30 March 2012
8pm on a Friday evening
Diagon Alley

Spring had arrived in London and the days were getting longer. Out from their winter hibernations came the bright people like robins returning, taking to street corners play their trade. One such troubador was the diminuative seventeen-year-old who called herself Nemo. She's given her notice at Reducto Records now that she could make her preferred living without her fingers freezing. She played now her unique offering, American folk-like music and new things in kind on guitar or accordion, singing in a surprising alto loud enough to hear. Here in Diagon, she wore a witchy tall hat over her straw-blonde hair. She stood on top of a cauldron crate so she was easier to see.

Shoppers were trickling to dinner and the night owls were emerging. She collected their silver sickles in her open guitar case.

She was in the sweet spot at the corner of Diagon and Knockturn. It was the same place she'd stood more than three months ago on the night preceding a full moon.[1] That had been an eventful night. Perhaps she was back here for the high visibility that the central location offered, or maybe she was reaching back to that compelling beginning where a haunting cry had drawn her away, dragging with her a scruffy hunter/protector - that Kurby Bagnold.

A sock of his was among her things. She hadn't seen him since January.[2]

"Good news will work its way to all them plans. We both got fired on exactly the same day. Well, we'll float on, good news is on the way," she jammed out on floaty Modest Mouse.[3]

1.	09 Dec 2011 - Wisp and Bone, Haunt and Home
2.	02 Jan 2012 - Bones and Ashes, Pentrals and Dust
3.	Float On (Modest Mouse, 2004) - YouTube

It was the second weekend in a row that had seemed like something closer to spring. Kurby had felt restless after he'd arrived home from work late that evening, and so he'd abandoned his usual heavy cloak, grabbed the silver chain that was now a near-constant companion and shrank it to fit inside his pocket, and went off to wander the streets of Diagon Alley.

The April full moon -- the Pink Moon -- was now officially a week away. After the traumatic events of December and January, the past two months had been relatively quiet with barely a red spark to respond to. His team and the rest of Level Four had obviously needed the break -- and if he were being honest, he probably did too -- but the werewolf hunter had no idea what to expect for the spring. After the recent tension over Hunt's deliveries, it felt like something dark might be building again.

There was no sign of that tonight in Diagon Alley. The streets were just beginning to empty out, and all of the pubs looked as though they were starting to get lively as he passed them. The outside breeze felt cooler now than it had when he'd apparated home but there was a warmth to the briskness, as if even the normally-crisp night's air was ready to leave winter behind it.

By the time he'd reached the north side of the alleyway, the faint strains of music had come tumbling along with the drafty breeze. Ever since December, Kurby had made it a habit to keep an eye out for street musicians, but he hadn't seen hide nor hair of the little American since the new year. He assumed she was okay and carrying on with her free-spirited, bohemian lifestyle; if she wasn't, he would have probably heard about it from the Reids, since she was clearly intertwined in Abigail's circle. It was probably safest for the kid to stick to her waifish adventures anyway, instead of getting mixed up in the murderous werewolves, dark magic, and dismembered fingers that had been plaguing him as of late.

But this time, as he got closer, a familiar voice accompanied the lilting music. Kurby stopped, arms crossed, and waited, a little ways down from where Nemo stood on her crate, lost and caught up in her floating song. Part of him nearly wanted to keep walking, to leave her ensorcelled by her craft, but part of him also knew that he owed her a warning, especially after what had happened the week before.

He waited until she'd finished, to a small smattering of applause from passerby, and had bent to count the glittering coins in her hat.

"Better be careful," he put in dryly. Nemo took everything personally, especially when it came from him, so he flashed the kid a small, half-rueful smile to accompany the ribbing. "I heard they move the curfew to eight o'clock once April hits."

Nemo had another hour, maybe ninety minutes, before she ought to stop her ruckus. She'd hopped down off her box to assess her earnings and tune up the guitar, and there came a familiar voice. Nemo stood up straight, drank from her water bottle, and returned Kurby's teasing with a pert little smile. His jab was more at his expense than hers, anyway.

"Such a cop," she said, not at all disappointed to see him. Absence made the heart grow fonder maybe. If she tried, she'd be able to rattle off all the times they'd quarreled and snapped at each other, how condescending and controlling he was. But that was before. She had another sip of water and sort of stood around a moment, unsure if he had more to say.

