The January sky was thick with heavy, dark grey clouds, shoving their rain-pregnant bellies southwards in an astounding pace, ready to give birth any moment. And yet, the ominous sky was perhaps the most pleasant thing about the bleak scenery. The soil was dry and desolate, clumps of earth and stones and small sickly trees, stretching their thin branches upwards like desperate beggars. Not that any amount of rain could transform this industrial wasteland into fertile farmland. This part of the country was basically a huge dead stretch of land the size of several football fields somewhere on the outskirts of that great beast London.

It had been more difficult than usual to get the right answers to his questions, and now, as Gwydion looked down at the dreary place from his position on top of a small hill, he wondered whether he´d asked the right questions in the first place. There was virtually nothing around here, safe for a few scattered raised stands of the kind hunters used to spy after deer, the ruins of an old factory to the northwest, and a small grove to the northeast. Gwydion frowned, squinting to try and see past the first line of trees. It did appear as though something were moving there... a slender spiral of smoke, curling up into the air.

Half an hour later he had ventured into the grove, and was now walking towards a clearing, a sight of unexpected coziness hidden right in the heart of the wasteland. There was a campground with stomped earth and a few wagons forming a circle around a fireplace in the middle. Somewhere close, he could hear the whinnying of horses and the clanking of metal, probably pots and pans preparing dinner in one of the wagons. Or an actual person using pots and pans to prepare dinner, Gwydion thought, reminding himself that there might well be muggles and wizards traveling together.

There was a young girl*, about 12 or 13, sitting on the steps of one wagon. Gwydion approached her and gave her a friendly smile.

“Hello, young lady. Could you tell me where I might find Deaglan McDonough? I´m an old friend in need of his service.”

*Mairead?

The break was drawing to a close and, soon, Mairead would be clamboring back on the train and on her way back to Hogwarts.  As a bit of a last minute surprise, Deaglan had made arrangements for her family to come to London to spend a few days as a whole group before seeing her off, again.  It was a group that consisted of four vardos: Mr. McDonough's, her parent's, the Quinn's and the Murphys.  All were, in some way, related to her - with the exception of Mr. McDonough.  It was Mairead's magical ability that tied her to the older man. 

Mairead sat on the steps to the Quinn's vardo, a handful of playing cards between her fingers.  A scraggly, dark-haired, fourteen-year-old boy sat in the shadows just inside the door, leaning against it so that the warmth from the stove inside could spill out onto the steps. 

She tugged at her patched coat, tossing out a four of clubs as the wire-haired lurcher lifted her head and let out a low, deep growl at the approaching stranger.  Mairead looked up just as Tito rose to his feet.  The young man took a few steps down the step, regarding the stranger with distrust before speaking. 

"Who's askin'?" the boy asked as Mairead pushed herself to her feet next to Tito. 

Mairead pushed herself to her feet, climbing down the stairs despite the warning glance from Tito. "Yer needin' his services?  That mean yer like him?"  She didn't hesitate to ask in current company - Tito knew about her, of course.  Therefore, she assumed it was safe to know about others.  "He just ran with me da to get some water.  He should be back soon."

Certainly, Gwydion could just have stated his name. But where would be the fun in that? The day had been cold and boring, his journey long and wearisome enough. And there had been entirely too few people to entertain him for the past few hours; now that he had an opportunity to engage in human conversation again (something that Gwydion needed as sorely as food and drink), he was determined to get as much out of it as possible.

To the boy he said, with a smile, “Tell him I once made a woman out of flowers; I was a stag, a sow and a wolf, and I raised a nameless child. He loves riddles, Deaglan does, though I suspect this one will be a bit too undemanding for him...”

By then the girl had joined them, and Gwydion gave her a nod. “Indeed I am. I suppose you are one of us, too, then?”

He wasn´t sure about the boy, but for the girl to be talking so openly the young man must at least be in on the secret. Other than many wizards, Gwydion did not find anything scandalous about muggles knowing of the existence of the magical world. Quite the contrary; as far as he could think, Gwydion had been a supporter of the - admittedly not very widespread - belief that wizards should give up hiding and reveal themselves to the muggles, establishing a new order where both communities would use their skills and abilities to contribute to the well-being of all people, be they magical or not... imagine the things wizards could learn from the technically far superior muggles, not to mention the benefits wizarding society would have to offer them... however, there weren´t many wizards who shared Gwydion´s vision. In fact, the Ministry, knowing about his views, kept a close watch on him; he was pretty sure that most of what he said in company was magically monitored. Which, naturally, didn´t stop him in the least.

“You don´t mind if I just make myself comfortable here while I wait for him?”

Not waiting for an answer, he lowered himself on the hard, icy ground (he wouldn´t have gotten this far in his light linen suit without a warmth charm in the first place) and took out his pipe. 

The boy's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he watched the man and was about to say something when the girl placed a hand on the boy's arm and took a step forward.  So, the man was a wizard and he was seeking Deaglan.  That wasn't, necessarily, a surprise.  There were many in the wizarding community that sought the man if they needed a wand or advice on old magical legends or stories.  Not unlike the wizards of old, Deaglan had explained to Mairead.  Back in Merlin's days, wizards frequently traveled independently, offering council and advice to influential muggles.  Their's, as Pavee Wizards, was a lifestyle that was true to the wizards of old.

"Are ye Pavee, too?  Or just a fan."  There was one other, apparently - a Gryffindor.  Older than Mairead but younger than Deaglan.  This man could be that other one or he could just be a fan.  Deaglan seemed to have his share of those - Mairead secretly hoped, one day, she would, too.  Though, hopefully, of a different, more quidditch-oriented kind.

The boy was, clearly, a little put off by the man's initiative to make himself comfortable.  The thirteen-year-old took a threatening step towards him but stopped when Mairead shot him a warning glance.  She then crossed the short distance to the fellow and plopped herself on the cold ground across from him.  "Did ye go to Hogwarts?  What house were ye in?  Did ye play quidditch? What-"  The myriad of questions came in quick succession until a slightly raspy cough interjected.

"It's best to give the man an opportunity to answer the question before moving on to the next one."  Deaglan approached, a bucket of water held in each hand.  He set both on the ground next to the smoldering fire before approaching the seated fellow.  "Gwydion," Deaglan greeted, jovially, extending a hand.  "Good to see you.  How have you been?  Enjoyed the holidays?"