Alternate Ending 1: STAR-CROSSED ONE LAST TIME

NOTE:

As I said at the end of Chapter 13, there are two alternative endings to Last Horcrux. This one is lovingly referred to as the “OMG-WTF Ending”. As to where this madness came from, let's just call it the product of a fevered imagination and leave it at that.

This follows on from the end of Chapter 13.

Cheers,

Mike [FP]

* * * * * * * * * *

May 7, 2009 – John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

The Brown Bottle wasn't exactly Meg's cup of tea. Her crew mates were comfortable enough; they abandoned her for darts inside of a minute. She took a stool at one end of the bar and nursed a cocoa and made certain that the publican served her mates nothing stronger than a fizzy drink. They were the backup crew for the week but could always be called upon. The last thing Her Majesty's Coastguard wanted was to put an SAR crew in the air half-potted.

“We don't get many English, not since holidaymakin' took a holiday,” the publican said amiably.

“Business, actually,” she said, and extended her hand; “Meg Fairfax – I'm the new SAR station head at Sumburgh.” When she was met with a friendly but blank stare, she ploughed on, “SAR... Search and Rescue...? Coastguard...? Erm... I fly a helicopter, right?”

“Ahh... the rescue folk up ta Shetland! Surprisin' ta see a young lass such as yerself in that work, innit...?” said the publican.

Meg tried to relax her jaw – almost a decade into the twenty-first century, and she was still a 'bird' to be disregarded. “Hardly,” she bit out; “I graduated from Britannia Royal Naval College in '99 and accepted a flight commission. I flew both the Lynx and Sea King out of five different Naval stations, and flew with the Black Cats for the '06 season. I've done two combat-theatre postings... Shall I continue with my qualifications, or would you rather shut it and keep filling my cocoa?”

“Yes, mum,” said the publican quietly.

After another sideways glance at her mates, Meg scanned the room again. No one appeared to match either of the descriptions she'd been given for the RNLI John O'Groats principals, and one of the two would surely be unmistakeable. A tap on the shoulder caught her off-guard, something she didn't at all care for.

“Yeh must be the new officer down from Sumburgh?” said one of the largest men she had ever seen. He was easily six-and-a-half feet tall but the size of his frame made him seem even larger. He had a careworn face all but obscured by a thick curly beard that, like his curly hair, was a brownish shade shot through with grey.

Meg gave a curt nod. “That's right – Meg Fairfax,” she said, “and you must be Mr. Fairbourne.”

“Aye, Robbie Fairbourne at yer service,” the man said warmly; “An' how long did yeh serve in Her Majesty's Navy?”

She began, “Almost ten... pardon?”

“Yeh don' carry yerself like Coastguard, ma'am,” Robbie explained. “I've seen 'em come an' go from Sumburgh, an' the solid ones, they come from the Fleet Air Arm. 'Sides... saw yeh bring in the helo. I'll nae see a Guardie land like tha', not in this life.”

Meg re-appraised the giant man. “You were Navy once,” she said, although it was hard to imagine him shipboard.

“Aye, but a fair few years before yer time,” Robbie said, and his eyes took on a far look that Meg recognised from her own mirror. She didn't ask him to elaborate and he didn't offer.

“Where's your operations man?” she asked.

“He's tyin' off a loose end or two,” said Robbie; “We had a run yesterday an' John... och, he's one ta pick over everythin'. He'll be here, yeh can trust in tha', ma'am.”

“I'm no longer commissioned, Mr. Fairbourne. 'Meg' will do,” she insisted.

“Mr. Fairbourne, he were my father,” Robbie said. “If 'Meg' will do, then Robbie's the way ta go.”

“Fair enough,” said Meg. “So tell me, uh, Robbie... why is it that John O'Groats has the best response time in the whole of the RNLI? There's not another station that can get a lifeboat to sea in less than twenty minutes reliably, and you're out in less than fifteen nearly all of the time.”

“Mostly that's ta do with John,” Robbie answered. “He puts all of him inta' this, yeh see?”

Meg was surprised. “It's not the sort of work a person can make a living from,” she said.

“Isn't about the pounds and pence wit' John,” Robbie said; “He's well set, summat from family and summat from th' Army.”

“I thought he was about my age – he can't be retired out, then,” noted Meg.

“No, no, John didna retire. Dunno what he did exactly, but it were in the London War,” Robbie said. His face hardened and he added, “Not the sort o' thing yeh linger on.”

“Roger that,” Meg said. She'd earned her own demons and wasn't about to trample someone else's.

“Ah, there's the lad,” Robbie said, and he nodded toward the entry.

Meg had done her share of carousing but she couldn't recall ever having an instant reaction to anyone. Average height, average weight, unremarkable... hardly! Shep must've been drunk as a lord to come up with that description, she thought.

John Black was about six feet tall and somewhere around twelve stone, she figured. He was trim but in the way of an athlete. His features were sharp, with a strong jaw and the most startling eyes she had ever seen. The only imperfection she could see was a bright white jagged scar on his forehead. She noticed that he drew a friendly smile from the publican and near-predatory looks from at least three women – looks to which he seemed oblivious.

He clapped Robbie on the shoulder and then took her hand hesitantly, almost nervously. “Er... you must be Margaret Fairfax?” he asked.

She had to snap herself free of his eyes. “Uh... Meg... Meg Fairfax. Haven't gone by Margaret since primary, actually – don't know what my mum was thinking – loved to call me 'Margaret Jean' when I was naughty, though – but Margaret sounds like a grandmother to me and I'm certainly no one's gran, far from it -”

He smiled at her just as the embarrassment hit from her prattling-on. “No... surely not a gran,” he said, and those eyes of his took her in until she was prepared to flinch.

Eventually her mates joined them at a table and they reviewed the plans for aerial SAR coverage through the summer season to come. After that, they made their way to the RNLI boathouse and looked over the new 15-meter all-weather lifeboat. Afterwards, Meg recalled that Robbie was the coxswain and that John was the engineer in addition to being the station man, and that they had a volunteer crew of fourteen that rotated on-call times, but mostly she recalled that John kept looking at her when he thought she wasn't looking and that he was polite in an old-fashioned way and that he had a smashing bum – the sort that could make even a dry suit look good. She wasn't at all accustomed to having her mind and body betray her in the line of duty, but she decided to make this one exception.

* * * * * * * * * *

August 18, 2009 - John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

“You need to stop harassing my flight doctor,” Meg scolded him.

“Then he needs to stop fussing,” John said. “For the twentieth time, I'm fine! I'd rather he sees to the crew.”

“You're a menace, Black – the undertow should have torn you apart! I had to goose it to pluck you out of there; the winch motor wouldn't do the job. My divers both swore the whole thing off!” she fumed.

He got that look on his face, the one that belonged on the most grizzled of combat veterans. “Six men would have died today,” he snapped; “Six sets of children without a parent... I'd do it again without a thought. Your crew is your crew – if you want to hold out your divers, that's your decision to make.”

“And it's Robbie's decision to make in your case, isn't it?” she shot back.

“He lets me pick my own battles,” he said.

“I don't fancy suicides, and I'd rather not be part of one,” she pressed on.

John went quiet for a long moment before he said, “I save people. It's all I've left to give.”

“Wha...?” she started, but he bustled away from her and into the celebrating throng of fisherman and their families. She nearly slapped away the hand that fell on her shoulder.

“Relax, luv. It's just who he is,” Dottie McLaren said reassuringly. Dottie was Robbie Fairbourne's elder sister, a property agent, and the town gossip. She had 'adopted' Meg after the first rescue celebration in June. It had quickly become clear that her crewmates liked working with the John O'Groats lifeboaters better than any of the other stations, and it was in part because the townspeople were welcoming where most of the other communities seemed to be stand-offish at best. Somehow Meg had found herself spending her days off in John O'Groats rather than staying on station or venturing elsewhere.

Dottie and her network of cronies and conspirators had made it their ambition to get Meg settled with a man, but all save Dottie steered her away from John Black. It became quickly apparent that John was well-liked to the point of being a 'favourite son', despite being an obvious Englishman, but was also a great mystery to all – a quietly charming, charitable loner who would help anyone at any time while offering nothing about himself.

“He's the most frustrating man I've ever met,” Meg said aloud.

“He's a hard one, Johnny is,” Dottie agreed. “Come along and have a cuppa.”

“But I really should -”

“Nonsense, luv... yer young men'll be frettin' over our boys fer another hour – two, mayhap,” said Dottie. “Lizzie over ta The Last House always keeps a kettle on, an' it's no more than a shout away.”

Meg quickly found herself inside the House at a small table with a steaming cup of tea in hand. “He's a lunatic,” she said; “This is the third time he's failed to clear out of a lost situation.”

“Johnny don't believe in lost situations,” said Dottie.

“He should, before he gets himself or someone else killed,” Meg protested.

Dottie let out a heavy sigh, and then said, “There's no scarin' yeh off, is there? Then it's time yeh learnt a bit more about our Mr. Black.”

Dottie's tone bordered on the ominous, but Meg found herself leaning forward in anticipation. “Go on,” she said.

Dottie took a long sip of tea before she began, “Johnny first come here eleven years ago. He were a holidaymaker for a time. He and his young lady, they let the very cottage he lives in now. She were a lovely one but sickly... nae more than twenty with her hair half-gone ta grey. There were a bit of a commotion after tha', over ta island-way, somethin' ta do with the fellows that took over London. We didna see Johnny fer six months after that. He showed up, let the cottage again and didna come out for three weeks... not sure what the poor boy even ate. Come ta tell that his young lady, she were killed -”

“No!” Meg breathed.

“Aye, that were the case. Johnny and she, they were childhood sweethearts. Dunno what happened, but there were a medal and a pension ta come out of it. Don' think his young lady would care ta see him live fer grief. Eleven years an' yer the first lass I've seen him cast eyes on,” Dottie said.

“Cast eyes on...?”

“A'course, luv. Johnny can' hardly take those green eyes o' his away from yeh,” said Dottie. “Question is, are yeh strong enough, 'cause he'll nae stand fer any but a strong woman, that's my feelin' on the matter.”

Meg sipped at her tea for a long while, because in her head she knew that she wasn't the sort of woman for someone as broken as that, not at all. It was her heart that refused to cooperate.

* * * * * * * * * *

September 24, 2009 – Cornwall, England

Meg had never though that John would accept her invitation. She was still shocked that she'd offered it at all. To ask a man who hadn't dated in more than a decade on a six-hundred mile overnight holiday gave a new definition to forwardness. The silly grin on John's face after his initial shock wore off had been worth all the nervousness, though.