"You look hale." As good as ever, anyway. And if not, he didn't seem to be in a grouchy humor. They were both probably looking better than they had, now that there was more sun. The incident that had drawn them together had never truly left Nemo, but its constant low-key presence was familiar enough to ignore most of the time. Until there was a reminder.

The werewolf hunter raised his eyebrows at her. That was probably an improvement over her (and everyone else's) normal commentary about his appearance, but the label of cop sat uneasily on him, even if he knew he wouldn't get very far by arguing with Nemo about it.

The last time he'd seen the kid had been very early on the second of January, when Aileen had dragged two very tired teenagers out of his flat after midnight. It wasn't so much that he'd been avoiding Nemo since then, but the thought of having to emotionally deal with the mysteries at Grimshaw's on top of everything else would have left him completely drained. It had been hard enough to navigate the last three months without having to worry about Nemo and the mysterious dead girls, too.

But leaving her on her own was also starting to nag at his conscience. He knew that Nemo had gone back to the tailor shop at least once without him; there was no other explanation for how she'd retrieved the flute.[1]  Seeing her here, looking healthy and unharmed and unhaunted, felt like a little bit of a weight off his shoulders.

He tilted his head a little in response to her comment, giving a careless shrug.

"Still got a week until the full moon," he replied nicely, and then quirked an eyebrow at her. "You had dinner?"

1.	January 1, 2012 - Hollows and Staves, Ghosts and Graves

Nemo considered the offer, bouncing her knee, and looking down the street. It was becoming a thing for these two, meals together, the backdrop for their drama. She could make several more galleons if she stayed out and played, but it seemed like good karma to accept Kurby at his most pleasant. She shouldn't take too long in deciding or the sensitive wizard could withdraw the offer and go have all that beer on his own.

"I could eat," she said just as nicely, then rose to pack up. Guitar and accordion cases snapped closed, and everything shoved into an enchanted backpack - this backpack in addition to her other large purse. The copper and silver from her case went in the latter. She considered offering to buy, but decided against it, opting not to attempt to disrupt the power balance in the relationship. He could be the adult and she could be the kid - that's what worked.

Laden up with all her gear, Nemo stepped off the sidewalk but let Kurby choose the destination. Instead she asked. "So how are you, dude? It's been forever."

The little musician took a moment to back up her things. Waiting patiently, Kurby took the opportunity to idly glance over her kit: guitar and accordion, but no sign of the bone flute.

Nemo stepped into the street after him, and Kurby hesitated for half a second, debating where to go. Most of the pubs and restaurants in Diagon were on the south side of the alleyway, back in the direction of his flat. Wandering too far with Nemo seemed like a bad idea, especially since he was still paranoid about Lorelei Hunt watching his home. The Leaky Cauldron was much closer in the opposite direction, and something about being outside of the boundaries of the magical community felt inherently safer when he was concerned about being observed.

"I've been alright," he said automatically, starting back in the direction of the brick wall that marked the entrance to Diagon Alley.

But something about the American witch's second question struck a guilty nerve. It felt far too close to the sort of observation that Rosheen would make when he went three months without talking to her after a particularly bad full moon.

"Sorry about that," he allowed, with an uncomfortable glance at the kid. He didn't really want to get into it, and he doubted that Nemo wanted to hear it, so he might as well keep the explanation as concise as he could and then move on to other topics. "January was a bit rough. How's the busking been?" he added, immediately changing the subject. "You mostly keepin' to Diagon?"

Kurby seemed to think he had some kind of obligation to check on her, which was typical of him. She was beginning to suspect that it wasn't so make sure she wreck anything but that he (aw-how-sweet) cared about her. That context made his habit of asking after her movements a little less obnoxious and paternalistic. At least he wasn't actually trying to set her straight - checking where she lived, who she belonged to, if she had paperwork. No, just huffy questions about her whereabouts and buying her food. Nemo resolved not to be a little butt, so let him have his answer without sass.

"Don't sweat it," she said to brush off his kind but unneeded apology. "But no, actually. I play in Camden market a lot, and Trafalgar Square. I clean up. Make that bank."

She grinned at him, proud of her success,  aware the slang may be foreign. Nemo was raised in a mostly muggle world, so it was seamless for her here. Having muggle notes and coins was just as handy as the magicfolk's archaic currency.

"Stardust Theatre, too."

Shortly they arrived at the Diagon entrance and Nemo shuffled ahead to unbrick the wall for them. Inside they posted up near the bar to glance at the menu of heavy pub food plus a few trendy forays. She'd take a hot tea and a jacket potato with the works, hold the bacon.

