SUMMER 2008

Tuscany, Italy. 3pm.

He was kicking up dust between rows of overgrown vineyard frames. It was an overcast day - a change from the eternal sunshine that bronzed him well. The air was thick with the promise of rain and he could smell overripe grapes that ought to have been picked yesterday. It would be an interesting year, this wine.

Yavin looked down at Virgil’s note, pinched between his fingers by the bottom corner.

Flat 303, Smythson Mansions.
Eton Walk, St. John’s Wood. London.

Dear Yavin,

How is Tuscany? The wine must be good. I am in London, staying with Laidie for another week or two. Angela is no doubt missing your company at her garden parties. She so loves to show you off.

Just wanted to drop a note.

Missing you,
Virgil C.

Ever since his protégé started at Hogwarts, they only saw one another over the summer or at Stardust performances; he never missed one if Virgil was onstage, naturally.  And between those meetings, they wrote letters.

Sometimes the letters were extremely long, detailing dreams or ideas. Sometimes they were brief, containing only a question or retort or request to meet in the dreamscape. There was always purpose and, failing that, personality.

This was none of those things. This was… pointless. A postcard note, a waste of good parchment.

He pocketed it, glancing up at the ranch house in the distance. Every year he hosted casual symposiums in various European locations, for other Legilimency scholars. His guests would be annoyed by this sudden departure but he would be back in a week.

And they would understand his reasons, even if he was only going on a hunch. The responsibility of a mentor.

London, United Kingdom. 11am.

Yavin knew better than to make a beeline for Adelaide Carstairs’ apartment once he got into London.

So he got off the tube and walked around the area first - a quiet residential neighbourhood, a stroll away from a row of local shops and trendy cafes. At the cafe closest to Adelaide’s address, he stopped in for a latte. It was coming up on the lunch hour but not quite yet - the cute picnic tables were mostly unoccupied, staff chatting behind the counter.

It was simple to chat up the baristas. Why, yes, he was American. No no, lived here some years now, married a local. Oh not here here, just in St. John’s Wood to see his godson. Maybe you know him? Blonde, foppish, won’t shut up about museums.

Their replies were vague. To their credit, they were reluctant to disclose anything much to the creepy old man who might not be Virgil’s godfather at all.

Yavin found what he needed in their minds. He discovered that Virgil was a regular at this cafe, that he often took his breakfast alone on weekdays but came in with his sister Adelaide this past two Saturdays for a long lunch.

This indicated Virgil had some autonomy and didn’t appear to be in any immediate harm. So why the letter? None of Yavin’s suspicions were happy ones.

The weekend crowd eventually trickled in, heralded by trendy dungarees and glossy doc martin boots. He tipped generously and left.

Smythson Mansions was home to a large number of squibs and magical folk, in addition to a small population of nomaj in the know - muggleborn families, relatives, the like. Adelaide had chosen well. All the same, he didn’t appreciates its decor.

Marble corridors, plush grey carpeting, cuboid chandeliers and the odd cactus plant. The paintings in the corridor were abstract or patterned. No landscapes, no portraits.

He knocked on the pristine door of apartment No.303 and waited patiently, hands behind his back. It was Laidie who answered - she looked surprised. Truly surprised. So surprised she didn’t even protest when he stepped in, and she moved aside without thinking. Well she had every right to be, he'd not replied to Virgil's letter to say he was coming.

            “Yavin?” she watched him shut the door and remove his sunglasses.

The old wizard walked into the living area and glanced around, hands in pockets. “What a, um, lovely home you have here Adelaide,” he remarked conversationally.

It was indeed a lovely home. Very neat and clean and modern. The living room and kitchen occupied an open area, with large windows letting light in through the latter. He assumed the passage at the far end led to other rooms. Small but elegant.

The only warmth here, aesthetically, was an emerald green cardigan hanging off the back of an armchair. Virgil’s. Laidie followed his gaze to it. “What are you doing here?” her voice was tight, controlled.

She crossed her arms over her chest, looking small in her white silk dressing robe. Adelaide never liked him but this tension was unusual, palpable. He looked at her. Really looked at her.

How old was Adelaide when they first met? About fourteen or fifteen. When she was thirteen she had discovered Virgil’s abuse at the hands of his former tutor.
 