That same grin took hold of his face as he ran his hand along the side of the trainer glider. She had been surprised to find out how much he seemed to know about flying, particularly un-powered flight. The opportunity to take the stick in the two-seat trainer had been something he couldn't resist.

They had taken two rooms in the bed and breakfast adjacent to the Gliding Club's field; she would never had been so forward as to suggest a single room. The thought both thrilled and frightened her, and she was far more experienced than he. She figured the suggestion would have sent him fleeing to Iceland and on across the pond.

John Black was indeed a mystery. Their conversations over the summer proved that he was every bit as well-read as she, if not moreso, and this from a man who had surely never studied at university. She was all but certain that he had never attended military college, either. She threw in a few bits here and there to test him and his answers seemed spotty, although she wasn't deeply knowledgeable about the other services herself.

His age still niggled at her. He was a full two years younger than she, but had fought in the London War; that would have put him in the field at seventeen. It didn't square and the longer she thought on it, the more inclined she was to do a spot of digging. She liked new experiences – even daunting ones - but disliked mysteries on principle; they were just too dangerous in war and in life.

The Gliding Club ground officer ran John through the spot check a third time, and for a third time he passed with flying colours. With a child's glee, he hopped into the front seat of the trainer and waited for her to slip into the rear seat. The canopy was closed and he was practically bouncing in anticipation as the Club's aeroplane towed the glider down the field and into the air.

By the time they reached altitude and cut loose from the tow rope, he was a bundle of barely-contained energy. Meg quickly caught a thermal and then stabilized the glider before she said, “Right, then – it's all yours. Remember, no sudden corrections; keep it easy and natural. If you get in a spot of trouble, I'll take back the stick.”

The glider gave a hard shudder as he took control from her, but then continued on as if there had been no change. She felt the wind pick up from the right, and he said, “Hang on!” Before she could react, he dropped the nose and picked up speed.

Meg kept her hands locked on the stick, ready to seize control. She had to stop herself a half dozen times before she realised that he was instinctively riding the gusts and thermals. He was an aggressive flier, she thought, but completely natural – it was as if he was born to it.

“You've done this before!” she called out.

“I've never been in a glider in my life,” he returned. “Ahh... feel that bit of wind? This should be wicked...”

“Wicked...? What are you - bloody hell!!”

Looking back, Meg could think of at least three times in the ten minutes that followed when the glider performed manoeuvres that should have sheared off the wings, and a fourth that flatly violated the laws of physics. She had been too shocked to seize control; all she could manage was to shriek at the appropriate moments. By the time she fully recovered her senses, he had lined up with the Glider Club field and executed a textbook landing.

The ground officer practically tore the canopy free. “What in the fuck was that?” he demanded. “You two should be a stain on this field! It's either luck or magic, because nothing else can explain it!”

John looked at the ground officer, then at Meg, and then back to the ground officer. Finally he burst into a gale of laughter that swept her along and even made the stern officer crack a grin.

* * * * * * * * * *

October 2, 2009 - Sumburgh HMCG Station, Shetland Islands

“Is that you, Susan? It's hard to hear you,” Meg called into her mobile.

“I'm strolling through Piccadilly... harder to be followed, and less chance of being overheard...” the caller returned.

Susan Helm had been one of Meg's mates at Britannia and had moved into Intelligence after completion. The two had been fairly close for several years, but had drifted apart on account of overseas postings. Susan had been the first person that came to Meg's mind when she could no longer resist finding out more about John's past.

“This man of yours, Megs... I can't tell you what he did during the London War. It's not that I wouldn't – I can't. His service record is sealed per the Official Secrets Act. In the public records, there are only two references to him at all prior to 1998,” Susan said.

Meg's throat tightened. “I don't understand...”

“John James Black was born July 31, 1980, in a Welsh town I've not heard of, to James and Lily Black. His parents were killed in 1981 by members of a domestic terrorist group, and he was sent to live with relatives of his mother in Surrey. After that, there's nothing – not even a National Health number,” Susan went on. “In August of 1998, he was awarded a George Cross, and in September of that year, he was named to the Order of St. Michael and St. George.”

“You're saying that John's a knight,” Meg said dubiously.

Susan said, “That's right – he's Sir John, and the George Cross is the civil equivalent of a VC; it's not something thrown about lightly at all. I've proof that both were awarded, but neither are on the public register. It's also more than passing strange that he received a civil award for military service, sealed or otherwise. Point is, he was pensioned at the age of 18 by a government office whose name is blacked to the tune of an active duty major's salary. The reason for the pension is indexed to a report so highly classified that it isn't acknowledged to exist.”

“Bloody hell...” was all Meg could manage.

“I did a bit of skulking. He's sitting on about £7 million at Barclays. Those accounts didn't exist before 1998, either,” said Susan.

Meg stammered, “I... I don't know what to say...”

Susan said, “Look, Megs, there's only one reason for it: he was part of some serious black ops during the war, the sort where leaks are plugged in permanent fashion. Stay away from this bloke, and don't ever ask me to do this sort of thing again. I have to go.” Before Meg could say another word, the line went dead.

She closed her mobile and let it clatter to the desk. “I wish it were that simple,” she whispered to herself. She had become the moth to John Black's flame; it was even possible that she was falling in love with him. It occurred to the darker part of her nature that things rarely ended well for the moth.

* * * * * * * * * *

OCTOBER 31, 2009

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One

1015 hrs – HMCG Air Station, Sumburgh, Shetland

1 m seas, 12 knot NW wind (Beaufort Force 4)

“How do the rotors look?” Meg asked as she reviewed the last four days’ records. Her flight engineer David Cosby gave a thumbs-up that she caught from the corner of her eye.

“Finished with the turbine inspection, Jeff?” she called out.

Steve Jefferies, her co-pilot, yelled, “Looks cracking, boss. What do you think about those APU readings?”

Meg looked at the readings for the auxiliary power unit, which seemed to spike during the electrical system check. She tapped the readout and the levels abruptly changed. “We’ve got a short,” she said.

“Shite and double-shite,” Jefferies grumbled. “I have to hand-test the damn thing, don’t I?”

“Better you than me,” Meg laughed as she continued her check.

Cosby leant into the cockpit and handed off a log book. “Increased risk mission, is it? Dunno… doesn’t look that stiff to me,” he said.

Meg looked to the southern horizon where low grey clouds were massing. “It’s hard to predict from here, isn’t it?” she said idly; “Schuller said those shrimpers are in a bit of a gale.”

“Force 7 at the moment,” said Jefferies as he eased around Cosby and into his seat. “Barely qualifies as sporting, I’d say. I pulled a normal reading from the APU, and the backup is hot in the event I’m wrong.”

“And of course, you’re never wrong,” Meg said.

“Unless he’s picking Man U over Chelsea – then he’s dead wrong,” Cosby laughed.

“What do you want to do about the readout?” Jefferies asked.

Meg hesitated for a moment, and then decided, “Write it up for the maintenance log; we’ve work to do. Cosby, fetch Doc Millstone and today’s tag-along. Wheels up in ten, gentlemen.”

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1040 hrs – 6 nm E of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

1 m seas, 10 knot SW wind (Beaufort Force 3)

John Black stood on the whaleback to one side of the Griffin’s pilothouse. The waters were largely empty of ship traffic and pleasure boats from one end of the horizon to the other. The wind was already picking up and Robbie was grousing about his knees, which had proved over time to be a fair sign of a coming low pressure front. For John’s part, he just wanted to get through Halloween unscathed.

Robbie leaned toward the open pilothouse window. “Aberdeen’s calling for Force 7,” he said. “Have the lads break out the work suits… never can tell…”

John heard the radio crackle but couldn’t make it out. “What’s the word, then?” he asked.

“Bunch o’ shrimpers went trawling out ta Captain Field – like yeh find anythin’ there bu’ half-arsed mackerel,” Robbie snorted. “Didna listen ta the gale warning, ‘course. I swear ta high heaven, the shrimp have more sense than some o’ these lads. SAR’s dispatchin’ a helo as we speak. There’s nae a cutter in th’ area, an’ that means we’re headin’ out another ten miles. Yeh might get ta see yer Meggie yet today.”

John felt a flush climb his neck. “She’s not ‘my Meggie’, you pillock,” he said.

“Don’ mean the lass can’t change. Don’ mean yeh don’ want her ta change,” Robbie said with a smirk.

“She’s… she’s… good Lord, she can be irritating,” John grumbled.

“An’ yeh love every blessed second of it. How else would yeh pass yer days if yeh weren’t undressin’ the girl wit’ yer eyes,” laughed Robbie.

“That’s enough from you, old man!” snapped John.

Robbie continued to chuckle; “Off wit’ yeh – take yer whingin’ elsewhere,” he said.

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One

1100 hrs – 50 nm S-SE of HMCG Air Station, Sumburgh

2 m seas, 15 knot W-NW wind with 19 knot gusts (Beaufort Force 5)

“Well, this mucked up in a hurry,” Steve Jefferies commented.

Meg grunted. “A rotten day to be on the water, no doubt about it. Look at that – some knobdobber’s out in a pleasure boat… two quid says he needs rescuing before the day’s out.”

“Did you say ‘knobdobber’? Not going Scottish on us, are you?” Jefferies snickered.

“Away wit’ yeh… yeh clown,” Meg returned.

Jefferies snorted, “Not bad, not bad. Now you just need to paint your face blue and put on some tartans.”

“Didn’t care for that movie, actually,” Meg said absently; her attention was on the avionics. “Hmm… it looks like there might be some sport after all, Jeff. Take a glance at the Doppler.”

“Colliding fronts – no wonder that trawler’s taking a gale,” said Jefferies.

“There’s a lot of turbulence in those frontal boundaries. I’d bet on 40 knot gusts or better,” Meg said.

“…And then your arse fell off. I’ll believe it when I see it,” Jefferies scoffed.

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1130 hrs – 16 nm E-SE of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

2 m seas, 19 knot S-SW with 23 knot gusts, moderate rain (Beaufort Force 6)

“Less tha’ one hour an’ it’s done and gone pear-shaped,” Robbie fumed.

John had long since moved inside the pilothouse, and the rest of the crew was below. “Bloody shrimpers,” he said.

“Glad yeh see it my way,” said Robbie. “Bring up the sideband, lad – see if yeh can pick up any traffic.”

Most of the maritime frequencies were either official communication or white noise – a good sign that the seas were mostly vacant – but they did pick up one crackling transmission:

We’re over here just above fifty-eight and about two-and-a-half. What’s it look like, Terry?

