When Dreogan pulled himself out of bed that morning, he had not anticipated going to the Winter Festival. He'd done everything he'd planned on: made breakfast for Kiva in bed, showered, shaved, dressed. He'd then closeted himself in his office. Many people had taken the day off for the Winter Festival; he had taken the day off to scry.

He kept his office dark to better see the images in the basin. A whispered incantation drew the lines. After Sasha's letters and weeks of scrying, he knew Sasha had not gone as far as they had supposed. He was in Great Britain. He'd tried South. He'd tried the Isle of Mann. He'd tried Edinburgh. With a frown, looking over Sasha's letters once more, his eyes settled on a word: Hogsmeade. He'd been to Hogsmeade. While doubtless unlikely that Sasha, who was missing, would surround himself with a throng of exuberant strangers, he was on holiday. Unlikely -- it was an odd notion; Dreogan was getting that hush in the back of his mind that whispered a sad prospect: perhaps he did not know Sasha at all any more.

Desperation worked the mind in unpredictable ways. Dreogan felt that anything was worth a shot -- he'd try anything. And so, as Dreogan drew his wand along the water's surface, creating two glowing gashes that quartered it, Dreogan decided: London, Whitby, Dublin . . . Hogsmeade. It was in the fourth quarter of this watery world that an image appeared, casting a shimmering, golden light about the room. Dreogan stooped over, nearly lowering his nose to the water, the desire to see all was so strong.

Sasha stood there, tall and proud. Dressed in black with a pale, hairless man. Dreogan could see nothing of their precise location, nothing of the setting, but how precise this method was! Only a month ago, he would have despaired at the poor quality of the image. As it was, it was enough. Dreogan felt Sasha's presence there, cool like ice and hard like copper -- nothing like the wispy, silvery impressions he was accustomed to. He had never felt more certain of anything.

Akiva was out on errands. He could bother with Aurors and the Ministry once he was there. Send a patronus. Right now, time was of the essence. A crack ripped through the silence of their home and a breath's moment later, Dreogan was at the border of the town, noting from a distance the dark figures of pleasure-seekers move about a white plain. There was a flash and a thud as a young family arrived by portkey, the son -- not more than six -- decked with antlers atop his head, looking for all the world like an impish Pan. He waved to Dreogan, but he was already descending the path to Hogsmeade, counting his steps and baiting his breath.

The setting was charming; nothing could be more discordant with his thoughts or his feelings. He could hear children's playful screams, could smell wood fires burning; there was a loud guffaw from a long-bearded wizard, which somehow made the music which drifted on the air that more sonorous: It's the most wonderful time of the year!

It was only once he had progressed as far as the ice skating and reindeer wrangling that Dreogan began to search for faces. There was another shriek; Dreogan turned his head to see something that appeared to be a game of reindeer wrangling. Some unfortunate reindeer with his nose charmed an uncomfortable red, looped about with ropes. There's be much miseltoeing. . . 

Dreogan turned away from the games, refocusing his attention on the line of shops and buildings, against which lazed a familiar figure and form. His ran his eyes over the face -- one he had seen with increasing frequency -- but it was the last he'd been hoping to see. Dreogan looked away, quickly, closing his eyes. Nowadays, Katsaros was always in his mind, always, always. There was, however, no real logic beyond his own eyes to testify that he had truly seen Katsaros. Dreogan saw Katsaros everywhere; he did not, however, give the man the credit of omnipresence. He counted. . . . and hearts will be glowing when loved ones are near. . .

Dreogan pulled out his wand and shuddered. The cold was beginning to penetrate. He opened his eyes; the man was still there. And it was still Katsaros. A flicker of despair caused his shoulders to slump and his throat to constrict. As he stood motionless in the crowd, his thumb digging into the battered wood of his wand, the same old feelings, the same indecision and fear, were returning. For months, Dreogan had Seen this man murder his brother. Never, until this moment, however, had Dreogan envisioned Katsaro's death. He had kept out of the way, out of the picture. He was only a dream. But now . . .