Laidie was not without her own neuroses. She had grown so close to Virgil, so supportive and loving because it was how she could best protect him.

“I was on my way down to Oxford. Your, ah, your mother’s garden parties you know.” Yavin gestured with wiggling fingers and shrugged. “Thought Virgil might want to come along.”

            “I bet you did,” she eyed him cautiously, not moving from the door - no doubt she anticipated seeing him out as soon as possible.

Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, the slightest hint of exertion in the sheen of sweat on her smooth forehead. Adelaide was twenty-two now, training with a legal practice. A grown woman had sprouted from the temperamental teenager. Everything about her screamed competence and liveliness.

Yavin was reluctant to believe his suspicions.

He knew Adelaide and Virgil were unusually close, and he often guessed at an emotional dependency. But when Adelaide graduated from Hogwarts, leaving Virgil to grow into his independence, Yavin’s concern lessened.

Yet here he was! Worried about them while their actual parents held parties in Oxford.

Footsteps sounded in the passage across, and he turned just in time to see a shirtless Virgil join them, towelling off his golden hair. The young man grinned, his surprise very different from his sister's.

“Yavin!” Virgil exclaimed in surprised delight and gave his crown another pass with the towel. “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing? I love it.”

He hadn’t expected Yavin to visit right away - had instead expected an owl from the older wizard, any day now. There was usually a response, surprise visits were't the norm. Virgil wasn’t complaining, though.

His mood was buoyant, bubbly. It was hard not to be - Adelaide made a fuss in the mornings. She loved to indulge him in a way he never allowed his friends or housemates. They had been planning this visit for ages[1] but he hadn’t expected it to be as lovely as it turned out to be. Only hoped.

Yavin’s countenance acted as a needle to his exuberant balloon.

Virgil’s smile dropped. He had never seen him wearing so pained an expression before. "Virgil,” said Yavin softly. The old wizard sat down abruptly and passed a hand over his eyes.

That, too, was a first.

“Yavin?” he felt awful suddenly, like he’d done something bad. His sister seemed just as confused by this sudden turn. “Virgil," she spoke delicately and motioned for him to leave, "maybe you should get properly dressed?”

Yavin lifted his peppered head. He was patently reining himself in, wooden in the face. “Yes. Dressed, please, and, ah, get your things.”

“My things.” Virgil repeated dumbly.
            “Don’t listen to him,” Laidie interjected, “you don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to.”
  “He knows that!” Yavin snapped harshly and pressed on. “Take your time packing. I’m just, um, just going to have a word with Laidie in the meantime, yeah?”

Virgil stood there another moment, towel in hand. His plans for the day dried up in a heartbeat. Yavin knew, without being told. How? Did it matter? Yavin knew.

He went pale and twisted right round immediately. He didn’t look back or stop. If he kept moving then he didn’t have to think about what it was Yavin discovered in this seemingly innocuous flat.

1.	Sept - Dec 2007 - All My Dreams in a Letter

He turned back to Adelaide, grim.

Seeing the boy had brought about a wave of dizziness - it was Virgil’s carelessness and hapless joy, and telltale marks on his shoulders. Yavin felt the reality of the situation sinking down on him. For this to happen under his watch! He should have known, he shouldn't have spent so much time away.

And he had to take charge of this. Now.

“Laidie, sit down.” Yavin gestured, grim in the face.
              “Don’t tell me to sit down in my own home, you old fuck.”

He laughed, humourless. That was Adelaide for you. She glowered at him and, in an awkward compromise, leaned against a sofa arm. Yavin paused to consider the walls of her mind first.

They weren’t very well defended. Typical, she never kept up with her Occlumency. Laidie always looked more competent than she actually was, an inverse to Virgil’s diligent work ethic beneath the lazy visage.

“You know what I’m going to ask...” he began to talk, distracting her. His mind’s eye found its way to her thoughts: he reached inwards with unseen tendrils to take what he needed.

To find out exactly what went down in these two weeks, and how. It was the only way to help Virgil. “What the, ah, pardon me, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

SUMMER 2008 - TWO WEEKS PRIOR

London. 11pm.