It’s blowin’ fifty ta eighty an’ the seas are better than twenty feet. It went calm for a while, but now it’s startin’ to come in pretty good. I’m 90 miles northeast of Aberdeen, around fifty-eight and one-and-a-half.

We heard there was a shrimper dead in the water near you.

If they’re dead in this water, then they’re endin' up pitch-poled – not much to do other than say a prayer. We’re still making due west but it’s a slog.

I expect to hear from you every quarter-hour, understand?

We’ll do the best we can.

“Mother o’ pearl, we cannae get mixed up in tha’…” said Robbie. “I’m callin’ NAS Aberdeen –”

“Weather update,” John said. He squinted at the text:

WARNING. FORECAST DANGEROUS STORM WINDS E of LONG 2 AT LAT 58 50 to 75 KTS AND SEAS 8 TO 10 M.

“It’s all comin’ together right ta the east,” Robbie said.

A quick look out the pilothouse windows made that abundantly clear: the skies ahead were roiling like a cauldron left too long on the heat. John instinctively grabbed at his sleeve and confirmed that his holly wand was properly holstered; this was no time to be without it.

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One

1150 hrs – 170 nm S-SE of HMCG Air Station, Sumburgh

5 m seas, 37 knot W wind with 43 knot gusts, moderate rain (Beaufort Force 8)

“Whose arse was it that fell off? I can't remember,” Meg said.

“I think I’ll stick to betting on Man U,” Jefferies groused.

David Cosby stuck his head forward so he could be heard over the howling of the storm. “We’re about 40 miles out,” he said; “Oh, by the way, Doc’s tag-along is spewing his guts out.”

“Lovely,” Jefferies deadpanned.

“Make sure he cleans up after himself, right?” Meg said.

“Maclean hasn’t stopped taking the mickey out of the poor bastard,” said Cosby. Maclean, their lead diver, was brilliant at his job but not the friendliest fellow.

The helicopter jerked hard up and then down and then up and down again, like a stone skipping across a pond. Something crashed in the cabin, followed shortly by the unmistakeable sound of vomiting.

“For pity’s sake, will you make sure that all of the gear is strapped?” Meg snapped.

“That is not my favourite odor,” Jefferies said.

“…And these are not my favourite conditions. There’s a lot of shear, for one. What do you think – are we better off up or down?” Meg asked.

“It’s more winter than autumn, this one… like as not, the chop will follow us all the way to the water. I figure we hold this altitude or try our luck higher,” Jefferies said.

The helicopter lurched hard to one side and then regained its bearings. “Call NAS Aberdeen and get us a better flight path,” Meg ordered, “and get that gear secured!” The response was another loud volley of vomiting.

“Give the kid a Dramamine patch, would you?” Jefferies called out.

“Aww, come now, Jeffie – he’s keeping us entertained,” Maclean returned.

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1205 hrs – 19 nm E-SE of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

4 m seas, 29 knot S-SW wind with 35 knot gusts, moderate rain (Beaufort Force 7)

John climbed down the narrow companionway to the engine housing and ran through his checklist – hydraulics, fuel lines, injectors, batteries, and so on. He turned on the high-water alarms and set the bilge pumps on standby. The backup generator tested out. It was his second time through the checks in an hour, but rather safe than sorry. The sea wasn’t more than 150 meters deep there so the chances of a rogue wave were low, but this was the heaviest weather the Griffin had seen in its first year of service and there was a good chance that it would see heavier yet.

Robbie had already checked the charts and both men had reckoned the return course in their heads. There were no cutters within 60 miles and the Griffin wouldn’t be heading out more than 20 miles from shore no matter the circumstances, not in conditions like these. The shrimpers were at least 40 miles farther east and Meg’s helo was their only chance other than to ride it out and hope for the best.

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One

1210 hrs – 220 nm S-SE of HMCG Air Station, Sumburgh

8 m seas, 47 knot W wind with 60 knot gusts, heavy rain, visibility 100 m (Beaufort Force 10/11)

Meg set up a low hover aft of the trawler and flipped on the floods. All she could see were huge foam-laced swells and spray everywhere.

“Up, up!” Maclean shouted.

“Where the hell did this come from?” Jefferies demanded.

Their second diver, Frank Appleby, announced, “We're ready to deploy.”

“We'll have to extract them from the water,” said Maclean.

“No good,” Cosby said; “The hoist’ll never keep up in these waves – too much slack.”

“Let’s watch and wait,” Meg decided. “We might catch a break in the wind.”

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1220 hrs – 19 nm E-SE of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

2 meter seas, variable wind with 25 knot gusts, light rain (Beaufort Force 5)

John clambered into the pilothouse from below. “What’s the word?” he asked.

“Aberdeen says the helo’s at the shrimper,” Robbie said.

John nodded. “What do they say about the gale?”

“Somethin’ different every five minutes,” Robbie snorted. The Griffin bobbed oddly and then began a violent rocking.

John grabbed for the railing. “What the…!”

“The waves are turnin’… I think it’s comin’ back on us. Damn Aberdeen… damn weather boys… we need ta start headin’ in,” said Robbie. “Haven’t seen anythin’ this freakish in years.”

John couldn’t help but flinch at the word ‘freakish’, but there was something almost unnatural about the conditions. Still, even Voldemort wouldn’t have been able to manipulate the weather on this scale.

* * * * * * * * * *

HCMG Sumburgh Helo One

1230 hrs – 220 nm S-SE of HMCG Air Station, Sumburgh

11 m seas, 52 knot W wind with 65 knot gusts, heavy rain, visibility 50 m (Beaufort Force 11)

“The trawler’s still riding high,” Cosby said, “and their generator’s still up.”

“They want us to just drop the basket and take their chances,” Appleby said, shaking his head.

Jefferies gave a mirthless laugh. “Right – foul the line or get electrocuted… wouldn’t that be spiffing?”

“We’re ready to go in the water on your order, ma’am,” Maclean offered.

“Not today, chaps,” Meg said. “Drop them two rafts and enough line for lashing. Dave, call Aberdeen and advise that we’re aborting. There’s an FPSO at Captain Field, right? Have them notified to keep a watch for rafts. Ask Aberdeen about any commercial traffic… if they ride it out, it might be easier for a freighter to pick them up than for us to come out again.”

“There’ll be a cutter out by evening,” said Cosby.

“Good enough. Jeff, give the trawler the bad news,” Meg said.

Jeff shook his head. “Ah, the life of a second-chair – all the best jobs, eh?”

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1245 hrs – 16 nm E of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

5 m seas, 31 knot E wind with 45 knot gusts, driving rain (Beaufort Force 8)

“Nothin’ beats pretendin' ta be a ruddy surfboard,” Robbie grunted.

“It’s all part of the job,” John said with a shrug. He surreptitiously renewed the anti-seasickness charm he’d cast on his friend, and made a mental note to go below decks and do the same for the rest of his mates.

Robbie shook his head. “Aren’t exactly a job, especially fer th’ lads. If I weren’t retired out, there’d be no affordin’ it.”

“We save people – best job in the world, if you ask me,” John said.

“On this point, Johnny, yer a bit mental,” huffed Robbie.

The main radio crackled to life. “Sumburgh Helo One called abort, repeat Sumburgh Helo One called abort. Coastal support to stand down, coastal support to stand down.”

“An’ there it is. We’ll be in by nineteen-hundred, ‘nuff time fer a pint an’ some chips,” said Robbie.

“Not for me, thanks,” John said.

Robbie’s bushy brows rose, and he broke into a smirk as he said, “What, yeh got plans or somethin’… oh! Yeh do have plans, do yeh?”

“I’m flying up to Sumburgh tomorrow, if you must know,” John huffed.

Robbie chuckled, “Goin’ ta the mountain instead of the mountain comin’ ta you?”

“Meg heard about an inn somewhere beyond Brae…” John started, before he realized he should have kept his mouth closed.

“And that would be one room or two?” Robbie asked and then broke into full-throated laughter.

“She booked one, as far as I know,” John said matter-of-factly.

Robbie stopped cold before he stammered, “’Struth? That… erm… that’s big fer yeh, innit?”

“I don't know. It might be,” John admitted.

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One

1300 hrs – 195 nm S-SE of HMCG Air Station, Sumburgh

10 m seas, 46 knot NE wind with 55 knot gusts, heavy rain, visibility 100 m (Beaufort Force 10)

“Ready for your leave, then?” Jefferies asked.

“More than ready,” Meg said.

Jefferies said, “I was surprised to see you today – figured you’d be well away.”

“Yardley’s picked up the creeping something-or-another. I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with Castle – he’s coming up from Cornwall for the rest of the week,” said Meg.

“Castle is an arse,” Jefferies said flatly.

Meg chuckled, “I won’t disagree with you there.”

“Off with the dashing Mr. Black, are you?” Jefferies asked.

Meg scowled at him. “Piss off,” she said.

Cosby leaned in and said innocently, “That’s, what, three weekends in two months and now a planned leave? Goodness, me!”

“Feel free to piss off as well,” Meg grunted; “You’re saying you don’t like him?”

Jefferies made as though he were counting off with his fingers. “Let’s see… brave, strapping, charitable, polite…”

“Too polite,” Cosby threw in.

“Pillar of his community, picks up after himself…”

“Too neat, far too neat…”

“Stylish dresser…”

“Probably dances like a dream… has a number of close women friends…”

Jefferies smirked and asked, “You’re not thinking…?”

Cosby nodded. “There’s little doubt, my friend. Mr. Black’s obviously fond of the blokes.”

“Gentlemen… you couldn’t be more wrong,” Meg said with a wicked smile not entirely intended for her crew.

Jefferies pointed to the instrument panel. “Oi… did you see that?”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“The radar just flickered… there, there it is again,” said Jefferies.

Meg frowned and started to test her instruments. “Might be a bit of static charge...” she offered. There was a loud electrical buzz, and then the entire main panel flickered.

“That’s not good,” Jefferies said under his breath.

Meg disengaged the auto-controls and seized the stick. “Cosby, tell me what’s happening here,” she snapped.

“Electrical fault – I know, I know, that’s obvious… I’m on it…” Cosby returned from his station.

“Shite,” Jefferies said.

“Spill it,” Meg fired back.

He started, “The primary APU’s –”

The cabin lights spluttered and then died.

“ – dead,” Jefferies finished.

“Firing the backup…” Cosby said. The lights sprang to life, and then flickered.

“Ehh, that’s just not cricket,” said Jefferies. The main panel flickered again.

“David…?” Meg said.