He reached into the pocket of his cloak, digging about for the black candle. He never fought without it.

The chill in the air was sharp and vivid, holding its own against the constant refrain of music that echoed through the streets of the wizarding town.  A steely sense of purpose had filled Tiresias as they'd apparated to Hogsmeade that morning, an abrupt satisfaction that the constant, endless game of house was finally coming to an end. 

In the year that he'd spent working for the Old Man, Terry had learned to put up with any manner of eccentricities.  The sudden gaps in conversations, the daily routines and recitations, even the perfectly trained, perfectly disturbing hairless cats - all of them were tolerable, especially when they framed work that had rarely been so convenient or consistent.  He humored Malvivicus because the Old Man humored him.  Understanding was not necessary in his line of employment; indulgence was enough

But after the past few weeks, his patience was nearing an end.  If Terry could have gotten away with just murdering the damned boy, he would have.  He kept his building irritation hidden around his employer, of course; there was no telling what would set Kronos Malvivicus off if it disagreed with his own mental image of the world.  Schlagenweit stayed far too far away from Terry to even be a consideration, which at least meant that the boy had a brain.  But as the game went on, as their purpose turned from command and control into a cheering holiday tale about love and fatherhood, the Greek wizard could feel his nerves literally fraying, his teeth gritting to an edge.  Letting the drowned rat of an alchemist go was bad enough; putting up with the gratingly irritating private investigator when he should have been the one hunting her down was barely tolerable.  Having to listen to Malvivicus give rousing speeches about what it meant to be a wizard as he fondly ruffled the boy's hair was enough to set him over the edge.

At last, though, it was over.  The favored son Schlagenweit was returning to the world, though Tiresias unfortunately was certain that he'd be back again eventually.  Once the Old Man had his talons in something, he never let it go.  He played with it, certainly; let out its leash; even temporarily released it into the wild if it amused him to do so.  But it always came back again.  No question was left about that.

Today had been announced as a day of festivity and of sadness, a last hurrah of fatherhood and bonding and other over-sentimental expressions that Tiresias had more or less ignored during the conversation that morning.  He had come along to keep an eye on the crowd and to make sure that nothing got out of hand.  Even though the British Ministry didn't have much information on Kronos Malvivicus, parading about in public so obviously was still a risk.  If an Auror spotted him - or if the Favored Son suddenly got cold feet - there was a chance that his services could be needed.  Terry grimly hoped that they were.

He had abandoned Kronos and the boy almost upon arrival, ostensibly to give them some last time together but more so he didn't have to listen to the endless prattling on any more than he had to.  Walking through the crowd, amongst them but not a part of them, felt like coming out of the cold even though he was out in it.  There was some security about, one or two possible Hitwizards, but none of them seemed to pay him any attention; most of the visitors were families here to enjoy the atmosphere, admire the ice sculptures, spend some time outdoors with their loved ones, leaving him grimly anonymous in the sea of holiday cheer.

Terry had been lurking under one of the storefronts, leaning back lazily against it and idly scanning over the figures passing by, when a sudden cessation of movement caught at his awareness.  He paused, letting a hand drop easily to his side where his wand was as he focused his attention more purposely on its source.  A man.  He didn't recognize him, but there was no mistaking the  focus in his features, the wand in his hand or the fact that he was now fumbling another object out of his pocket.

The Greek wizard straightened instantly, his eyes flickering over the crowd to make certain that no one else was in the process of flanking him from another direction.  No movement or lack of movement gave them away; he concentrated again on the figure across from him.  He might not know the man, but it was clear that the other wizard knew him.  Smiling slightly, he started forward, his hands slipping into his pockets as his fingers closed around his wand.

He could only hope that the law enforcement here was more competent than he'd thought.  If they recognized him now, so early, and he had to put a warning out as a result, there was a chance it could still ruin the last tearful goodbye between adopted father and son.

