Happy Holidays, Bentley, Part II

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Once More With Feeling

{continued}


Crowley wandered out of his bedroom at half-eight. The kitchen glowed with the weak and indecisive light of early morning, and Aziraphale was at the sideboard, frowning at Crowley's coffee percolator.


It wasn't really a coffee percolator. It was a French press and espresso maker, and like every small appliance Crowley owned, it was sleek and black and had more knobs, buttons, and levers than the current incarnation of the space shuttle. Aziraphale's hand lingered over the longest lever in a way that said he thought pulling it would set off a bomb, and if Crowley was the sort of demon who did things properly and by the book, it would. As such, pulling it would only scatter coffee grounds on his gleaming sideboard. Sighing, Crowley wished two cups of coffee onto the immaculate kitchen table -- one for him (black) and one for Aziraphale (milk, two sugars).


"Stop, before your hurt yourself," said Crowley.


Aziraphale started to reply with something sharp, but subsided when Crowley pressed the coffee on him.


"I'd almost given up on you," said Aziraphale. His tone suggested that in Heaven, good angels were up before sunrise, and got their quota of cloud-sitting and harp-playing in before noon. "I thought you might just hibernate until it's over."


Now, there was an idea. Crowley did like a good lie-in. If he was human, and had to worry about death instead of discorporation, that would be the way he'd want to go. It would be perfect. He could just go to sleep and never wake up. The world could explode into a hundred thousand million points of misdirected light, and Crowley could snore right through the whole bloody-minded and ostentatious ordeal. Of course, it wouldn't work like that. He'd wake up eventually, and when he did, he'd be Downstairs, and he'd have quite a bit of explaining to do.


Almost six thousand years worth.


Aziraphale frowned again, this time at the contents of Crowley's refrigerator, which managed to be expensive and gourmet as well as completely unappetizing.


"Really," murmured Aziraphale, setting a small jar on the sideboard. "Do humans actually eat caviare?"


"Not this early, said Crowley. He snapped his fingers. "Scone?"


Aziraphale shook his head.


"Crumb cake?"


Aziraphale made a small noise.


"Eggy bread?"


"Oh, all right," said Aziraphale. He took the plate, and after a futile search of Crowley's kitchen drawers, miracled a fork and knife. "I suppose I am a bit peckish."


With that, Aziraphale settled in and became the first person -- well, person-shaped creature, at any rate -- to eat a meal at Crowley's kitchen table. Or anywhere in Crowley's flat, for that matter. Crowley stared in morbid fascination. He'd seen Aziraphale eat a thousand times, but not in a situation where every bite threatened the blindingly pristine state he'd wasted countless manifestations to achieve.


"So, what's this idea?" he asked finally.


"You say your side plans to possess this Potter," said Aziraphale. "What does that entail, exactly?"


"It's fairly straightforward," said Crowley, sipping his coffee. "Reach into the fellow's head, root around a bit. Scramble his free will, so he's, you know, susceptible to new ideas."


"Mmm."


"I don't know why you're asking," continued Crowley. "You know how it works."


Aziraphale looked up sharply. "I most certainly do not!"


"Of course you do," said Crowley. "Your side can do it, same as mine. We're from the same stock."


"That doesn't mean we do it," said Aziraphale, pointing at Crowley with his fork. A bit of eggy bread dangled precariously from the tines. "That's the fundamental difference between our sides. We don't do things just because we can."


"Balls." Crowley set his coffee aside sharply. "You're telling me that your people have never, in six thousand years, dropped a funny idea in some human's head? What about Divine Ecstasy and Prophetic Visions? What about those people who think God is listening when they talk to their budgie and see Jesus in their cheese sandwich?"


Aziraphale sighed. "You know as well as I do that some humans have questionable mental stability."


"So, when my side does it, it calls for a priest, but when your side does it, it calls for medication."


"We don't give people ideas," said Aziraphale calmly. "We inspire them, sometimes--"


"--inspire them to what, hold Spanish Inquisitions?"


"My people had nothing to do with the Spanish Inquisition," said Aziraphale briskly, and Crowley snorted. "You'd believe me," he added, "if you knew the kind of trouble we had putting a stop to it."


"Torquemada wept, I'm sure."


"I'm telling you, we didn't know," said Aziraphale. "It was completely unexpected."


"Of course. No one expects the Spanish Inquisition," murmured Crowley. "What about the Crusades, then?"


"That," said Aziraphale slowly, "was a misunderstanding. Gabriel suggested -- in a perfectly standard vision, as standard is described in the Handbook of Divine Intervention -- that the Church should take a more active role in spreading the Word. We had no idea Pope Urban II would sanction such... lengths." Pausing, he popped the last bit of eggy bread in his mouth. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We're only wasting time."