Cosby let out an annoyed huff and said, “The electrical system won't handle the load… it’s a creeping fault of some sort. We might have lost an inspection panel and then taken some water… all I know is that the backup APU is spotty and I’m not confident in our main electrical just now.”

“Do what you can,” Meg ordered. “Where’s the nearest landfall, Jeff?”

“Duncansby Head… 65 miles at 255 degrees,” Jefferies returned.

“What about the Captain Field FPSO?” asked Meg.

“In fifty knot winds and heavy seas? Not the best scenario, boss… it’s a damn small deck and they’re getting the same weather as the trawler. Given the option, I’d rather head west and chance a ditch,” Jefferies said honestly.

“West, it is. Raise Aberdeen and call an emergency,” Meg said, then added much more loudly, “Maclean?”

“Aye?”

“Having a spot of trouble, I’m afraid. Start preparation for a ditch,” she said.

Maclean said, “Aye, ma’am… aw, for Christ’s sake, man – stop spewing up!”

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1305 hrs – 15 nm E of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

7 m seas, 40 knot E wind with 55 knot gusts, driving rain (Beaufort Force 10)

“I’m beginnin’ ta doubt we’ll beat this weather ta shore,” Robbie said.

John rolled his eyes and tightened his lap belt and said with as much sarcasm as he could muster, “No – do you think?”

A sharp squawk sounded, signaling a call on the emergency band. Robbie reached for the switch; he had to wait for a trough between waves before he could reach it.

“…RNLI Griffin, RNLI Westlake, RNLI Hornsby… repeat… NAS Aberdeen to RNLI Griffin, RNLI Westlake, RNLI Hornsby… HCMG Sumburgh Helo One has called an in-flight emergency… repeat… HCMG Sumburgh Helo One has called an in-flight emergency and possible ditch…”

“John –”

“Helo One is inbound toward Duncansby Head at a heading of 255, range 55 miles. RNLI vessels in the vicinity are to remain on station… repeat… RNLI vessels in the vicinity are to remain on station…”

“John –”

“…repeat… HCMG Sumburgh Helo One has called an in-flight emergency and possible ditch…”

“John! I cannae reach it; yeh need to call our position!”

“Right… right…” John said unsteadily. “NAS Aberdeen, this is RNLI Griffin, 15 miles due east of Duncansby Head.”

“RNLI Griffin, make toward shore at 1325 on a heading of 270… repeat… make toward shore at 1325 on a heading of 270…”

“RNLI Griffin… acknowledged…” John managed.

“Get yerself below, Johnny,” Robbie ordered. “Splash some water on yer face and get the lads out a’ work suits and inta’ immersion gear. We might… yeh know… we might be called on.”

John shook himself to attention. “I’m on it,” he said.

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One

1315 hrs – 33 nm E-NE of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

11 m seas, 52 knot E wind with 65 knot gusts, heavy rain, visibility 50 m (Beaufort Force 11)

“I said I don’t know, Jeff! It could be electrical failure, it could be a grotted-up fuel line, it could be a bloody act of God, all right?” Cosby sighed.

“Cool heads, gentlemen – cool heads,” Meg said. “It doesn’t matter – the long and short of it is that we’ll eventually lose the turbine.”

“If we don’t lose the backup APU first… or main electrical, for that matter,” said Jefferies.

Meg turned to look her flight engineer in the eyes. “We need fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, Dave. What are the chances of that?”

“At the rate things are failing? Nil,” Cosby said.

Meg gave a sober nod. “Get your survival gear on, then. I want to get inside lifeboat range if we can manage it. That means you, too, Jeff.”

“You’ll need help with the ditch,” Jefferies said.

Meg shook her head. “We’re going with the standard protocol,” she said; “You’re out the door with the rest of the lot; I’ll get clear, auto-hover and jump for it.”

“In these conditions, you can’t –”

Meg’s throat tightened. “Don’t make me order you to do it. I don’t want to have to order it.”

“You don’t have to do this. With two of us, even an underwater egress would be a snap –”

“Jeff… you will abandon this helo with the rest of the crew on my order. Is that understood?” Meg snapped.

“Boss…”

“Is that understood?”

Jefferies took a long breath before he said, “It’s clear, commander.”

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1325 hrs – 15 nm E of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

9 m seas, 45 knot E wind with 60 knot gusts, driving rain (Beaufort Force 10)

“I cannae make headway in this, Johnny. It’ll be twelve hours gettin’ home, let alone gettin’ ta wherever they might ditch,” Robbie said; “I understand, lad –”

John snapped, “How many times have you lost someone?”

“I were on the HMS Argent, boy. Death aren’t somethin’ unknown ta me!” Robbie roared.

John lost control and he knew it. He shouted, “I asked how many you’ve lost! Hermione might have… she would have been my wife someday, all right? And now this… don’t tell me you can understand what it’s like – don’t you dare tell me that!”

The only thing John heard for most of a minute was the roar of the storm and his own fast breathing. Robbie broke the silence and said, “We don’ know where they are. We don’ even know if they’re down. They could still make it ta shore… and Meggie’s a tough lass. She’s a tough one... yeh just have ta hope.”

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One

1325 hrs – 12 nm NE of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

10 m seas, 50 knot E wind with 65 knot+ gusts, driving rain (Beaufort Force 11)

Maclean swore a blue streak at Dr. Millstone’s intern, who was breathing quickly into a small sack. Appleby laughed at them both; of the whole of the crew, he was the most relaxed. Dr. Millstone’s grip on the side railing was noticeably tight. Cosby had surely checked everything twice.

“All right, this is it – this is the big one,” Meg called out; “Dave, mark me.”

“We’re about thirty meters up from the wave peaks,” Cosby returned.

“Mac, how high do you prefer?” asked Meg.

Maclean said, “We’ll have to time it close either way… ten meters or less would be brilliant.”

“I’ll try for five – that should better the odds,” said Meg.

“We’ll take what you can give and be glad for it, ma’am,” Maclean told her.

Appleby huddled everyone save Meg; he said, “Right, then… I’m out first with the raft, then Doc –”

Maclean gestured to the shaking intern and said, “Then the fresh meat’s coming with me – isn’t that right?”

Appleby finished, “ – and then Dave, and Jeff at the rear. Commander… if you could drift a bit to port as we drop out, then I’ll be able to mount the raft and start picking up the rest of these ne’er-do-wells.”

“Get to it, then – abandon ship,” Meg ordered. The helo jerked hard to port and she struggled to right it.

“Wind?” Jefferies called out.

Meg shook her head. “No – it’s the controls… I’m not sure… oh, for fuck’s sake!” The entire instrument panel went dark. “Change of plans - everyone out, now!”

Maclean threw open the starboard door and hollered, “Time it for the peaks, lads, and remember to go in like a dart!”

Jefferies slid into the second seat. “You’ve got no avionics, Meg – it’ll be a hard ditch. There’s no way in hell I’ll let you –”

She refused to show weakness; there wasn’t time to feel. “I ordered you out!”

“Not going to happen,” said Jefferies.

Meg closed her eyes, even as she held the stick steady with all her might. “Jeff… your family’s waiting at home for you… GO!” she bit out.

“You should… only go out a hundred meters or so; we’ll be heading there as soon as you hit the drink… and mind your rescue breather,” Jefferies managed as he left the cockpit.

“See you on the other side,” Meg called out.

“CLEAR!” Jefferies shouted as he hopped out the door, which closed behind him.

No sooner was he out than she heard the first telltale cracks of turbine failure. The gale pulled her hard to port. She struggled to keep the helo from nosing in. She could have flown fifty meters or five hundred; it was impossible to judge speed or see anything more than spray and prop wash. She spotted a glimmer of a whitecap just ahead, braced, and set down.

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One came in just behind the crest and fell into a 10 meter trough. The rotor caught the face of an oncoming 12 meter wave; it was akin to striking a wall. Meg felt the rotor shear off and heard the metal fuselage strain and then there was nothing but rolling and darkness.

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1326 hrs – 2 nm SE of HMCG Sumburgh Helo One

“…RNLI Griffin, RNLI Westlake, RNLI Hornsby… repeat… NAS Aberdeen to RNLI Griffin, RNLI Westlake, RNLI Hornsby… HCMG Sumburgh Helo One is down and requires assistance… repeat… HCMG Sumburgh Helo One is down and requires assistance…”

John shouted into the mic, “NAS Aberdeen, this is RNLI Griffin! What’s the location? Confirm location!”

“Griffin, Sumburgh Helo One is 12.4 nautical miles east-northeast of Duncansby Head.”

“GPS coordinates – we need coordinates now!” John demanded.

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One (downed)

1330 hrs – 12 nm NE of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

When Meg came to her senses, she was sideways and her left shoulder was in rushing water. The cockpit and the cabin were a debris-filled mess. The front windows were cracked but still unbroken. Her harness opened and she tumbled from her seat. The water was cold, but not as bad as she had feared. The forward escape door was crumpled – there was no chance of opening it.

“Up” was to starboard, and standing on the lip of the seats she could touch the starboard main door – the one from which her crew had jumped. The water was up to her knees. She moved to arm the quick release… and nothing happened.

“Shite, shite, shite…” she mumbled to herself. When she came down from the seats, she noticed for the first time how badly her right leg hurt.

To reach the rear escape door, she had to move against the stream of water that was now pouring into the fuselage. It was like walking toward a firehose. Then, she had to wait; there was no point in blowing the door until the cabin was as submerged as possible, or she would be flattened by the in-rush of water. Her ribs ached – it was hard to take in a full breath.

It took several minutes for the cabin to flood entirely save a two-foot-deep bubble of air at the tail. She noticed too late that her rescue breather had come loose, so she took several breaths before she held one deep and blew the door. A brief rush of water blew her backward, but the real problem began once she came free of the fuselage.

The water was a maelstrom – the currents twisted her every which way. It was hard to find the surface, but she figured that the rougher it got, the closer she had come. Once her head broke through, it was obvious just why the rescue breather was so important – it wasn’t only for the ascent but also for the first blasts of spray. The water roared so loudly that it was hard to think. She took three gasping breaths, each of which felt like a stab to the chest, but then had to hold her breath again as a wave slapped into her. There was no up or down, there was only air and water and even the difference between those was hard to figure. She managed to inflate her life vest, which pulled her head free from the worst of it.

Only bits of interior debris remained of the helo and there was no sign of her crewmates. There were only skyscraper waves and canyon troughs and rain and spray and constant motion. She sicked up and nearly choked on it. Everything hurt like hell.