"Morning," he greeted the other man evenly, strolling nonchalantly over with a smile that came nowhere close to his eyes.  "Nice day."

The weeks with Gözde had taught him this: you acted first. You lay in wait, yes, but when you moved, the momentum carried you forward. When you stopped, you were either done or dead. At the time, Dreogan had not understood the importance of this message. He had faltered and then, this man -- he'd pushed him back. It was a complete and dangerous retreat he'd wended, signifying and profiting him nothing, but he'd taken the pains afterwards to ensure it didn't happen that way -- with that blaring and stark finality -- again. And it wouldn't this time.

Dreogan locked eyes with Katsaros with resolve as he closed the distance between them, rising to meet him.

It was the same, callous casualness Katsaros had used before. He hadn't changed. Dreogan liked to think that he had. There would be no excuses this time. No obeisance. As he took in Katsaros' face, reading the passage of time in the lines that were etched across it, he remembered Sasha's face from the vision. He remembered Adon's face from the dream.

A new song was playing now; it filled Dreogan's ears as the chill air chapped them. He heard the crunch of compacted, browned snow beneath his feet. But he focused on the faces. Focus was everything. He felt a drive, an unfamiliar emotion, an anger. He stopped in the snow just before Katsaros, just out of arm's reach.

Dreogan steeled his resolution and schooled his features. He would get from this man what he needed and what he'd come for. Then, one of two things would happen: this man would fall into the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and there would be justice and security, or Dreogan would take what steps were necessary to ensure that was so. He had promised himself on April 24, 1994. Sasha was now wearing the ring that had become his motto: To Thine Own Self Be True.

"Sasha Schlagenweit. Where is he?"

The other man fixed on him like an eagle, bristled and vigilant, causing a refreshing sense of contemptuous satisfaction to spread through him.  Whoever the wizard was, he clearly knew Terry even if the familiarity wasn't reciprocated, and that meant that his day had just improved a hundredfold. 

The Greek wizard slowed his pace as the other man matched his course, striding towards him like a ship set at the jagged shore.  His wand was firmly in his hand now, but he kept the closed fist inside his pocket, the carved wood familiar against his fingers.  He hadn't worn gloves despite the cold today, and now he was glad for it.  Such barriers were unnatural against the magic.

Terry waited as the man approached him, armed with wand and candle like he was about to set some sort of oblique, useless, scholastic ward.  Smirking slightly, he put his free right hand to his neck as if loosening his collar, freeing the misshapen blueish-green stone that had been tucked away against his skin.  Up close, there was an odd familiarity about his dark-curled opponent, but despite himself, Terry couldn't place him.  Probably a Hitwizard.  Possibly an Auror. 

Oh, well.  Either way, it didn't matter.

The demand for Schlagenweit, quick and sudden, surprised him.  The smile grew into a well-developed smirk and his eyebrows crept up as he regarded the other man.  If only he knew.  Terry would have happily given the brat away if it had been up to him - though the gift would have come in pieces - but the Old Man would have had none of it.  Impressive, though, that they'd managed to put that much together.  A bit surprising that they had even cared.

"Who?" he asked sardonically, shifting a step casually to the side to put the sun behind him.

Dreogan had thought, perhaps, the man would draw his wand. It had been too much to think he would run. But the deflecting denial, the impertinent ignorance was not on the top of his list. It didn't seem his style. Katsaros seemed a man who wanted people to believe he knew everything.

The realisation was invigorating: In ways, for once, Dreogan knew more than this man. He knew who Katsaros was. He knew who he himself was. He knew what he was capable of, and what Katsaros was capable of. What he did not know was where Sasha was. Or when this man would try to make a move on his brother.