This was true. They had twenty-two hours, give or take a few minutes.


"Right. Where were we?" asked Crowley, a bit guiltily.


"We were... possessing someone," said Aziraphale. "Humour me, because whatever you say about my people, I've never done it. How does it work, on his end?"


"It's not all pea soup and spinning heads, if that's what you mean," said Crowley. "That's films. He might go a bit glassy-eyed. He might seem a little slow." His coffee was cold; he warmed it with a sharp sniff. "Honestly, they mostly look normal. You can't really tell until they start doing things they wouldn't usually do."


"Like killing."


"Yes."


Aziraphale pushed his plate away. "Mmm."


"They can get twitchy, and that, but only when your demon's an amateur," continued Crowley. "They go in and try to take everything over, and you can't do that. Humans' free will is too hard-wired. If you blot it out completely, their brain shuts off, and they lose control of their baser functions. That's when you get flailing and speaking in tongues. If it's done right, no one will notice. Until it's too late, anyway."


Aziraphale considered this over a new cup of coffee. "Can they fight it?" he asked finally.


"I don't know, really," said Crowley. "I never went in for possession, myself. I did it once or twice in the early days, because that's how things were done, but I've found it's easier to just, you know, present them with options and let them make their own decisions," he said. "Most of the time, they come up with ideas -- all by themselves, mind -- that make my side look like a bunch of schoolgirls."


"Ideas. Such as the Spanish Inquisition?"


Crowley grumbled. "If you like."


"Get dressed," said Aziraphale archly. Looking down at himself, Crowley realised he was wearing a housecoat. "We're running out of time. We've less than a day left."


"Where are we going?" asked Crowley, standing. There was a dangerous gleam in Aziraphale's eye, a gleam that looked rather out of place on his supposedly-angelic face, and Crowley twitched. "You're not planning an exorcism, are you?" Crowley had never been to one, but the very idea of crosses and holy water and people quoting the Allegedly Good Book made him feel decidedly ill. "If you're going that route, you'll have to do it alone. That's bad business, for a demon."


"No, nothing so dramatic." Aziraphale's smile was almost conspiratorial. "If you want in on a trade secret, all that pomp and circumstance isn't necessary. All a good exorcist needs is a bit of holy water and good intentions. Which brings me to this -- we've not studied it much, you understand, but popular theory is that the average human can fight off the average possession, if put in the right frame of mind and surrounded by the right sort of people."


"Define average possession," said Crowley. "They'll not have some random incubus running this show. It'll be Beelzebub, if it's not Lucifer, himself."


"I figured as much, which is why we're going to Tadfield."


"Tadfield?"


"Yes." Aziraphale smiled. "There's someone there who, if I remember correctly, is fairly persuasive."





Against her better judgement, Anathema read.


The first thing Anathema noticed was that Agnes correctly predicted the names of her children. Anathema deliberately picked Biblical names, as a mark of her new life as not-a-descendent. Agnes had been suitably fond of the old ways; she would have gone in for something like Cernunnos or Rhiannon.


The second thing Anathema noticed was that, according to Agnes, the world was ending.


Again.


In a little less than twenty hours.


Above the soapstone Nativity, a clock ticked. Outside, the wind rattled the windows, the beginning of the first proper storm Lower Tadfield had seen in years. Anathema made herself a cup of tea, and read a bit more. Then she phoned Newt's mother, and asked her to pick up the children so she could finish a spot of last-minute shopping. She rang Newt's mobile, but he didn't answer, just as Agnes said he wouldn't.


When Aziraphale and Crowley knocked on her door, she wasn't surprised.


As far as Agnes was concerned, they were fifteen minutes late.





"Wait. Explain this to me again."


Anathema looked stricken.


Crowley sighed. Aziraphale made a sound like a faulty tea-kettle.


"The Apocalypse is coming," said Crowley quickly. "Again," he added, in case, like many of the players involved, she didn't properly remember the last go. "Tomorrow morning, bright and early."


"I got that part, thanks," snapped Anathema, twisting a stray piece of artificial pine garland around her hand. "What I don't get is the rest of it. Who is Harry Potter?"


"I don't have time for a lesson on more than fifty years worth of magical history," said Crowley. He didn't really know fifty years worth of magical history; he got the short-short version from Piqar's contact, but that short-short version was an hour in the telling, and right now, the measured click from the clock over the mantle was as good as the tick of a bomb. "Suffice to say, Potter is big with witches and wizards, and the Devil is hoping to use this to his advantage."


"Witches exist?" asked Anathema.


Over the top of his sunglasses, Crowley gave her a pointed look. He then expanded it to include the hazel twig tied to the charred horseshoe over Jasmine Cottage's door, and the occultly-inclined theodolite resting jauntily in the corner of the room.