“Hideous,” he remarked and hung up his linen jacket as they entered the flat. “Perfectly, wonderfully hideous. Very linear and rather white, mind, but in itself quite good don’t you think?”

Adelaide lived in the centre of London. Her apartment building was one of those redbrick affairs that looked quaint on the outside but startlingly modern indoors, adorned by fixtures of silver. The furniture was either cream or draped in lush sheepskin throws.

Virgil was only three nights into his fortnight stay.

So far, days consisted of waking past noon and having lunch by himself at a lovely mediterranean cafe around the corner. Then he would wander around town with his tube card and return to welcome Laidie home from work. Bliss.

Today they met at an art gallery instead, and had dinner in Soho afterwards. It was a relief to finally get back - his feet were hurting. He dreamed of the day he'd be able to apparate everywhere instead of legging it like a muggle.

            “I don’t understand muggle art,” his sister was undoing her hair in the foyer mirror. “I could live among muggles my whole bloody life and I’ll never get it. Don't they have anything better to do?”

Adelaide humoured his curiosity of non-magic culture but she never pretended to like it, which he appreciated. He stretched out on the sofa in the small living room, a beige leather affair dressed in mohair cushions.

“It’s about beauty norms,” he explained, yawning. “Like, what is beautiful? What is ugly? Why do we think something is ugly?” Virgil watched Adelaide throw off her chiffon overcoat.

She was anything but ugly. And she dressed the fact, too.

The frock underneath was a lavender affair in matte silk. It fitted well, like all her clothes, and he tried not to feel guilty for enjoying how it skimmed her figure. Laidie had the perfect figure: just enough of a chest to hint at cleavage, and hips that could turn short skirts into fully blown sins. A mole beneath her collar bone leant her glamorous distinction.

She rolled her eyes and shook out her hair. “What’s the point? Talking about it isn’t going to make an ugly person look any prettier, is it?” she walked over to the fireplace to kindle a heatless flame; the summer was too hot for a real one.

“You're oblivious, you know that?” he muttered, eyes tracking as she walked up to the sofa with that familiar confident stride.

            “I know you’re beautiful.” Laidie wore a fond smile; it made him self-conscious, bringing colour to his cheeks, looked at like a painting instead of a person. “That’s all I need to know on the subject, right?”

He wished he had the courage to return the compliment. His sister’s strong brow might be that of the Queen of Carthage. Yet her golden locks - so much like his own - and her soft mouth were a different kind of pleasing. Virgil realised he was staring.

“Um, right. Hey are you going to shower first?” he changed the subject in a fluster.

He turned off the tap and walked dripping wet through clouds of steam to grab a towel. The bathroom was large, with one of those doorless walk-in showers and an ornate gilded mirror at the sink. Virgil dried himself off on a bath mat, reluctant to touch the cold white marble.

            “Virgil?” his sister knocked impatiently.

The wizard secured the towel around his waist. “Almost done!” he called back, wiping the mirror to take a look at himself. “Just a second.”

His hair was damp and messy, his skin blotchy pink from the hot water. And always the shadows under his eyes. Ugh. He leaned in. Was that a pimple about to break out on his chin? The bathroom door opened and he glanced at Laidie in the reflection.

“Almost done I said,” he rolled his eyes - he hadn’t locked the door, and was used to sharing a bathroom with her growing up. “Do you have anything for blemishes? I’m growing a monster here.”

Adelaide opened the toiletries drawer beneath the sink, shaking her head. She set aside the face mask she had come in for, and then took out a small glass bottle “You’re so vain,” she muttered and drizzled ointment on her fingertips. “Look at me.”

Virgil faced her properly, letting the witch dab the oil on. She was in a dressing robe, a soft grey thing. And, he realised with an odd feeling in his stomach, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Silken material betrayed the soft curve of her breasts.

Why was he staring? He’d seen breasts before!

            “Let me fix your hair,” she rifled through the drawer again, bringing out an old jar of pomade. “Honestly, I hope you comb this bird’s nest before you meet up with Marylou.”

He closed his eyes, feeling her reassuring hands brush through his hair and smooth it back.