As Katsaros moved, he shifted his gaze, squinting at the mid-morning light that now blazed behind his head, transfiguring the Greek mage into some kind of infernal, ludacris saint. This wouldn't do. He shifted for an oblique angle. As of now, Dreogan had no intentions of being the first to strike. One could defend from the side as much as one could head-on. It had the advantage of leaving less of his body directly accessible. Protection came in circles.

Dreogan had not been in this position, the situation where he needed to ask questions. To corner. Dreogan had always been the one to avoid being cornered -- and that was enough. He was not the sort to start fights or to win them. He helped others to win them. Or he made sure he did not lose. That was also enough.

Adon was better suited for this sort of thing. He considered what he might have done in the situation.

"You enjoy it, don't you. Cornering young boys, watching them squirm. Their tears make you feel powerful. Tell me," he said, jaw tensing. He took a moment for a silent fiat lux to ignite the candle in his left hand, to begin the warding spell. "Where did you take him to after you'd petrified him? I only saw as far as the entryway."

The black candle flickered to life, and he matched it with a gesture, thumb crossing the two middle fingers of his right hand as the other two extended.  Terry pressed the back of his right hand to the stone around his neck, dark eyes locked on those of his opponent as he lightly sketched a half circle in the snow in front of him with the toe of his boot.

This was suddenly - and surprisingly - personal.  If the man before him was an Auror, he was far too emotional, much too invested in his work.  There was always a chance, though, that it was more than that; that he knew Schlagenweit beyond the disappearance.  Terry hadn't cared enough to take the time to find out anything about the boy.  Maybe a relative.  An uncle.  That would be fortunate; the Old Man wouldn't complain then about what he would soon do.

The self-made Crusader had shifted obliquely to face him.  Terry let his hand fall, freeing his fingers from the shape of the cornuto.  The words were again oddly personal, underlined by a bitter, tensing enmity.  The Greek wizard's gaze shifted to the candle, and then back to the man's face.  That wasn't magic that they taught here in England.

"So you scry."  His voice was calm, even, almost bored as he held the man's gaze.  He dropped his right hand behind his back, fingers twitching into another shape.  "That's dangerous magic," he said flatly.  "Hard to tell what's true and what isn't.  You ought to be careful.  You don't want to let a vision consume your life."

He'd never played the game like this: the slow, protracted movings in a precise, thought-out game. It was still a game of action-reaction, but lacked the familiar pace of Blink*; this, however, was chess. Dreogan recognised the purpose behind the devil's horns of the cornuto though he would not have thought to use it or have known precisely how. Wetting his lips, Dreogan wished he could double the gesture of the hamsa which hung around his neck; but he needed both hands just now. Especially upon seeing the blue of the amulet.

If Katsaros was going to try to force his back to him or attack from behind, Dreogan would need a full circle. And scuff-marks in the snow would not do. He lifted his wand until it faced directly upwards and with it, scratched three circles in the air, which glowed a faint purple. Slowly, he tilted the wand down until it pointed at the ground. Gradually, the circles settled descended in the air to settle upon the ground. He waited for the purple glow to fade before lifting his wand again, pointing it at Katsaros.

"So you scry," Katsaros was trying to lure him out. To make him doubt himself. To force a misstep. He had done it before. The advice he offered was nothing new -- Dreogan had considered this, agonised over this for years. It was why he had started taking the potions again. The dreams threatened to swallow him whole. They might not be true, but they were real; the man before him was real. Sasha's disappearance had been real. Whatever he did, it would be to ensure that Adon's death by this man never would be.

Dreogan could not see the man's right hand. There was a great deal of uneasiness in this, though he expected the blow to come from the left, the hand that was still grasped around the wand in his pocket. It was like playing chess blind, now. Dreogan had no way of knowing what might happen until it did. He had either to rely upon his reflexes, and that it would not be too late, or his protections. He wished desperately to pull a rune from his pocket. In his heart, he imagined it to be Algiz; he pictured its angles with convincing clarity. Yes; he'd be alright. He considered a fitting line from this week's parsha: "Be courageous and bold, do not fear and do not quake before them: for Hashem, your G-d, it is He who is going with you, He will not enfeeble you ... "* Contrived or no, conjured or no, self-fulfilling or no, he felt the confidence returning with his faith.