"I mean, witches," explained Anathema coolly. "You know, magic wands and pointy hats and flying around on brooms." She released the garland to flap her hand in front of her face. Bibbidi bobbidi bo, and that."


"That's fairy godmothers," supplied Aziraphale helpfully. Crowley's pointed look abandoned its previous targets to zone in on Aziraphale. He suddenly wished he had Beelzebub's ability to explode things with his mind in a way that kept them exploded for all eternity. "Well, it is," insisted Aziraphale. "We saw that film together. I'm sure you remember."


The other clock in the room -- a magnificent grandfather older than anything with a pendulum that would've given Poe fits of ecstasy -- chimed the hour with more doom and gloom than Crowley thought was strictly necessary. They had nineteen hours, give or take Heaven and Hell's sense of time. Crowley suppressed the urge to scream.


"How?" asked Anathema. "Why did he create humans who can" -- she flapped her hand around again -- "you know. He's got you lot for that sort of thing."


Crowley forgot himself, and hissed. He quite liked Anathema, but she was quickly becoming living proof of why women should never be invited to catastrophes. They couldn't just act; they had to ask a million and nine bloody irrelevant questions.


"Well, if you really want to know," said Aziraphale leadingly.


Crowley's immediate train of thought was heading down a line that included a rant on the value of every minute, but he let it derail momentarily because he was actually interested in the answer.


"It was an accident, mostly," said Aziraphale, wandering over to the mantle to fiddle with what appeared to be a Nativity. Crowley blinked; he hadn't thought Anathema the type. "Mind you, this covers thousands of years of Celestial history, but I'll do my best to be brief."


"Please," said Crowley.


"Our story starts after the Great Flood." Clearing his throat, Aziraphale adopted a lecturing tone that would've put most Oxford professors to shame. "The world was in a right state after the waters of His wrath receded. Noah and his family had quite a bit to be going on with, so the Lord sent a small host of angels to help with the clean-up. Seraphims to be precise," he said. "They stayed for some time -- longer, I think, than the Lord planned -- because the Earth was new, and they quite liked the change of scenery. As the years went on, there was some... intermixing with Noah's family. With the children of Jameth, in particular. These hybrid children inherited certain abilities, as a genetic trait, you understand, which they passed on to their children."


"Do Seraphims have to make the effort?" asked Crowley.


"I don't believe so," said Aziraphale.


"Why not?" Crowley demanded. "We do!"


"Seraphims are Upper Principalities," said Aziraphale, as if that explained everything. "You and I are Lower Principalities. Well, I am. You were, until you Fell."


"I didn't Fall," grumbled Crowley. "I ran with the wrong crowd, is all."


"I'm just surprised it was allowed," said Anathema. "The Bible's a bit down on magic, as I understand it."


"It certainly wasn't allowed, and believe me, He was not best pleased when He found out," said Aziraphale. "But there wasn't much He could do about it, after the fact. Done was done. If He destroyed them, He would have been going back on his word."


"And what word was this?" asked Crowley.


"That He would not again lay waste to the world because He was displeased," said Aziraphale, and Crowley made a strangled noise. "I will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake; for the imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every living thing, as I have done."


Crowley shivered. "What the Hell was that?"


"Genesis 8:21," said Aziraphale brightly.


There was a smart and rather insistent knock at the door. When no one moved, Crowley waved it open, and found himself staring at the Antichrist.


Anathema glanced at the clock. "Right on time."


Faced with three sets of unblinking eyes, Adam Young stepped inside Jasmine Cottage without an invitation. A small dog of the mongrel variety was hard on his heels -- a dog that, if he didn't know better, Crowley wouldn't have recognise as a Hellhound for anything. The door shut of its own accord; possibly because of the wind, possibly because Aziraphale blinked. Adam, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness glanced around the room, and frowned.


"What are you two doin' here?" demanded Adam, his gaze lingering on Crowley and Aziraphale. At his feet, the once (and possibly future) Hellhound whined. "I hope you're not still messin' people around."





Adam, it seemed, was exactly the sort of person you wanted to invite to a catastrophe. No fuss, no muss, and no irrelevant questions. Once Crowley explained the situation -- with incessant and (in Crowley's opinion) completely unnecessary interjections from Aziraphale -- all Adam needed was a destination.


"I suppose we should get goin'," said Adam quietly. The Hellhound, which he had apparently named Dog, of all things, cocked his head and thumped his tail against the balding brown carpet.


Adam had grown quite a bit since the last Apocalypse. Six years would do that to a human, Crowley supposed, but it was slightly unnerving, since Crowley's last proper memory of the Antichrist was an eleven year-old boy facing off with angry representatives from the opposing sides. He was taller, but lacked the lanky, stretched look teenage boys commonly took. His hair was the same unruly mass of golden curls, but it framed his face differently and curled around his forehead like a crown.