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1415 hrs – in the vicinity of HMCG Sumburgh Helo One (downed)

John was frantic. “Nothing – I don’t see anything!” he said.

“Everything’s adrift, lad. We’re in th’ right area,” Robbie assured him.

John stammered, “There should be something… a raft… crewmen afloat… d-debris… but there’s nothing here!”

“John… yeh know how this is. Somethin’ might be twenty meters away an’ we cannae see through ta the next trough,” Robbie said; he planted his huge hand on John’s shoulder and asked, “Would it be fer the best if yeh waited this out below decks?”

“No!... No… we need every pair of eyes…” John said, and he made for the whaleback.

“Wha… it’s too rough; yeh’ll be stayin’ in here!” Robbie demanded.

“I’ve been out there in worse, and you know it,” John returned.

As he stepped out, he cast Impervious on his glasses – which were already spelled to stay on his head – and a pliable sticking charm to the soles of his boots. The rain tore at him but he stood firm. If he couldn’t find her in these conditions, no one could. With a casual brush of his glove across his cheek, he cast a Supersensory Charm and peered deeply into the churning waters.

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One (downed)

1450 hrs – 12 nm NE of Duncansby Head, Caithness, Scotland

It was getting harder to float in a protective crouch; her legs kept sinking and she could barely feel them – only a faint stinging radiated from the one that had most likely broken in the ditching. Her jaw was sore from chattering. She crested another four waves before her attention returned to her legs. They’re getting heavier and they’re numb… the suit’s taking on water, she realised.

She tried to feel around the surface of the suit but it was awkward and her chest hurt even more from movement than it did from the buffeting of the waves. Another five crests passed before she found a tiny tear on her left side. Both legs of the suit were filled past her knees to the point of ballooning. She wasn’t sure if she’d be better off loosing the ankle cuffs or just giving up on it. She tried to reach the cuff at her left ankle but couldn’t do it without breaking into a hacking cough that was made worse by the spray.

For several crests, she thought that she heard a helo flying overhead. She hoped that Jeff and Dave and Maclean and Appleby and Doc Millstone and even the poor spewing intern had been picked up. That would make it all worthwhile.

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1530 hrs

“One last pull, lads, and they’re in! Pull!” John shouted.

The crew moved quickly around the deck to secure the lines – thank goodness for those sticking charms, John thought – and with that, the orange survival raft was attached to the Griffin.

Steve Jefferies was the first to struggle from the raft to the deck. As soon as he had his bearings and saw John, he called out, “Did you find her? Did you find her?” John stopped cold. “She’s not with you?”

Jefferies was pale and drawn; he stammered, “No – she… I tried but she wouldn’t… she… she ordered us all out… she ordered me out… we’ve got to find her! She has to be out there somewhere… she has to be…”

David Cosby was the next across. “Black! Black! Where is she? Did you get to her?”

“They haven’t spotted her just yet,” Jefferies bit out.

Appleby was right behind him. “She went hard to port – went down a couple hundred meters from our position,” he said briskly; “We tried to paddle there… never spotted more than a few items of debris, but in this water that’s not telling. There was no explosion and she wasn’t high enough for a complete break-up. The cabin must have gone down after she ditched…”

Cosby cut in, “…which means she did an underwater egress. There’s no way all four exits were damaged. Was she harnessed, Jeff?”

“Yeah… yeah, she had her full harness on…” Jefferies said heavily; exhaustion was already taking him.

“What about her gear? She was wearing full gear, wasn’t she?” John demanded to know.

“…aviator suit, not the standard survival gear… might have had time to change out if the cabin floated for a bit…” Jefferies managed.

“Helo Two…? Did they call out Helo Two?” Cosby asked.

John nodded. “They’ve been working the area for about an hour,” he said.

“That’s good… that’s good… they’re a good crew… it’s a good bird… they’ll spot her, sure as anything,” said Cosby.

Jefferies looked like he was about to sick up, and the rest – save the two divers – looked little better. “Let’s get you lot below decks,” John said; he waved two of the Griffin’s men over as a distraction while he cast anti-seasickness charms on the entire helo crew – they'd more than earned it.

Maclean, Meg’s lead diver, caught John by the arm as the others were led off. “She went in hard, probably sideways or upside down. With that suit, she has six hours or so; less if she’s hurt or something else went wrong…” He squeezed John’s bicep and bore into his eyes. “If you spot anything, if there’s even a sniff – then Frank and me, we’re in the water,” he said; “there’s no stoppin’ us, there’s no orderin’ us out. You read me, mister?”

“Thank you,” John said thickly. The gruff diver clapped him on the shoulder and made his way across the deck. They were handling him, John knew.

* * * * * * * * * *

HMCG Sumburgh Helo One (downed)

1600 hrs

The helo lowered toward her, its four floods casting a ghostly silver light onto the water. It had two rotors, Meg noticed vaguely, and there was something not right about that. It’s a Sea King – we don’t fly Sea Kings here, a voice told her; two wave crests later, she realised it had been her own voice. She raised her arm weakly, hoping to be spotted.

As it grew closer, she worried that it was coming in too low. The skin on the shimmering helo was battered, scarred in a way that she hadn’t seen in more than a year… it was pock-marked… and it was wobbling.

Somehow it came down between the waves and set down so hard that one of the skids crumpled. A half-dozen Marines came roaring out. One of them knelt beside her and shouted, “Stay down, Lieutenant! Here – take this!”

I… I don’t want it… I know what’s going to happen…, she protested.

“Take it! If you stay down, you’ll not have to use it!” Rigsby snapped.

But you can’t… if you go out there, you’ll…

Grigsby tipped his helmet to her. “Just doin’ my duty, ma’am… Godspeed…”

She closed her eyes and ducked her head against what she knew was coming. The water exploded with hundreds of little splashes from machine-gun fire that somehow missed her. The sounds – the shouts – she couldn’t shut them out – she couldn’t make them go away… she could never make them go away, not completely, but they had been quieter in John Black’s embrace… and now they were full force, and the squad was dead, all of them were dead, and she couldn’t take it anymore, she couldn’t hide, she shouldn’t have hid, she could have saved them, but those bastards were going after the injured on board the Sea King and after the medic, and they were going to pay, by God, they were going to pay and they weren’t going to hurt anyone else, not ever again, and she took up one of the guns scattered on the ground – she could barely remember more than to point and shoot – and she shot and she shot – and she picked up another and she shot and she shot and she shot until all the second gun did was click and click and they were all dead except for the one closest to her and he took aim at her and she pulled out the pistol Grigsby had handed her and she pointed it at the last one’s head and she fired and she fired again and again until there was nothing but red and grey – and they gave her a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross and another medal that she never claimed for getting six men killed and for falling to a moment of madness and laying waste to eight men without mercy – and she knew what was to come: that the squad would remind her that she had let them die whilst she hid behind a rock – they would remind her that leaving one's commission and fleeing to a Coastguard search-and-rescue post was a coward’s way out, that saving six men couldn’t absolve her for the six she had lost and the eight who had died by her hand.

The helicopter roared… no, it was the sea. There was no helicopter, nothing at all, nothing but pain in every direction she turned. She reached another crest and tumbled into the next trough. She coughed, and there was blood.

* * * * * * * * * *

RNLI Griffin

1600 hrs

Helo Two flew past the Griffin in almost leisurely fashion. Its floods almost blinded John for a moment, overwhelming the Supersensory Charm until he thought to cancel it. The helo proceeded upward into the low clouds and disappeared.

“There’s a tanker comin’ ta fuel ‘em up – then they’ll be back at it,” Robbie called out against the wind.

“I have to do something…” John said, more to himself than anyone.

Robbie drew closer. He said, “We’re doin’ all we can… I… it’s all we can do, lad.”

“It’s all you can do,” John said; “It’s not all I can do.”

“I won’ let yeh start somethin’ foolish –” Robbie warned.

“It’s something I should have done hours ago, if I’d been thinking straight,” said John. “I don't want to do it – I don't want to be that again. Robbie... do you trust me? Do you honestly trust me?”

Robbie crooked a bushy eyebrow. “What are yeh on about…?”

“You know I was in the London War,” John said.

Robbie protested, “An’ I never pried, John, I swore ta myself –”

John made for the pilothouse. “I know, Robbie,” he said, “and you can’t know what that meant to me. You’re going to see what I used to do, what I used to be. Afterward, it’ll be up to you whether or not you want to remember any of it.”

“Right… well, yeh got my attention…” Robbie said as he followed.

Once in the pilothouse, John shut down the radio; then he made for the radar. Robbie moved to stop him, but John warned him off. “There’s a chance some of these could short out or outright explode,” John said; “You have to trust me on this – please.”

There were a few moments of hesitation before Robbie said firmly, “Yeh’ve got one minute, and nae one second more. It’s mad ta run blind in this water!”

“Good… good…” John said. He paced back and forth twice, took a few deep breaths and drew his wand.

“Er… Johnny lad… this aren’t the time for joking…” Robbie said in a low voice.

“My real name is Harry, for what it’s worth…” John told him; then he drew every thought of Meg forward in his mind – blonde hair and cornflower-blue eyes, the curve of her smile – and said sharply, “Point me!” The pilothouse filled with a hum that grew in intensity and Harry’s wand took on a faint glow. It jumped twice in his hand and then forcibly pulled him to the right.

“What is this…?” Robbie asked nervously.

“It’s our heading,” Harry said flatly. He turned the radar back on but kept the radio off, just in case the spell was too powerful and the interference shorted the transmitter. It was so rare for him to cast more than the subtlest spells that he simply didn’t know what to expect.

Robbie snapped-to. “R-right,” he said, and he seized the helm. “Eh… twenty degrees…?”

“Twenty-three,” Harry returned, “and she’s about one mile away, maybe a little less – that’s a bit harder to figure, especially when we're rocking like this.” The pilothouse went silent save for the wind and the water, because neither man knew what to say next.

* * * * * * * * * *

1620 hrs

Grigsby sat down next to Meg, which was a neat trick in the churning waters. “Fine weather we're having here, Lieutenant,” he said.

You always were the snarky one, weren't you?

Grigsby shrugged. “I'd prefer a sunny day, but we'll make due,” he said. “It wasn't your fault, you know?”

Of course it was my fault. We set down in the midst of hostiles. If I'd made it to the next valley...

Grigsby put his hand on her shoulder; he said, “There wasn't a chance of that, ma'am. You put us down in one piece, and that was no mean feat – a landing worthy of a Gallantry Cross on its own, if you ask me.”