“It’s Emmylou[1] and you know that...” Virgil opened his eyes to see Laidie examining him with a serious expression. “What? Don’t tell me you’re still upset. You shouldn’t have brought it up if you don’t like it.”

1.	Emily Louise Carter, Virgil’s to-be girlfriend that summer.

She didn’t understand her brother.

Or rather, she didn’t understand the person her brother had become since they were last at school together. Adelaide had seen him through his first two years at Hogwarts, before she graduated and started training. In the years that elapsed since, he had grown up considerably.

Virgil talked art and philosophy and politics, now. He was learning Tarot and watching muggle movies and flipping through fashion catalogues and rolling his eyes at Edgar. He was perfectly in control of his Legilimency.

She flattened his damp hair again, brushing damp locks behind his ears. Who was this wizard?

“I’m not upset.” Laidie’s hands came down the sides of his face, holding him gently. “I just don’t want you to make a mistake.”

The way he wrote about ‘choosing' that Carter girl, just for the sex, unnerved her.

Men were terrible, yes, but not Virgil. He wasn’t meant to be like those Slytherin bastards who sleezed their way into witch’s beds with empty promises on their forked tongues. Wizards who didn't understand true tenderness or what it meant to be vulnerable. Adelaide would know after all - most of her boyfriends were of that stock.

Always blonde, pale and lanky… and dripping pureblood sarcasm. She didn’t want him to turn into one of them.

Adelaide wondered if Virgil was reading her? He always said he didn’t, though she wouldn’t blame him if he peeked. Yavin was the one setting limits and morals. As if Virgil was normal enough to be subject to such things. In her opinion, he ought to do whatever he needed to survive.

His eyes dropped to her mouth and he suddenly pulled away. She grabbed his wrists.

             “I should get ready for bed,” he mumbled, sheepish and abruptly shy.

There. There  was a glimpse of the little brother she knew! Adelaide didn’t let go, drawing closer to look him over. He stood awkwardly, fine goosebumps blooming across his shoulders. “Adelaide...

In nothing but a towel, it was easy to see the other ways in which Virgil had grown up. He was a young man now. Lithe, still, and of wiry strength. Yet his eyes were very much the Virgil she once knew. Alarmingly clear. So much closer to tears than anyone might suspect.

“I bet even Emmylou Carter,” she released him, gently taking his chin into her hand instead, “won’t get to see this side of you.”

Her gaze dropped then, arched eyebrows twitching up with unmistakable Carstairs flair. “Except for that. Oh I’m sure she’ll see plenty of that, sleepy boy.”

Shit. If she didn’t clock his erection before, Laidie was most certainly aware of it now.

Virgil felt a wave of heat overcome him - the sting of humiliation, so coolly incited by the way his sister ran a finger on the inside of the towel at his waist. Her eyes were back on his face, searching. What was she looking for? He was too scared to look in her head.

Scared he would find what was already in his own. It wasn’t any mistake that Emily Carter was blonde and blue eyed and almost as vivacious as his sister. Adelaide was the ideal witch. Sure of herself, beautiful,

And she would never ever hurt him.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he murmured, but made no attempt to move. “Adelaide?”

The towel dropped. Virgil swallowed air and stepped away, backing up against a wall. It was freezing. Adelaide, in contrast, burned fire hot when she touched his naked hip. “I think you want this,” she told him steadily. ”I think you need it.”

The presumption in her voice sent a spike of indignation through him. Her perfume was strong -  a sweet, citrusy scent belied by smokey undertones. The whole flat smelled like her but this close up it was overwhelming.

Perhaps he wanted to be overwhelmed, though.

              “Tell me you don’t,” Laidie’s kept talking, rubbing circles into his hip. “Virgil. I’ll stop, we’ll forget this happened, just tell me you don’t need it.”

It would be so easy. Easier than Emmylou.

With Adelaide he didn’t have to worry. Wouldn’t have to be scared if he couldn’t keep it up long enough, or if he came too early. She would understand. He didn’t have to make up excuses for why his body was so tense, or his eyes tearful. Why he was terrified.

She kissed him. Claimed his mouth with an urgency he couldn’t understand. Virgil kissed back instinctively. Oh, he knew how to kiss very well - that was as far as he ever got at school. He enjoyed it immensely.