"What about your friends?" asked Anathema gently. "They were quite helpful, last time."


Adam shook his head. "This isn't their fight." He shifted from foot to foot. "'Sides, if I take 'em, I'll have to make 'em forget everythin' again, and I don't like messin' people around."


The grandfather clock chimed with the lilting, unconcerned bells of a fifteen-minute warning.


"Well, let's get a move on, then," said Crowley. He started for the door, although he wasn't sure where they were going, or what they were going to do when they got there.


"Wait," said Aziraphale urgently.


"For what, angel?" demanded Crowley, stepping closer to Aziraphale. "For time to run out? For the hosts of Heaven and Hell to amass over our heads?"


"For my contact," said Aziraphale.


Crowley and Anathema both stared. "You have a contact with those people?" Crowley managed.


"I hadn't spoke with her in years; I was worried she wouldn't remember me." Aziraphale was one breath away from wringing his hands, and in spite of himself, Crowley covered Aziraphale's nervous fingers with his own. "As it turns out, she does, and she knows a group of people that are working with Potter. She's meeting us."


"When?" asked Adam. "Where?"


"Here, and soon," said Anathema. She had a book in her hand. "She comes with fire when the storm in high; the Angel's friend, when time is near."


"Fabulous," said Crowley irritably. "I hope she realises we're on a deadline."


The wind whipped up, shrieking through the trees to hammer against the window. Jasmine Cottage shook, the walls creaking in protest, and the fireplace -- which was a docile-looking thing, all things considered -- erupted into an impossible inferno roughly the colour of glass. Crowley, who was fairly familiar with the properties of fire, had never seen such a stunt from one of those electric logs you plugged into a wall. There was a thump, and Aziraphale jerked against him, his elbow catching Crowley in the ribs. An unreasonable amount of ash billowed out into the room to reveal a tall, imposing woman who was briskly brushing soot from her cloak.


"Mr Fell," she said, in a voice that was both crisp and Scottish. She frowned at Aziraphale, and Crowley was immediately reminded of a schoolteacher, or an overworked nanny who'd reached the end of her patience. She turned her attention on Crowley, and clearly, she did not approve. Crowley drew himself up; for his part, he didn't approve of her absurd tartan hat. "This must be your colleague, Mr Crowley."


"Hi," said Crowley.


Her gaze swept across the room, toward Adam and Anathema. Apparently, she still did not approve; she made a harsh sound in the back of her throat, the kind of sound that likely spoke volumes to other Scots, but to everyone else, sounded like tch.


"They're Muggles," she said, pointing to Adam and Anathema.


"Adam's not a Muggle," said Aziraphale. "He's the Antichrist." The woman blinked; Crowley wondered what it would take to really ruffle her feathers. "And Anathema's not... she understands."


"Be that as it may," she replied. "The point remains: they are Muggles, and Muggles cannot use the floo." She sighed at Aziraphale's extremely blank look. "They cannot travel by fireplace, Mr Fell."


"Oh. Right. Of course not," said Aziraphale. He fidgeted, and Crowley realised they were still, for all intents and purposes, holding hands. He allowed it; it hardly mattered at this point, since the world would be done and dusted before this Scottish nightmare was done quibbling about incidentals. "We must bring them along," explained Aziraphale. "They are intrinsic to the plan."


"I don't see how it is possible," she began. "They can't use the floo, and I certainly can't apparate with two people, and--"


"Where are we going?" asked Crowley.


She frowned. "London."


"Well, that's easy enough," said Crowley, starting for the door. His brain was already on the M40. "I'll drive."


"Will your car fit all of us?" asked Anathema.


"It's my car," said Crowley darkly. "It will do what I tell it, if it knows what's best for it."





Piqar's friend hadn't bothered with a physical description of Harry Potter. Crowley hadn't asked, and the fellow hadn't offered because Crowley hadn't asked, but from the fear and loathing that had crept over his hypnotically-induced monotone, ebbing over his stilted words like the tide, Crowley had expected someone fearsome. Terrifying. Larger than life. At the very least, he had expected someone out of puberty.


It took all kinds, apparently.


"Don't touch anything," said Harry quietly, as he led them past a draughty, dusty hallway.


Harry Potter, at the rather improbable age of seventeen owned a rather improbable house. And Crowley used the word 'house' lightly. It looked like a house, in that it had walls and a roof -- of the type that would have the masters of gothic architecture spinning in their graves -- but houses, in Crowley's experience, were unobtrusive things that sat quietly by while the occupants got on with their lives. This house, however, seemed to move and shift, seemed to be watching. Crowley wouldn't be at all surprised to discover it was breathing.