I should have come out firing. I hid -

“In the air, you were our commander; on the ground, I was the ranking officer,” Grigsby cut her off. “I ordered you out of the action because you had no business being a part of it. Had you ever fired a weapon anywhere other than a range?”

I slaughtered those men -

“You saved our injured. They would have been executed, and you along with them. You did what had to be done, and that's the end of it,” insisted Grigsby.

I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Grigsby.

Grigsby shook his head. “Don't be – none of us hold you responsible for what happened. I'm the one to blame; I didn't account for the second group of rebels, and you know what happened next.”

My crew... are they...?

“They're safe, every one of them – even that poor chap who couldn't hold his lunch,” Grigsby assured her.

Then I did the right thing...?

Grigsby leaned back and put his hands behind his head, as though he were relaxing on a green. “Jefferies and his wife, they'll have a daughter next winter. They'll name her Meghan – not Margaret, because Jeff knows you can't stand the name. That's a hell of a way to be remembered.”

I'm not done yet – not yet...

“It won't be much longer now,” said Grigsby.

Have you seen my father?

“Meh. He doesn't deserve you; if he couldn't be proud of who you became, then he never deserved you. Your mum would be very proud of you, though – you can count on that,” Grigsby said with a certainty that warmed her.

What's it like...?

“Dying? It hurts a bit getting there – I won't lie to you – but after that it doesn't hurt at all.”

I'm so tired...

“I know. It's from the cold and from the blood you've lost inside... nasty thing, shattered ribs.”

I'm afraid.

“Don't be. There's no fire where you're headed, I'll tell you that much,” Grigsby told her. The waves were like a gentle rocking now, a restful rocking. The only pain she felt now was from breathing.

* * * * * * * * * *

1635 hrs

“There – there!” Harry shouted.

“I don't see... you're right... that's a hood!” Robbie called out.

“Move your arse, Appleby - we're on!” Maclean said.

Harry squinted against the spray. “Damnit - she's face-down!” he said. Before anyone could react, he was off the deck and into the water.

“BLACK!” he heard from behind, but he ignored it. By the time the next crest hit, he'd already cast a Bubble-Head Charm and transfigured his boots into flippers.

It took him just under two minutes to reach her. He lifted her face from the water and brushed aside her sodden hair. Her face was pale and tinged with blue. He lifted one eyelid; her pupil was huge and unmoving. He tried an Ennervation Charm; her body bucked and she spat up water and blood, but didn't appear to draw a breath.

He cast a Bubble-Head Charm on her as well, put her in a Full Body Bind, stuck her to his back, and kicked toward the Griffin as hard as he could. He raced past Maclean and Appleby on the way back; for a few moments, they were too shocked to turn and follow.

* * * * * * * * * *

1640 hrs.

Is this death?

Grigsby shook his head. “Not quite yet; the boys just wanted to show their appreciation. You saved six today, and six and the medic last year. That's thirteen, Meg, lucky thirteen – good show.”

Blair held a shimmering box out to Peakes, who opened it and took out a shining cross. For you, he mouthed, and pinned it to her chest. It felt hot and cold all at once as it sank into her and disappeared.

“There's someone else – an odd duck, he is... be seeing you,” Grigsby said from behind her. When she turned to look, he was gone and so were his comrades.

There was a popping sound and she found herself confronted with perhaps the strangest looking man she had ever seen. He had long white hair and a long white beard and wore robes like a vicar at a high service, except that these were a-whirl with wild colours and fluttering shapes. His eyes were two shades lighter than hers and radiated a hidden merriment. “Good day to you, young lady,” he said in a soft yet penetrating voice.

Er... hello...?

“Ahh, you can hear me – I was unsure of that,” the man said.

And you are...?

“I was once acquainted with the young man who has stolen your fancy – I believe you know him as John Black?” he said.

John... I miss him...

“Yes, I'm sure that you do,” the man said. “I wished to thank you for trying to set him to rights. You see... your young man had a difficult life from a very early age. He had a destiny, one that no other could fulfil, and he did so - but at a heavy price.”

A girl died... I remember...

“She defended him, and the price was that her very soul was ripped from her body. This was not my plan for either of them, but even the most elegant of plans change when brushed by reality. Even now the girl remains bound to him, in a way that is most difficult to explain.”

How can that be, if she's dead?

“Magic, my dear,” the man said.

Right... magic. There's no such thing.

The man gave a small smile; he said, “Of course there is magic – it is all around you. You know this to your very bones, though your mind protests. Think about your young man... so many inconsistencies, so many quirks... you know it to be true.”

She reeled at the thought, even though there was a truth to it as strong as steel. It was too much to take in, and there were more important concerns. He already lost her... now he'll lose me... what will happen to him?

The man's smile broadened. “You do not protest? You do not ask 'why me'? You do not seek to bargain? Your concern is with him? That is true courage, my dear – most commendable. You need not bear this alone; you will never be truly alone again, not unless you wish it. There are many who would meet you, who would celebrate what you have done for your young man and thusly for all of us,” he said.

Who are you? You didn't tell me your name...

“I am no one of consequence, just a foolish old man who made many mistakes,” he said; “Sit with me for a while, would you?”

She isn't breathing! I tried -

It's diver's reflex – that could be a good thing...

Clear off, John!

How long was she down?

Too long...

I'm keeping to one side – she's already got several broken ribs on the left... Yes, I know it's not the most effective...

What the hell happened down there?

Might have been from the harness... maybe a piece of debris...

Her leg's the least of her worries right now – we'll deal with it later.

John, we need the space – back off!

It was all right to rest now. She didn't want to let him go... his name, it wasn't John. It was Harry. His name was Harry, and she had to let him go.

How long has she been down?

John, what the devil...?

SOMNUS!

I can't let this... we're supposed to be on holiday, damnit... sorry, but this is going to hurt... EPISKEY!... I'm no healer... we need a healer... that's it! EXPECTO PATRONUM!

For an instant everything was squeezed to a single point that was everywhere and nowhere.

Breathe! I can't keep breathing for you forever!

“It hurts to breathe,” Meg told the old man.

“He's trying,” he said.

I don't know what else to do... where in the hell are you, Gudrun?

“He's trying, all right,” Meg said, and the old man chuckled.

That tears it... I know what I'm doing this time... at least I think I do...

EXCRATIO PENSARE!

* * * * * * * * * *

John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

2100 hrs

Harry tried to stand and nearly fell from his bed. His mouth tasted of seawater. Everything hurt like hell.

Gudrun Steffansdottir stood to one side, her arms crossed. “You have been busy today, Harry,” she said.

“How did I... I'm here – how did I get here?” Harry asked.

“The sitting room is where I found you and the other,” Gudrun said. “Ronald is with Mr. Shacklebolt and a number of Aurors at a place called Duncansby Head. They are, as Ronald would say it, taking care of your cock-up. I am here with you, hoping to take care of the rest. How are you feeling?”

“Like I was kicked in the chest by a giant,” Harry said; “My leg's sore as well. Where is she... how is she?”

Gudrun's arms tightened further. “She wishes to speak with you. I leave explanations to her.”

Harry struggled to his feet. “But she's speaking... that's good, isn't it?”

“She is speaking, yes,” Gudrun said. She pointed in the general direction of the second bedroom. Harry stumbled down the hall, quailed by the cross look on her face.

Meg was laid out on the bed, her hands crossed on her belly. Her hair, still dark from the long soaking, was spread across her pillow; her eyes were closed. She looked dead and Harry staggered against the doorframe.

“Come in, Harry,” she said without opening her eyes or making any other motion than the movement of her lips.

He reeled at hearing his real name. “H-Harry...? Then Gudrun told you...?”

There was a smile hidden in Meg's voice, but again nothing moved save her lips. “Honestly, Harry, I've known you for nearly twenty years. There wasn't a great deal that needed to be said.”

Harry held himself against the wall to keep from falling. “Tw-twenty years...? I don't understand...”

“Excratio pensare? What did you think was holding me inside your head, a sticking charm? Spellotape, perhaps?” came the cold reply.

“H-Hermione...?” he said unsteadily.

“Ten points for Gryffindor,” she said.

“But... but how...?” he managed.

“You connected yourself to her; we were connected by the same spell; ergo I find myself connected to her,” she said.

“Why can't you move?” he asked.

“By choice,” she said. “So... no greetings, no well-wishes, no 'goodness, it's been such a long time'?”

“It's a bit of a shock, all right?” he snapped.

“That's fair, I suppose,” she relented.

“Is Meg... is she...?” he began, but couldn't bring himself to finish it.

“Is she dead? Not if I can help it,” Hermione said. “This is such a mess... no one could ever snatch victory from the jaws of cluelessness quite like Harry Potter.”

“Thanks a lot!” Harry protested.

“It's like a bomb went off in her brain,” Hermione said. “There's a group of memories here, a stray thought there; it's all topsy-turvy. Thankfully she had a very organised mind – quite impressive, honestly. It's a slow process, but with Gudrun's help I've made a start of fixing things. After that... well... I'll go and find her.”

“How... how do you intend to do that?” Harry asked nervously.

“I'm still connected to you, and we'll put that to use. Basically, I figure on trading places with her somehow,” Hermione said.

“Where do you think she is?” Harry asked.

“She's not entirely here, but I'm not exactly alive just now, either. Oh, Harry... she drowned. If you hadn't pumped so much magic into her – you've become quite powerful, you know? – then we wouldn't be having this conversation. As it is, she'll live... or I'll live... it's hard to know which.” Hermione said.

“Explain,” Harry demanded.

“Gudrun's going to place this body into a magical sleep; it needs to heal and I need to work without distraction. I intend for her to wake up later, but if I can't bring her back... then it will be me, I suppose,” Hermione said.

“Why?” Harry asked.

Hermione said, “Why...? Why go through the effort? It's rather necessary, if she's not to spend the rest of her life in a sickbed -”

“Why are you trying so hard?” he clarified.

“I'm not going to leave anything to chance – there's no sense in killing all three of us – but it's her life, not mine. I'm not some sort of... of... a body snatcher, for goodness' sake!” Hermione returned. “I died for you, and it was of my own free will. If I had it to do over again, I'd do the same. You don't owe me anything for that, and she certainly doesn't owe me anything. If I'm still here, it'll be because I couldn't find her and because I don't want you to die as a result.” When he went silent for a minute or more, she added, “You can ask questions if you like, or just talk. I... I missed hearing your voice.”

“Did you make me want to read so much?” he blurted out.

“That was all your doing – I'm proud of you for it, though,” she said.

“Did you know what was happening? Could you see or hear...?” he asked.

“You remember how it was with Voldemort's horcrux, of course? It was similar in some ways, I think. By the way, your Occlumency is awful, and it's gotten worse,” she said.