"I know what is real, Katsaros," he said, more conviction in it than he had anticipated. Hashem, be with me. If Katsaros was still the name he went by, the utterance of it was a threat. There was much that could be done with a name. Spells of nomination could be cast at a distance and could be particularly binding. This man had never known Dreogan's name, not his real one; not unless Gözde had told him before he'd died.  As of yet, the other man had betrayed no identification; but Katsaros was a slow-moving, distant man who chose to circle in slowly upon his prey.  Dreogan resisted enclosure, drawing the lines of his reality before them. They were small, but solid: "You are real. Sasha Schlagenweit is real. I am real. And we are here in Hogsmeade today. It does not take a Seer to know that."

*Deuteronomy 31: 6.

The mention of a name that he'd used for so long prickled the back of his neck.  Terry's eyes narrowed as he regarded the other man.  The fact that he knew the surname was not entirely impossible; over the years, Tiresias had become guarded with his identity, but he didn't imagine that his precautions were infallible.  Scrying, though, was an art of images and flashes of inspiration.  Even if this man had gotten glimpses of him hauling Schlagenweit away, of the gates to the Old Man's fortress, he could not have heard a name spoken through a scrying glass.

This man knew him from elsewhere.  He could have well gotten his name from a British Ministry file, identified him with a match to old crimes, but nothing about him hinted at law enforcement.  He was too fierce, too passionate; he had made this too personal.  And as he spoke, something sparked in Terry's memory, a faint ghost of another curly-headed youth who had tried to speak with great eloquence and then run.

Either way, he was clearly Jewish; the candle spoke to that.  It was a remnant of Beit Gaddol training, not Hogwarts.  Terry smiled grimly, hooking the smallest finger on his right hand up and around behind his back, tightening his grip on his wand as he thought the incantation.  Even if the man knew him, it didn't matter.  He would not know him for long.

"Well said," he replied in Hebrew.  His eyes were locked on the other man's, ignoring the shadow that was slowly elongating of its own accord behind him.  "But it still leaves one to worry.  It gets harder to tell what is real in the dark."

It was a spell he had learned years ago in a dark place.  Here in the daylight, here on the white shining snow, its uses were limited, but uses there were.  Wards protected best against attacks from known sources, and normally, one's shadow was hardly a threat.  But as Tiresias closed his hand into a fist, the man's shadow stretched unnaturally thin and rose above him, crashing down over his head with a fury and momentarily plunging vision into darkness.

The dark deep of his enemy's voice was as in his dreams, but there was a metallic edge present now that the mists of Sight must have dulled. He compressed his lips, concentrating on the strength of his ward, feeling the reassurance in it. Yes, he was guarded; he was prepared.

But there was a momentary dread, the feeling of being dwarfed that immediately preceded -- yet could not fully prepare himself for -- the plunge. Dreogan was in darkness, lost in himself, succumbing. He couldn't-- he couldn't -- oh, G-d, he couldn't breathe! The dark, it was --  The feel of the candle wax cold on his skin, the panic; the candle had gone out. There was no doubt. He was defenseless, his circle protecting against anything beyond its rim, but his own shadow, his darker self, shared this space.

Suppressing his tremors, Dreogan dropped the candle to the snow, where the black wax bled leisurely across the white. He   lifted his hand, extending his left palm towards Terry. He wouldn't -- he wouldn't -- He would be resolute. Resolute. Never again would he, would Katsaros, hurt someone he cared about. He'd seen it too many times, again and again. But never again. He would kill him if he had to; he was resolute. He lifted his right hand, wand ready.