Aziraphale was out of his element. Crowley would've felt bad for him, if demons went in for that sort of thing.


Harry stopped, and herded them into what Crowley supposed passed for a sitting room in a place where mouldy drapes and peeling wallpaper done in repeating keys was an acceptable form of décor. The couches were heavy, black brocade, and a handful of youths Harry's own age had already staked their claims. The boy and girl sitting opposite each other shared similar features -- red hair and an astonishing quantity of freckles -- in a way that said they were related; there was also another boy, who was nervous-looking and slightly plump, and another girl, who had extremely unfortunate hair and a very serious expression on her face.


Introductions were made, during which Aziraphale as much as said that he and Crowley were both angels, what with all his talk of heavenly beings, and a series of sceptical looks forced Crowley to unfurl his wings. Aziraphale made no mention of Adam being the Antichrist -- probably for the best, all things considered -- and in his hurry to get on with things, he forgot about Anathema entirely.


"What about her?" asked the girl with unfortunate hair, whose name was apparently Hermione.


"I'm a witch," said Anathema.


"Where's your wand?" This from the red-haired boy, Ron, who was sitting next to Hermione in a way that managed to be protective and reluctant at once.


"I don't have a wand," said Anathema evenly. "I have a bread knife."


"Right," said Harry, and in that one word, he sounded exceedingly weary. "What's this about the Devil?"


Crowley explained -- once again with incessant and (in Crowley's opinion) completely unnecessary interjections from Aziraphale.


Silence. Harry studied his lap. Adam slouched into the shadows of a corner, Dog curled quietly at his feet. Ron watched Harry, drumming his fingers on his knee. Hermione frowned, and her expression suggested she was running a series of difficult mathematical equations in her head.


"So, what your saying is, Heaven and Hell have arranged the Apocalypse to coincide with a mortal battle of similar intent," said Hermione finally.


"Pretty much," replied Crowley.


"What are they playing at?" asked Ginny, the girl Crowley suspected was Ron's sister.


"Proxies," said Aziraphale. "Theoretically speaking, if they support their aligned armies, what takes place above will also take place below."


"They want a big, showy finish," said Crowley, translating that rubbish for anyone who didn't speak Aziraphale. "If they do it this way, everyone will see it. You won't need an invitation to a different astral plane to get in on the action. But the Devil is planning to play dirty. He means to give you a leg up so you win, then convince you to turn on the people you just saved."


"I'm curious... why Christmas?" asked Aziraphale.


"Christmas has nothing to do with it," said Hermione sharply. "It just so happens that tomorrow has astrological advantages for us."


Crowley frowned. "And this Voldemort" -- a choked sputter hissed around the room -- "agreed?"


"Well, no," admitted Ron. "We didn't owl him with the date, or anything. But he'll show. We have a couple of things we need to do, and once we do, he'll be there. He won't have a choice."


"Tomorrow would be the best," said Hermione. "Otherwise, we'll have to wait another four years for the proper astrological conditions."


Harry looked vaguely ill. "As if this wasn't bad enough," he mumbled. "What am I going to do about the Devil?"


"You just got to talk to him," said Adam, suddenly coming alive.


"Talk?" asked Harry.


"Worked for me," said Adam, shrugging. "I explained a few things to him, and he went on his way."


"Who are you?" asked Harry.


"Nobody special," said Adam. Rousing, Dog growled low in the back of his throat. "You'll just have to trust me."





Ron and Hermione bickered constantly over the course of the next hour, something Aziraphale found alarming and Crowley found endlessly amusing. Adam ignored it mostly, choosing instead to brood in the corner with Dog, while Harry, Ginny, and Neville seemed to view these outbursts as business as usual.


They would know, Anathema supposed.


The Further Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, however, was not business as usual.


Anathema arrived fairly late in the game on the last go, a mere nineteen years before things were meant to be over and done. By the time she got involved, the bulk of Agnes' prophecies had already been fulfilled, and most of what hadn't applied directly to Anathema or members of her family. This time, it was different. Very, very different. A bulk of what she was now reading concerned these people she had just met, and each time she turned the page, she was overcome with the squirmy, snakes-in-the-belly feeling usually saved for people who peeped in their neighbours windows at night.


"I feel like a pervert," muttered Anathema darkly.


These prophecies were as wandering and non-linear as the previous set, but this time, Agnes focused on incidentals almost as much as the task at hand. Anathema's father once told her that everything was relative, that small things were capable of altering the paths that led to larger events, but the more Anathema read, the more she wondered if by round two, Agnes finally followed the precedent set by some of her prophetic counterparts and introduced herself to ale, or some of the more interesting types of mushrooms.


