed in halls of power. These were new, fur still silken. Standing over the desk, Balfour glanced at Greyfriar and gestured to indicate he was going to handle the terrible things.

He drew his wand. The hands - no, the gloves - floated into the air, linen slipping off. Headmistress Derwent wailed again but he ignored her, using the levitation spell to rotate the gloves and a couple of other charms to detect enchantments. They were quite clean.

It was very likely that these belonged to one of the Dunnigan boys. The pelt had turned up without hands, hadn't it? Bal had assumed they were taken as trophies. Not as a belated gift to his son. When he was satisfied with the visual, he pocketed his wand and held the monstrous hands in his own. They were lighter than they appeared.

Balfour thought briefly of the werewolf heads Ira Almasy had mounted in a secret room of her flat. He shoved the image out of his mind, and looked at the Headmaster instead.

"Thank you for getting in touch so promptly Professor," he could feel Feliks' eyes on him - the Scotsman glanced at the boy, jerking his head to indicate he might approach them. Then he turned back to Greyfriar, voice hushed. "Nobody else has touched these? Or been told?"

They said you needed two traits to be a Healer: a strong stomach and a straight face. Knox had always the former but never the latter. He could obscure the truth deftly, blink at giants, but these hands had disarmed him.  He crossed his arms tightly over his chest as he watched Balfour Spectre hang them in the air and handle them curiously. The gloves needed no description. Feliks and Knox had known what they were without either of them having seen them living, and neither did Balfour.

Balfour finished and Feliks was welcomed to join them again.

"No, indeed, it's only we three at the moment," Knox said. Balfour still held the gloves, so Knox moved the box and arranged the linen to accept them again, pointedly.

"I have an unwelcome hunch they come from Robert or Richard Dunnigan, from the Dumphriesshire incident." The offer of an opinion here was more than Knox could resist, but the Ministry (and any visitor) had to be accustomed to unsolicited input from the old bear.

"If I'm right then it would seem there's a thread stretched taut from that night, through Feliks, to the unsettling gifts he received in October."[1]

1.	15 Oct 11 - Spill This Blood For Me