“You could see everything?” he gasped.

“Just bits and pieces, but it was like I was looking through your eyes. There were times that... it wouldn't have been appropriate; I learnt to stop it after a few months,” she said. “Now it's my turn: why did you grieve for eleven years, you pillock?”

“It wasn't exactly easy to move on, knowing that you were still there,” he said. “Besides, I didn't want to move on. If I had it to do over again... to hell with Voldemort, we would have gone away to America or Australia; I would have left it all behind, and to hell with everyone else.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” she said; “My Harry could never have done that.”

“That doesn't mean I didn't want to do it,” he said quietly.

“...and that doesn't mean that there weren't times that I wanted you to do it,” she returned.

“I can't lose you twice. I can't do it,” he said.

“Our magic is tied together and there's no undoing it. It'll be a while – a long while, hopefully – but we'll see each other again,” she said with certainty.

He took her hand and asked, “Can you feel this?”

“I can always feel you – it's a kind of sixth sense. It goes all the way back to the troll, I think,” she said.

“I have to go now, otherwise I never will,” he managed to say.

“Send Gudrun in, would you?” she asked.

He nodded and quickly turned. He walked past Gudrun and gave a curt nod, and then went to the veranda. He sat in his rocking chair and watched the sea, the damned accursed sea, and gripped the arms tight until his magic began to leave a char.

* * * * * * * * * *

November 3, 2009 – John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

“Are you just going to read all afternoon?” Ron asked.

Harry glanced away from his book for a moment. “That's my plan,” he said.

“Damn blustery to be sitting out here,” said Ron.

“You can sit inside if you like,” Harry returned.

“I don't mind it, really. You haven't been this prickly in years,” Ron said.

Harry clenched his jaw. “I haven't had reason for it in a long time,” he said.

Robbie appeared at the steps to the veranda; he was clad in an enormous overcoat and had a hat in his hands. “Not bein' a bother, am I?”

Harry immediately set down his book – drawing a harrumph from Ron – and walked toward his friend. “Never a bother, Robbie,” he said.

Robbie reached into his pockets and drew out three bottles of a Dutch beer that Harry favoured. “Thought yeh might care fer some,” he said.

“Am I going to like this?” Ron asked.

“Shut it and drink,” said Harry.

Robbie settled into a chair. “Always wondered why it were comfortable here in the wintertime. Dunno if yeh could have tol' me the truth an' had me believe it,” he said.

“I'm still sorry,” Harry said.

“An' I'm nae sore at yeh, so give it no more mind,” said Robbie. “Thing is, yeh could'a tol' me, John. Yeh know it never would have gone no further.”

Harry gave a small smile. “It's Harry, remember?”

“Yeh'll always be Johnny ta me, lad,” Robbie said, and he clinked his beer bottle against Harry's.

“I explained the laws, don't forget,” Ron said; “You know Harry's putting a lot of faith in you.”

“It's well-earned, Ron – drop it,” Harry said.

“I'm no stranger ta secrets, Mr. Weasley. I've been holdin' summat fer a very long time,” Robbie insisted.

Ron took a pull on his beer and then said, “You can't call me Mr. Weasley while we're drinking this smashing beer; it's Ron. 'Sides, I think we'll be seeing more of each other. Cor blimey, but you remind me of Hagrid!”

“This Hagrid, he were a good sort?” Robbie asked.

“The best,” said Harry; “You're a bit on the short side, though.”

“'Struth? Hard ta picture tha'...” Robbie mused.

“Dottie's coming,” Harry said.

Robbie stared at him and said, “How do yeh know that...? Eh, let me guess -”

“Magic,” all three men said, and they had a bit of a laugh over it.

“She's like family, Ron,” Harry said.

Ron sighed. “I suppose you'll want her to be a card-carrying Muggle as well?”

“Shacklebolt can cope with it. I've not asked him for much,” said Harry.

“It's true, you haven't, but you might be calling in a few debts before the day's over,” Ron pointed out. “I... it's still hard to believe that she was here, that you talked to her...”

“I know what yeh said before, but... the lass really might nae be Meggie when she wakes? Yer not takin' the mickey out of an old man?” Robbie asked.

“She'll be trying her best – our Hermione doesn't know any other way,” Ron said thickly.

Mrs. McLaren opened the door from the cottage and stepped out. “Clearest day in a dozen,” she said; “How are yeh, laddie?” She leant down and gave Harry a solid hug.

“Dottie, you might want to sit for this,” Harry began.

“What, is the poor lass getting' worse...?” she said immediately.

“No, it's nothing like that,” Harry cut her off.

“Thank the stars fer that. Your healer, she's a sharp one,” she said; she eyed Ron and added, “You belong ta Gudrun, then? Good on yeh. So... what are the three of yeh conspirin'?”

“It's quite a story, actually,” said Harry. “I want to tell you exactly what's happened over the last few days. I've already told Robbie -”

“Did yeh, now? Did yeh tell him everythin' – all of it?” Mrs. McLaren asked.

“Erm... all of what, exactly?” Harry dissembled.

“He knows who yeh are?” she asked. When he nodded, she slumped in relief. “Been carryin' that around fer such a long time – 'tis a relief.”

“You know who he is?” Ron said in disbelief.

“'Course I do; I know who yeh are, as well. Hard ta mistake either of yeh, what wit' all the pictures in the Prophet,” she said.

Ron's brows threatened to jump above his hairline. “The Prophet...?”

She turned to Robbie, “I'm sorry, brother mine. I couldna tell yeh for so many years, an' when this one came here ta grieve... it were only right ta let it be. Robbie... thing is, my Bruce, he were a wizard.” To Harry and Ron's astonishment, she pulled an official card from the Ministry for Magic out of her handbag.

“Bloody hell! All the work Shacklebolt did to let you live in peace, gone straight down the pan!” Ron said.

“I didna put it together until Johnny here came back ta the cottage, after the War were over. I'm not the only one ta know; seven carry the card in these parts, and three more down ta Wick. Who do yeh think carried th' water for yer Minister? Didn't want no wand-wavin' ta attract the public,” she said. With a look to Harry, she went on, “Most, they jus' wanted ta give their thanks, maybe a bit of sympathy. A time or two, they meant yeh harm – yer Auror friends waste no time, I can tell yeh.”

“I don't understand...” Harry managed.

Mrs. McLaren patted Harry on the shoulder. “We take care of them what be deservin' it, Mr. Potter - mind that yeh nae forget it. This is yer home, if that's what yeh still want of it.”

“Yeh could have tol' me,” Robbie complained.

“Back in th' day, Bruce had ta keep the secret close. Today... well, the rules don' much apply ta these lads,” she said with a smile. “Mr. Potter... my heart broke fer yeh, when yeh lost the young lady. Don' lose this one, what? We like ta keep seein' her now and again.”

“Did Gudrun explain to you...?” Harry began.

“Aye, that she did. Yeh don' lose this one, lad. If yeh do, then yer head's full o' mince,” she said in a most unsympathetic way.

Just then, Gudrun appeared at the door. She waggled her finger at Harry and said, “She wants to see you.”

Harry stood bolt upright and spluttered, “W-what...?”

“Come with me. She wants to see you,” Gudrun repeated.

As they climbed the stairs, Harry asked her, “Erm... what should I expect?”

Gudrun stopped climbing and said slowly, almost hesitantly, “She is confused, which should not surprise you. She is tired, but her body is healed. In truth, she is probably in better health than at any time in her life. I think the rest is for you to find on your own.”

Harry said sincerely, “Thank you for everything you've done, Gudrun – not just now, I mean for eleven years. You're better than Ron deserves, but I'm glad you're willing to put up with him.”

Gudrun laughed softly and told him, “You are most welcome, Harry. Please tell me that we will see more of you now. I know why you left your life behind – I know that the both of us hurt you very much – but Ronald would like to be a greater part of the life you've made for yourself, and I would like that as well.”

“I'd... I'd like that,” Harry managed to say.

Gudrun took his hands and looked deeply into his eyes. “You have always made the best of the worst situations, but I must say that you have been star-crossed,” she said.

“Do you think that will ever change?” Harry asked hopefully.

Gudrun was quiet for a long moment before she said, “I think that for the first time since I have known you, your future will be entirely of your own making.”

Not trusting his voice at that moment, Harry merely nodded. The door to the second bedroom was half opened. He knocked once and entered.

“Hello, you,” she said with a faint smile.

“Er... hi,” he managed.

She was sitting on the bed, dressed in one of his old casual shirts and a pair of denims that Gudrun must have brought for her. Her hair had changed somehow. It was still the same darker hue as when it had been sea-soaked – a dark blond that flirted with light brown in places – even though it was dry and well-brushed; and it had gone from rather straight to almost wavy. Her skin was fairly glowing and the small scar that had followed her jawline was gone. He couldn't be certain because his shirt hung loosely on her, but she seemed more slender. Gudrun seemed to have taken five years or more away from her.

“It's different, isn't it? I was startled when Gudrun gave me a mirror,” she said.

“H-how long have you been awake?” he asked.

“A few hours, actually. I needed time to talk with her and to set my head straight as best I could,” she said.

He approached her tentatively. “She said you were confused...?” he said.

“I suppose you could say that, Harry,” she returned.

He said with a start, “Harry... then... is it you, Hermione...?”

“Not really,” she said.

“Erm... Meg?” he ventured.

“No, I'm afraid not,” she said.

“Ehh... Now I'm confused,” he admitted.

She patted the bed by way of invitation for him to sit. He sat beside her and waited, albeit impatiently.

“Imagine waking up with fifty years' worth of memories,” she said at last.

Harry gasped, “Fifty years...?”

“It's simple maths: nineteen years of Hermione Granger plus thirty-one years of Meg Fairfax equals fifty years. Admittedly, there are some gaps in Meg's memory... it's no wonder, with everything that's happened... but it's more than enough. I have two complete sets of memories from the early '80s through 1998, Meg's memories to the end, and Hermione's bits and pieces from 1998 to now. I haven't a handle on how to keep it all straight, or how I might put it all together,” she said with obvious frustration.

“I know it's a stupid question, but... well... who are you then, exactly?” Harry asked.

“On the whole, I'm more Hermione than Meg,” she said hesitantly, and then explained, “I don't feel like two different people so much as I feel like I've lived two lives.” She tapped her forehead and finished, “If there were truly two peoples' souls in here... well, I think I'd be able to tell, don't you?”

“I suppose you would,” said Harry.