For example: Anathema rather didn't need to know that Harry was a virgin -- which was about the only place Agnes could be going with her talk of untouched centref and puritie of bodye and minde -- and she certainly didn't know what that had to do with the price of tea, as far as the Apocalypse was concerned. Agnes seemed to believe the situation would sort itself out shortly after everything was over, which was a glimmer of hope in terms of the general outcome, but Anathema didn't understand how it mattered now. And a few pages later, Agnes devoted several lines to goode and evile cominge together, bound by the wingf of change, whatever that meant.


Anathema shivered, turned the page, and shivered again. She traced each line with the tip of her finger, following as Agnes' words bounced around the last six years like a giddy and misspelled rubber ball. Here, Agnes mentioned that it would rain and Newt and Anathema's wedding, information Anathema could have used before she decided to save a few pounds by having it in Newt's parents' back garden. There, Agnes noted that Ruth would be in the breech position when Anathema went into labour, something Anathema should have known before she spent twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes trying to deliver the child as nature intended.


Frowning, Anathema stopped at a passage that had given her pause several times in the last hour. It talked about diuifion of a soule mofte darke and deftruction of ye contentf, not ye trinketf, and it tugged at Anathema so strongly it almost made her skin crawl, but quite frankly, she didn't have the foggiest.


Six years ago, she just might have. Sure, Agnes had a long and bloody-minded history of being unusual and obtuse, but there had been a point when Anathema almost understood her. Perhaps she didn't have enough information. Perhaps she'd simply forgotten how to be a descendent.


The door creaked open. Ginny lingered in the hallway, framed in cobwebs and shadows, and Anathema closed the book with a snap.


"Sorry," said Ginny quietly. "I didn't mean to disturb you."


Anathema was in the sitting room, and save for Neville, who was dozing on one of the decaying couches, she was alone. Ron and Hermione had taken their most recent squabble upstairs after a quiet, greying man named Remus told them he couldn't hold with the noise. Aziraphale and Crowley were in the kitchen, whispering in a way that said only supernatural beings were allowed, and Harry had disappeared to do whatever it was heroes did in the uncomfortable hours before the final showdown.


"You're not," said Anathema honestly. Over time, Anathema had learned that if she was being particularly dense, or Agnes was being particularly difficult, it was best to walk away for a bit. "I rather needed a break."


Stepping inside, Ginny glanced at the book. "You didn't get that from here, did you?" She frowned, and waved toward the bookshelves lining the walls.


"No," said Anathema simply. "It's mine."


"Only, this house isn't very friendly," said Ginny. Neville snored in what could have been agreement. "They put dangerous stuff in some of the books. One of them spit Bubtober pus on my brother."


"Ron?" asked Anathema.


"Fred," said Ginny. "I've got five. Well, six if you count Percy, but nobody counts Percy except my mum and dad."


"That's a large family," said Anathema. "I was an only child, but I've two children, myself."


"You're young for it," commented Ginny, heading for the fireplace. The fire didn't so much burn as create pillars of acrid smoke that billowed up to cloud along the ceiling, and Ginny tried to prod it into proper behaviour with a wrought-iron poker that looked at least one hundred years older than she was. "Are you married?"


"I am," said Anathema.


"Where's your husband, then?" asked Ginny. "Men are usually the first to jump headlong into catastrophes."


"I phoned him before we left, but he didn't pick up," explained Anathema. This seemed to be a common occurrence when Newt went to visit Shadwell; either mobiles didn't work in Milton Keynes, or Newt left it in the car because Shadwell thought wireless communication was witches' work. "It's probably for the best. He's not... well... honestly, you people probably would've been a bit much for him."


They definitely would have been too much for Shadwell; Anathema privately thought loosing Shadwell in this house for an hour would've been a week's worth of fun. Assuming he didn't have an occultly-induced heart attack on the spot, he'd likely decide it was worth coming out of retirement, and call for the biggest book, bell, and candle to be had.


"What were you reading?" asked Ginny.


"Prophecies," said Anathema.


Ginny paused, and seemed to pale. "Real prophecies, or rubbish prophecies?"


"I'd have to say real," said Anathema. "She's never been wrong yet."


"Well, let's see, then," said Ginny, approaching the couch. She curled up next to Anathema, and leaned in as Anathema opened the book.


"This spans the last six years," said Anathema. "Some of it will happen between now and tomorrow morning, but most of it already has." She flipped through a few pages. "Like this one."


Deathe by irone

comef but falfe;

to ye prince of Briteigne

when under ye Earth.


"What does that mean?" asked Ginny. "Is that one that already happened?"