He had absolutely no idea what bank it was that the little musician was trying to make, but both Mugglisms and Americanisms were equally foreign to him, so Kurby let the comment pass. The knowledge that Nemo was spending at least part of her time in non-magical areas was at least reassuring: Muggle London was so big that it seemed impossible for someone like the Hunts to find her there.

Through the bricks and into the pub, then up to the counter to place their order. Kurby studied the tap handles for a long few moments, very nearly convincing himself that he should drink something non-alcoholic before he finally gave in and ordered the red ale from Hopworts.

The Leaky Cauldron wasn't too busy tonight. There were a few regulars scattered about, and a family with a crying toddler seated closest to the loo. Kurby glanced over the room carefully as he headed for one of the back booths, which was strategically situated far away from the loud family and also had a good line of sight to both the rest of the pub and to the door.

"Cheers," he said, lifting his glass slightly to acknowledge in Nemo's direction. Raising it, he took a measured sip -- if he was going to drink tonight, he'd at least be careful about it -- and studied the American witch thoughtfully across the table.

"So back to guitar, then?" he asked her as he set the pint glass back down. It was difficult to walk the line between nonchalant curiosity and direct accusation, especially with Nemo who took everything he said as an attack, but it was equally challenging to ignore the pressing question that had been burning at the tip of his tongue. "I would've thought you'd be out and about with the bone flute."

Nemo had taken her big hat off in the booth and gathered up her shaggy blonde hair into a heavily fringed messy bun on top of her head. Her two large bags would have to be on the floor near her side of the booth. If she hadn't noticed it before, Kurby's seating choice, Nemo noticed this time, the way he holed himself up so he could see the door. She wondered a little if he was always this way or just since they'd met.

Once settled, she held the warm tea in both hands. First, Kurby brought up her guitar which was him trying she supposed, but he followed up quickly with the bone flute, the one she'd found in Pandora's Attic, the one that had become so much more than a musical instrument. It followed her, called her, turned up when she thought she'd lost it, and was nowhere to be seen when she thought she had it. She'd tried so hard to put it out of her mind but she found herself reaching for it all the time, but it was never there. She was totally unsuccessful hiding any of this emotion from her face.

"I lost it," she moaned without self-consciousness, setting down her tea. "I think I left it in the church." She didn't have to say which one.

"But I forget and then find myself looking for it and it's not there and then I dream of it and wake up and it's not in my hands. Dude, that flute is haunted, but I legitimately do not care. I want it back."

Nemo's anguished, resentful expression[1] when she'd pulled out the flute was one of the few images from the blurry excursion into the church's crypt that had been seared into his memory. Kurby had half-expected the kid to react similarly now: snapping at him for bringing it up, insisting that the flute was hers and hers alone.

But the little American musician wasn't any good at keeping her regret from her face.

"I lost it," she moaned, and the werewolf hunter kept quiet, soberly observing her reaction.

The constant stress of the past few months had made it easier not to think about the chamber of bones under the ground, about the strange, buzzing voices or the warm breeze that smelled faintly of honeysuckle mixed with cinnamon. There were times when the desire to return drifted closer to the surface. Even when he'd ventured back into Knockturn Alley to shop at the Sellaphix Apothecary or to blow off some steam in a pub, he'd done his best to avoid walking by the shuttered tailor shop near the entrance.

Kurby set his beer down and leaned forward over the table, resting his elbows on the wood. Letting out a sigh, he rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose.

"How many times've you gone back?" he asked, looking up at her from across the table. "You must've stopped in to fetch the flute before we met up in Godric's Hollow, aye?"

1.	Hollows and Staves

Nemo blinked. She searched the older man's face for any rare sign that he was kidding; of course there was none to be found. The man was serious. And the girl was offended.

"Um," she said pointedly. Accusingly. He lifted her hands, closed her eyes and took a demonstratively cleansing breath. It was clear now. This is why he'd invited her for dinner: the flute and the shop, and You're-Not-the-Dad-of-Me being a worrywart. Tranquility, girl. Don't be an asshole. Remember Christmas. He's not jealous, he's concerned, this is his way. Look at his grey hairs. Poor man.

With serenity, Nemo reached into her bag to grab a lipstick. She uncapped it and as not-bitchily as possible she said, "I have not been back without you."

She touched up the dark plum without looking. She pursed them together and re-capped. "I made a promise."

Kurby regarded the girl from across the table, studying her aggrieved body language as she made a show of non-aggressively re-applying her lipstick.