“But even then, it's not that simple,” she went on; “We're not just minds that are walked from place to place by a body, you know – there's sensory memory, there's muscle memory, and all of that is Meg's. Honestly, I could get back into a helo today and fly without a moment's thought, but I'd have to practice again to cast a spell. The wand movements would feel different in these hands. Meg's also lived half again as long as Hermione. I may think like Hermione but I'm drawing a lot from Meg's experiences. The magic seems to have levelled out the physical differences a bit, and Gudrun hasn't an explanation for that. My face is thinner, everything's thinner; my hair colour is darker and the texture's gone wonky; my eyes are a bit darker, I think. Gudrun said that I have a perfectly healthy 26 year old body, which would be fine if I wasn't almost 32, except that a good part of me is 19... gah! It's maddening!”

Not having the slightest idea what to say, Harry offered, “Can I get you anything? Would you like some tea?”

She stared at him like he'd grown a second head before she started to laugh. “God, you're such an Englishman! There's nothing that putting on a kettle can't fix,” she managed.

He stammered, “I want to help... I don't know if I should be sad or happy, or if I should apologise, or... gah! You're right – that's it exactly: gah!”

She reached out and set her hand atop his forearm. “You did the only thing that could have saved Meg, and this time you did it knowing the consequences. She was so badly damaged, Harry... Hermione tried so hard, I swear to you...”

“I don't doubt that, not for a moment,” he said.

She went on, “The thing of it is, I'm not sorry to be alive, I'm not in the least sorry that you didn't manage to kill yourself, and you shouldn't be sorry for making this happen. This was the only way you and I could both survive.”

“What about magic...? Can you...?” he asked.

“Does it matter?” she asked in return.

“No,” he said honestly.

She said, “It was magic that did this, and I'm still connected to you by the binding spell. Gudrun figures that I'm probably capable of it, at least to some extent, but doesn't want me to try for a few days.”

“I suppose that's for the best,” he said.

They sat quietly for a long time. Harry set his other hand atop hers.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asked abruptly.

He said, “No – NO! Why would I be afraid of you?

She looked away from him and said, “I don't know... I'm rather a freak...”

He grabbed for both of her hands and snapped, “No! Never a freak, never... never say that again... I don't ever want you to say that again.”

She started, “I... I'm sorry, I didn't...” but something clicked – a memory came into place; “Oh... that's what the Dursleys called you, wasn't it?”

He nodded, unable to properly explain the power and the pain behind that name. A quarter-century after his first memories of being called 'freak', he still couldn't abide by the word.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“No, no – just being overly sensitive. Look, this is really strange, all of it, but you're not... that, and I'm definitely not afraid of you,” he said.

She made a tentative move forward, then freed her hands and pulled him into a hug, and for a moment his world came to a halt. Neither could bring themselves to let go of the other.

At last, still holding her, he said, “I understand that you're not certain exactly who you are, although I wonder if it isn't clearer than you're letting on. I have to call you something, though.”

She laughed a little and said, “I suppose we do need to sort that, at least. 'Hey, you' can only work for so long.”

“Well, what'll it be?” he asked.

She said, “I've given the longer term a bit of thought. I suppose I'll still be Meg Fairfax for my muggle propers. I still look more or less like her. My licenses and certs are all in Meg's name. I have Meg's fingerprints and I assume her retinas as well. I imagine I'll have to take up her work, at least for now. Still, I'm not her anymore. I can't be Hermione Granger for a host of reasons, not the least of which is because she's dead for all intents and purposes in both worlds. I don't look like Hermione, and I'm not really her anymore either. Besides, it would be too much for all but the closest of friends to accept. In the magical world, I may have to be Meg Fairfax the unschooled muggle-born or Meg Fairfax the squib, depending on how things work out. The truth is that neither name feels right to me at the moment.”

“I doubt you're going to be a squib. A new name... I suppose I could call you Winky...?” he said.

She let out a snort that was purely Meg. “Have you ever seen those shirts in the market that say 'I'm with Stupid'? Do I need to pick one up?” she asked.

“All right, we'll scratch Winky,” he said with a grin.

“I've decided, anyway – for the moment, at least. I suppose it's one of life's little ironies, but Hermione and Meg have the same middle name. Until things are sorted, why don't you try calling me 'Jean'? It might make things a bit easier...?” she proposed.

“I'll try it, if that's what you want,” he said.

“Are you still Harry Potter, by the way? I mean, you've been living as John Black for quite some time,” she said.

“My muggle propers are all established as John Black; Harry Potter doesn't exist anymore in that world. In British wizarding circles, I suppose I'm still Harry. I've been to the Ministry twice since '98, and I haven't been to Hogsmeade or on Diagon Alley in years. In Reykjavik, I guess I've always gone as John Black,” he said.

“So I'll have to become accustomed to calling you John,” she said.

They both went quiet again, until he blurted out, “You're staying here, aren't you... erm... Jean?”

Her face paled; she said, “You... you're not suggesting that I leave, are you?”

“NO! I... oh, hell,” he sighed.

“We're really stumbling over each other, aren't we?” she said.

He ran his hand through his messy hair in frustration. “Yeah, I suppose we are,” he said.

“Let's keep it simple, then. I'm yours for as long as you'll have me,” she said with a smirk.

His eyes widened. “R-really?”

“Did you think I'd go through all of this just to hand you over to one of those tarts at the Brown Bottle? I know how they look at you,” she said sharply.

“I'm not interested in any of those women. They've been throwing themselves at me for years,” he chuckled.

“That's just as well. I'd hate to break a pint over one of their heads – it's hell on the hands, actually,” she said.

“That so? I guess I'll be learning something new every day for a while,” he said.

“See that you do – and you'll not be stopping your habit of reading just because I'm here, understood? I happen to find smart men attractive,” she said.

“It's a promise,” he said.

She pulled herself tight against him and said, “This feels different than I remember it.”

“I'm almost thirty... I've put on a bit of weight, you know?” he said.

“That's not it! Meg hugged you last weekend, for pity's sake. It's just so... powerful. Everything is: light, color, sound, smell. It's difficult to take in,” she said.

“I suppose it's all new,” he said.

“It is,” she agreed; “Everything starts over from here, doesn't it?”

“I suppose that it does,” he said.

“This is going to take a long time to absorb, for the both of us... it could take years...” she started.

“Then we'll give it the time we need. I'm not going anywhere, and you're not getting away for now,” he said.

“You're handling this better than I thought you might. Honestly, I feel like I'm about thirty seconds from snapping in two,” she said hesitantly.

He thought about that for a moment and then said, “Most of the time at Hogwarts, I was bouncing from one crisis to the next, and then there was that last year, and... and then I lost you... well, I lost Hermione – oh hell, you know what I mean – and then I think I set out to find something dangerous to do with my life, and then there was Meg, and I've lost her too, in a way. If I was going to snap, I think it would have happened a long time ago. I guess I'm the sort to accept what's in front of me and smooth out the details later.”

She seemed to process that for a while before she returned, “You've really grown up, you know? I like it.”

He said, “Anyway, it's... I don't know what to think, really. You're sitting here talking to me, so it doesn't feel like I've lost someone. I suppose it'll hit me later. Do you remember what we were going to do this weekend?”

Her cheeks coloured slightly and she said, “Jeff told me about an inn somewhere beyond Brae, and I booked a room.”

“Do you see what I mean? You're still here. I can't wrap my head around all of it, not yet,” he admitted.

“There will be time to figure it out; we'll make the time. For the moment, we should go downstairs to Ron and Gudrun. How could you skip their wedding, anyway? Did you even buy them a wedding present, you prat?” she said.

“I bought the mortgage on their place and sent them the deed,” he told her.

She said, “Even though you were still angry at them?”

“He's like my brother, no matter what,” he said.

“Too right. I'm glad you still realise it,” she said.

He said, “Robbie will need to meet you properly, as well.”

“He knows?” she gasped.

He nodded and said, “Oh, it gets better. Mrs. McLaren...? You know – Dottie? Her husband was a wizard.”

“Get out! She kept that to herself all this time?” she said.

“I'll let her explain it to you. A few people will have to know about this, you realise?” he said.

“Not too many,” she hoped.

He listed off, “Ron and Gudrun, obviously. Ginny and Anders, as well.”

“Ginny married Anders Twing?” she gasped.

“Seven years ago, and they're ridiculously happy – it's a bit disgusting, really. I've seen them more often than Ron lately, since Anders' business expanded to Scotland. He's in the 'import-export game', not that I really understand what's involved. As far as I can see, it means that they live very, very well. As for the rest of the Weasleys, it's really up to you,” he said.

“It would be hard to keep it back around Arthur and Molly. Do you ever see them?” she asked.

“Arthur makes it a point to come here now and again. He's a good man, you know? I haven't seen Molly as often,” he said.

She said, “I won't be telling my parents – not Hermione's nor Meg's father. It would be too much for them to accept, and to be honest both Hermione and Meg were basically estranged from them.”

“You've really thought this through already, haven't you? I shouldn't be surprised by that. Shacklebolt will have to know, of course, but I'll make certain that the rest of the Ministry doesn't know anything other than what you decide to register,” he said.

“How is the Ministry these days?” she asked dubiously.

“Kept as far away from me as possible,” he returned.

“Should there be anyone else?” she asked.

“Magnus – it would be best if he knew,” he said.

“The Icelander... I... I remember seeing him here, more than once,” she said.

He nodded. “Magnus has become a great friend. We get together and drink too much every month or so. He's married now. I like his wife, and I hope you will as well. She's a healer; she and Gudrun know each other. They named their son Einar.”

“I'd want them both to know the truth, then,” she agreed.

“Thank you for that. I'm not quite as cut off from the wizarding world as most people think, although I really do like living at arm's length from it,” he said.

“I have a feeling I'll prefer the same,” she said.

“There's a lot that has to be done, isn't there? The problem is that I'm awfully comfortable right now. For the moment, I just couldn't be arsed,” he admitted.

“Language, Ha... John!” she chided him.

“Heh, wait until you spend more time around my mates from the Griffin. You'll have a tough road if you want to make me all gentleman-like,” he laughed.

She laughed with him and squeezed him even more tightly for a moment. Then she backed away and cocked her head curiously. She squinted at him for a moment before she said, “Steady on... I'm not the only one who's changed.”

He said, “What are you on about? I haven't changed... er... I haven't changed, have I?”

She said, “It's not a bad thing, honestly. Here... use Gudrun's mirror. Have a look at yourself.”

He peered into the mirror once, did a double take and started into it for a long time. “I'll be switched,” he said; “There's no scar.”

FIN