"As far as I can tell, yes," said Anathema. "A couple years a back, someone shot at Prince Charles. Death by iron is probably a gun, and the gun was loaded with blanks -- fake bullets -- which might explain comes but false," she added. "Now, Briteigne is an old word for Britain -- Charles is the Prince of Wales, but geography was never Agnes' strong suit. Not when it came to specifics."


"What about when under the Earth?" asked Ginny, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.


"He was in Austraila at the time," said Anathema. "They call Austraila 'down under', don't they?"


"Yeah," said Ginny. "Wow." She pulled back, blinked at Anathema, and leaned back in. "Do another."


"Well, here's one I don't think has happened yet," said Anathema. "It's been bothering me; I just can't work it out."


Diuifion of a soule mofte darke,

an ende muft occur afore Ye Ende;

deftruction of ye contentf, not ye trinketf.

Evile muft work with evile.


"I'm fairly certain she's talking about the end of the world," said Anathema. "I don't think she would have capitalised The End, otherwise." She sighed and underlined the words with her finger. "But the rest doesn't make any sense."


Ginny read it over again, mumbling under her breath. "The contents, not the trinket. Division of souls." She glanced toward the door, then turned her attention back to the book. "I don't know about evil working with evil, but you should tell Harry about the divison of souls bit. He might know what it means."


"Really?" asked Anathema.


"Yeah, Harry--" she broke off, shifting in a way that said she needed to change the subject, and reached over to turn the page -- "What's this, now?"


Fiue will go together and fiue shall returne;

ye brother and ye frende made,

ye other boy fpared and Ye One,

and Ye One that came Afore.


"I was looking at that one earlier," said Anathema. "I figure The One is Harry, but I'm not sure about the rest."


"The brother and the friend," repeated Ginny, her lower lip creeping between her teeth. "Ron and Hermione. Has to be," she added, at Anathema's quizzical look. "Ron's the youngest boy, so that's how he's known, really, as one of our brothers' brothers. Also, my mum considers Harry part of the family, and Harry's said Ron's like a brother to him."


"That could work," said Anathema slowly, slipping into the habit she had when she was still a descendent, that of looking at things from all possible sides -- including upside-down and diagonally. "But he could be the friend, and Harry could have a brother we don't know about."


"No brothers," said Ginny firmly. "His parents died when he was a baby. He hasn't got any family at all, except a cousin he hates and an aunt and uncle who hate him." She read it over again and nodded to herself. "Even if Ron isn't the brother, I really think Hermione is the friend, because it says a friend made. That's important."


"Oh?" asked Anathema.


"Yes. Ron and Harry were friends the minute they bumped into each other. They didn't even have to try," explained Ginny. "Hermione was different. They became friends eventually -- Ron made her cry, and there was some nastiness with a troll -- anyway, they rather didn't like her at first, and before she took up with them, she didn't have any friends, at all."


"Well, it fits," said Anathema.


"It does. Besides, they'd go with him, anyway," said Ginny. "I rather don't think he could stop them. He'd have to put them in a Full-Body Bind and lock them in the basement, and even then they'd find a way. That's just the way they are. Now, what about The One that came Before?"


"Oh, that's Adam," said Anathema.


Ginny frowned. "How do you know that?"


"I just do," said Anathema. "It's Adam. Which leaves the other boy spared."


"I don't know," said Ginny slowly. "The other boy spared." She sighed, a sound that was both hollow and long-suffering. "All I know is that it means he's leaving me behind."


Anathema smiled. "They always leave their women behind."


"I'm not his woman," said Ginny sharply. She hugged herself, and the shadows from the fire washed over her, catching under her cheekbones until she looked like a ghost. "Not any more."


"Men are funny creatures," said Anathema lightly. "And they don't get any wiser as they get older. You can trust me on that."





Adam had never seen such a house in all his life.


It had a basement and an attic and interesting-looking things that people kept telling him not to touch. And he wanted to touch them -- and not just because people kept telling him not to, but because things shouldn't be that interesting if they weren't supposed to be touched, especially the funny little heads mounted on the wall. It also had curtains that moved by themselves, and windows that showed a strange, swirly mass of blue instead of what was actually outside, and if Crowley could be believed, the older fellow that came through the fireplace a bit ago was a werewolf.


Adam paused at the top of the stairs as the floorboards creaked. There had to be a toilet up here. The possibly-werewolf said there was a toilet off the kitchen, but someone was already in it, and they'd been in there so long that Adam suspected they didn't plan to come out. Unless there was a ghost in there -- Neville said he thought the house had ghosts -- but Adam wasn't entirely sure he believed in ghosts. Wensleydale would say he couldn't not believe in ghosts if he believed in Atlanteans and Tibetans, but Adam had seen the Tibetans with his own eyes, and the Atlanteans had been on the telly.