The dark ebbed like a wave receding from its shores. The shadow once more settled upon the snow behind him and to his right. Nearly noon. Dreogan gave a shuddering breath, but it did nothing to restore the warmth to his face or to ease the painful throb in his throat. His voice emitted a hoarse gasp. He closed his eyes. "Sh'ma Yis'ra'eil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad," he uttered once, quickly, in a faltering voice. The second recitation brought strength and warmth; he felt the magic from his feet move towards his left hand, still held in the position of the hamsa. In a blink, he achieved it: that unity of body and spirit, G-d and Man, hand, foot, heart and head that was the Kabbalistic core. He was filled with light; the hand began to glow. The power of the left was salvation, love. The power of the right was justice, destruction.

The spell emitted from his wand, concusso, caused the earth to shake, its coat of snow to shift and jump as the wave of energy surged forward. Only once it had been cast did Dreogan venture to distract his senses by opening his eyes, mouthing to himself, as he had been taught, Psalm 91*.

He would put his trust in Him, would dwell in Him, and would be saved . . . but that wasn't enough. Dreogan wanted Katsaros trampled, bound and fangless, destroyed. And yet -- and yet -- Dreogan sought for the balance, knowing the spells' effects would only be as powerful as the strength with which he performed them. "He is my refuge and my fortress: my G-d; in him will I trust."

*"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the LORD,
He is my refuge and my fortress:
my G-d; in him will I trust.
Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night;
nor for the arrow that flieth by day;
nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness;
nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

Because thou hast made the LORD, which is my refuge,     
even the Most High, thy habitation;
there shall no evil befall thee,
           
Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder:           
the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.
Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him:
           
I will set him on high, because he hath known my name.
He shall call upon me, and I will answer him:
           
I will be with him in trouble;
I will deliver him, and honor him.
With long life will I satisfy him,
and show him my salvation."

Noon was not the time he would have chosen to make his stand.  As the shadows washed over him, as his own darkness turned against him, the other man shuddered and let something small fall against the snow.  One by one, every light went out.

It was then, against the fading eclipse, that the memory struck him.  The same face, though younger, set amidst another shadowed place.  The only light from flickering candles, reflected in the glow of worthless treasure.  Men shrinking back, waiting for what would come, and this same face making a stand, however brief and frightened it was.  Terry stared at him hard as the name came to him.  Bünyamin. 

Bünyamin, who had run and left little doubt that he was the betrayer, even though others had betrayed as well.  Bünyamin, who in the fifteen years since the shameless flight of his accusation, had apparently decided that the power belonged not to the accused, but the accuser.  If it had been any other time of day, if the shadowy assault had not already been ebbing, he would have thrown back his head and laughed.  But now there was magic flying, and the focus had to be on the confrontation.

Young Bünyamin, though he was no longer young, was already casting.  The words rang with unfamiliar intent; his second of recognition had lost him any advantage.  He raised his wand, flinging his arm forward as a bright light exploded from the tip, sent like a missile towards Bünyamin.  Darkness was followed by illumination.  Dark times were ended by a burst of light. 

As he had cast, his opponent had released his assault as well.  The spell raced towards him, shaking the ground and unleashing its fury.  If Tiresias hadn't already taken the time to set his shield, he would have been thrown back, upended with the quake.  As it was, his half-laid defenses couldn't stand.  Energy struck the magical boundary that he'd sketched in the snow; a half dome, suddenly golden, trembled in the air before him, reverberating with the deep sounding of a bell as it shook and then cracked.

It had been years since he'd encountered the young man who had tried to stand against him and then faltered.  The event had been lost in Terry's annals, but it was clear from the passion of the opposing attack that Bünyamin, in a form defined by whatever name he claimed now, had not forgotten.  This was not the time or place to renew an ancient battle, particularly not one that he had not prepared for against a man who could clearly See.  Warring was not his purpose today.  Giving warning to his current employer was.

With the air still reverberating with the ringing echoes of the death of his shield, Tiresias turned on the spot, wand in hand.  It was time to abandon the battle and play the messenger.