Whatever he might say about Nemo -- the way that she seemed to take everything he said personally, or pushed back every time he suggested something might not be a smart idea, or went running headfirst into a haunted dress shop -- the kid hadn't proven to be duplicitous. She might not be willing to share very much about her past and her life in London, but she was far too happy to spill what she knew about everything else. That tendency to overshare was what had caused the issues with the Reid sisters in the first place.

Kurby took a sip from his beer, directing his gaze away at the bar as he let the girl stew with her makeup for a moment. It was far safer to keep everyone at an arm's distance than to trust that anyone would keep to their word, but that meant occasionally assuming the worst of someone who didn't deserve it. He'd definitely presumed that the little American would be back to grab the flute the first opportunity she'd gotten.

Maybe he'd been a bit unfair to Nemo.

The werewolf hunter lifted his glass again to take another slow sip, using the time to consider his options. Finally, he set the beer down again and found her gaze across the table.

"Reckon you did." He arched an eyebrow at the girl, more precarious than quizzical. "I'm sorry," he told her, direct and matter-of-fact. "I figured if you had the flute in the crypt, you must've gone back to get it, but I reckon I forgot the part about it comin' from a cursed tailor shop."

Misjudgments righted, apologies given and accepted, and hopefully a little mutual respect earned, all with no bitten lips or scratched elbows. Nemo stowed the lipstick and returned her hands to the mug of tea.

"Trouble finds us, Mr. Bagnold, but who's hiding," she wondered as if she was quoting something other than lyrics en draft in one of the many little notebooks. She sipped the tea. Then she paused. Her little eyebrows furrowed and she looked down and to the right. She realized she couldn't remember when she'd had the flute and when she hadn't. Looking back, she remembered having it on News Years Day in Godric's Hollow, but not how she'd come to have it before.

"Did you -?" She stopped the question before she knew what she was going to ask. A buzzing in her ears. She shook her head, more like a shivver, then looked up. A baked potato wrapped in aluminum foil was floating over in a basket. Nemo guided it down onto the table and began to carefully open it up with her black-polished fingernails.

"Have you been back?" she asked, eyebrows matching Kurby's quizzical arch.

Whatever Nemo had been going to ask him, it was interrupted by the arrival of their food. Kurby reached up to pluck his own basket of fish and chips out of the air. Now that there was food in front of him, it was easy to realize how hungry he was. The werewolf hunter prepared to dig in, but the little American musician didn't wait very long to rephrase her question.

"Have you been back?"

Kurby glanced up at her as he unwrapped a knife and fork from a napkin. It seemed as if every time he and Nemo encountered each other, they went through the same dance. Have you gone back to Grimshaw's? It was as if neither of them quite trusted the other to obey by the unspoken agreement they'd somehow reached, that cold night back in Knockturn Alley in December.

With anyone else on any other topic, he might have avoided a direct answer, but he gave a brief shake of his head.

"A promise usually goes both ways, doesn't it?" he asked, dark eyes meeting hers for a moment. He smirked slightly, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Besides, the last time I brought up goin' back, I got a kick in the shins for asking."

He could have left it there -- could have let the kid make of that what she would, and allowed the conversation to passively move along -- but Kurby hesitated as he returned to his food.

"I feel like it keeps creepin' back into my head again, every so often." Brows knitting slightly, he glanced across the table at her again. "I know I've had dreams about it, but I never remember much of 'em once I wake up." He grimaced, clearly unhappy with the lack of sense that any of this made. "It's the same thing with what happened in Godric's Hollow -- I remember gettin' to the coffee shop, meeting you lot, and walkin' to the graveyard, but everything after that just feels bleedin' fuzzy."

Wow. Nemo glanced up at Kurby, but quickly averted her eyes. This was the first time that the man had opened up to her in this way, talking to her as almost as a peer. She recognized it immediately as unusual, immediately as something not to abuse or comment on. It was how she wanted this to be, how she always wanted to deal with people. On the same level, come as you are, to be taken seriously.

"Yeah," she acknowledged, careful not to make a fuss. She'd reported this kind of thing to Kurby before. The dreams, the obsession that wouldn't go away. The feeling of being almost haunted or followed or charmed. Honestly, it reminded her a little bit of the gossamer at the vampire coven.

"It's like we're cursed," she posited. It had been a sobering thought she hadn't let herself fully consider. She'd never been cursed before.

"Maybe when we went into the shop or when we touched that journal." She was referring to the ledger.