Sky News mentioned the Atlanteans from time to time. The three international fact-finding delegations still hadn't turned up, but Adam privately thought they'd have found a way back already if they didn't want to stay.


The first door Adam pushed open was not a toilet. It was a bedroom, with a gloriously old bed and curtains that seemed to be made mostly of holes. There were two portraits on the walls, and Adam peered at them through the darkness. Ginny said the portraits could move, but he had yet to see one do it. He wondered if they actually moved, or if they were like those 3-D pictures he once saw at Marks and Spencers' that looked like they were moving if you leaned back and crossed your eyes.


The second door was also a bedroom. An oil-lamp sputtered weakly on an overly-carved table, and Harry Potter sat in the centre of another gloriously old bed.


"Hello," said Harry quietly. "The loo's at the end of the hall on the left."


Adam smiled. "How did you know?"


"There's a Boggart in the one behind the sitting room, and Hermione hides in the one off the kitchen when she's been fighting with Ron," said Harry.


"What's a Boggart?" asked Adam.


"It this thing that turns into your biggest fear when you look at it," explained Harry.


"Neat," said Adam. "They fight much?"


"Constantly," said Harry. He shifted slightly, and Adam saw he had some bits and bats piled in front of him -- a necklace, an odd sort of cup, and and something sparkly that was partially hidden by Harry's hand. "I'm hoping once this is over they'll finally find time to sort themselves out, but I won't hold my breath."


The house took that opportunity to settle in for the night, groaning in a way that suggested it wanted the occupants to know they were disturbing it. The floor creaked, shifting suddenly, and Adam grabbed the door jamb for support.


"Sorry about that," said Harry. "This house is ghastly. I can't wait to be quit of it."


"Who's is it?" asked Adam, reaching out. The pinstriped wallpaper was textured, and it felt rough under Adam's fingers.


"Mine."


"It's brilliant," said Adam honestly. "My dad took me to a haunted house the Halloween before last, and it was nothin' like this. The cobwebs was fake and the ghosts was just people wearin' sheets, and the cassette with the creepy sounds shut off in the middle and I had to listen to my dad complain about it for twenty minutes. It didn't have a werewolf, either. Not a real one, anyway."


"What werewolf?" asked Harry, narrowing his eyes.


"The older fellow that just came in," said Adam, shifting slightly. He really had to pee, but for some reason, he found Harry as interesting as the stuff he wasn't allowed to touch. "Crowley said he was a werewolf."


"Which one is Crowley?" asked Harry. "I get them mixed up."


Adam laughed, which caused him to shift again. "Crowley's the one wearin' sunglasses."


"Are they really what they say they are?" Harry motioned with his hands, which could've passed for fluttering wings if you tilted your head and squinted. A lot. "Angels?"


"Crowley's a demon," said Adam, leaning forward a bit. The sparkly thing was apparently made of diamonds, and Adam desperately wanted to know what it was.


"What?" asked Harry, sliding off the bed.


"It's not nothin' to worry about," said Adam. "I mean, he's from Hell and all, but he's all right, when he's not messin' people about. Aziraphale can keep him in hand, anyway."


"Oh," said Harry. "Oh." He was suddenly very interested in the floor, and a slight flush crept over his cheeks. "Are they" -- he trailed off with a gesture which was both vague and explicit at once -- "are they--"


"-- don't know, really," finished Adam. "Not my business, I don't think." He shrugged. "Wouldn't be no harm in it, though." Harry seemed to relax a bit, and Adam took this as an invitation to be nosy. "What've you got there?"


Harry jerked and gave the bed a nervous glance. "Oh, it's just some old things."


"Important old things?" asked Adam. Harry drew himself up when Adam approached, but Adam just looked around him, leaning in until his chin was practically on Harry's shoulder. The sparkly thing was a bracelet, and it was made of diamonds. "Cursed old things?"


"Cursed," Harry repeated quietly. "Yeah, you could say that."


"And you gotta break the curse, right? Before tomorrow?"


"Harry?"


Adam stepped back and they turned toward the door. It was Ginny; she favoured them with a hard look.


"Can you come downstairs a moment?" she asked. Harry stared at her blankly, which only served to carve her face from stone. "It's very important."


Harry sighed heavily. "Yeah, all right."


"And bring those," she said, waggling a finger toward the bed.


Harry studied the empty space where she had stood for several moments after she was gone.


"Is she your girlfriend?" asked Adam suddenly.


"No," said Harry. "I mean, she was, but she's not. Not any more. But sometimes... she's just... I'm not sure how I feel about it, really."


"Oh, that's all right," said Adam. "I understand."


"I'll just be downstairs, then," said Harry. Pausing, he smiled. "Last door on your left."




Part III