“Laidie,” his hands found their way to her waist, pushing aside the dressing robe and feeling the most wondrous thrill upon touching her soft stomach beneath. “I’m s-sorry if I.. if…” he breathed shakily.

No. Don’t, don’t lose momentum.

He tried not to think about how often he imagined something like this between them. At Hogwarts, laying in bed after the others had gone to sleep, missing Adelaide so much he could almost cry.

And he was, now, quite without realising. His cheeks were wet.

            “Virgil!” she whispered the name affectionately, over and over again between quick kisses as she pushed off her robe. “I’m here now, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Was it? He wanted so badly to believe.

SUMMER 2008 - TWO DAYS PRIOR

London, 9am.

Two weeks in London were nearly up. They had written to Edgar and Angela to let them know Virgil would be staying a few more days before he joined them in Oxford.

Every summer his parents held a series of lavish, somewhat eccentric garden parties in their country home. He grew up attending them; always an opportunity to run around with cousin Alex and Gracie, or even the Almasy twins. That could all wait another week though.

Adelaide wanted him to stay on. And how could he refuse? She had been so patient and firm with him, so concerned. He didn’t want her to think he was getting bored.

            “Cooking again?” his sister entered the kitchen, where he was mindlessly whisking pancake batter. “You can get those to takeaway, you know.”

“Mine are tastier.” Virgil replied haughtily and she hugged him from behind, laughing. “Really Laidie, someone ought to use this lovely kitchen. It’s a disgrace you never cook.”

Her arms tightened affectionately over his chest and she kissed him behind his ear. “Yeah yeah. Maybe you can teach me some of your fancy-arse cooking charms this weekend, huh?”

A wave of feelings washed over him. Not his. Laidie’s feelings. Her love and affection, her overwhelming contentment. It was mild compared to what he felt when they were making love, when he couldn't filter it all out.

Virgil glanced over his shoulder, exchanging a quick acquiescent kiss. Adelaide wore a black business day frock and matching crępe cape - dressed for business. She had today off but there was some kind of meeting to attend.

“Will you be long?” he asked, carefully neutral. She shook her head and stepped back, straightening a silver brooch clasp.

            “An hour or two. It’s the only work I have today. How do I look?” she flashed him a wide, brilliant smile.

Like a lawyer-in-training, he thought.

“Perfect,” he said out loud.

The veneer of her profession served to obscure Adelaide’s intense prettiness, drawing her in straight lines - just like everything else in this flat. Clean, polished lines with curated hints of old world taste. An antique vase, a row of dusty old hardbacks.

Where did he fit into all this? There was nothing straight or conventional about Virgil, or his relationship to her.

After Adelaide left he worked industriously to cook and consume the pancakes, with heaps of jam and cream.

Then he sat down to the realities of summer vacation. Homework. Virgil toiled away in the guest bedroom, at a desk overlooking a tiny courtyard garden. The room had hardly been used since… since that night, after the art exhibit.

His bed was therefore covered in school books and the many novels he picked up exploring London’s secondhand bookshops.

Propped against the headboard was his violin. He hadn’t played it, or any music, the whole trip, even though his eyes wandered to the fiddle often. Laidie sang but Virgil couldn’t - if he did, he would think of Edgar. And if he thought of Edgar, he would simply crumble.

Their parents must never know.

He looked up from a Charms essay. His hands were shaking, a tremble in the quill. It would cut Edgar and Angela. Deeply. Part of him was putting off Oxford because he didn’t know how he could possibly look them in the eye after this.

Virgil sat straight, chewing on that thought. Another part of him worried about Laidie’s reactions if he voiced his concerns. With each day he had to face new and different problems, problems that she didn't want to talk about yet. How long could he keep this up?

Then he closed his textbook, rolled up the scroll and took out a fresh piece of parchment. The young man wrote.

He reread the note, sealed it and sent his owl off by the courtyard window. Summer was boiling hot in London - the city had its hot weather moments but they paled in comparison to the image of Tuscany in his mind. Drenched in natural light and dappled shade and freshly turned over soil.

Virgil sat at the window sill a little longer, until the sun flushed him a feverish pink and his eyelids drooped longingly for a nap.