"Merlin's personal Potions manual?" Horace fingered his jacket sleeve. "How can you be sure?"

 

"It fits," said Garrick emphatically. "It fits all the descriptions we've ever had of what the Liber Atavus is supposed to contain, what it's supposed to look like. That's where you two come in—if you wouldn't mind. Could you take a look at it for me?"

 

Leonide's eyes widened. "Oh, Garrick. We would be honored."

 

"Yes," said Horace enthusiastically. "Simply delighted." He joined Leonide in looking at the stone slab.

 

"I never was real good with Potions, you see. Arnie's the brewer up here," Garrick was saying.

 

"Where is he?" Leonide asked.

 

"He went into town. Probably getting some supplies from your mother."

 

"Oh, that's wonderful." Leonide beamed. "She'll like the business."

 

"I think she's doing quite well these days," Garrick added. "I remember when she first set up shop…"

 

Leonide nodded. "So do I."

 

Horace wondered what they were talking about, but thought it impolite to ask. Leonide then turned his attention to the stelae.

 

Horace stood beside him and looked, too.

 

This was highly uninteresting. He tried to catch Leonide's gaze out of the corner of his eye, but Leonide was enthralled, gently running his fingers over every curve of the carved runes. His lips were moving as he sounded out the writings. Every so often, he would reach up to brush a lock of hair back from his eyes. Horace realized he enjoyed watching Leonide quite a good deal more than he enjoyed looking at the stelae.

 

"Horace," said Leonide suddenly, as if sensing the attention, "what can you tell me about these potions? Which are they? It's hard to tell from the runes." He ran a finger over what appeared to be the title. "We probably call it something different now, but I think it might be a Swelling Solution."

 

Frowning, Horace studied the ingredients pictured—or at least, he supposed they were the ingredients. He mentally catalogued everything needed to make the potion. It was easy enough, the potion was standard for the Hogwarts first- or second-year curriculum.

 

"No puffer-fish eyes," he suddenly realized.

 

"Hm?" Garrick appeared over his left shoulder.

 

"A Swelling Solution contains puffer-fish eyes. It's one of the most basic reactionary ingredients." He pointed at something else. "Also, ashwinder eggs would be quite problematic. The resulting potion would probably kill you."

 

Leonide took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "Maybe it's not a Swelling Solution. Maybe it's another potion."

 

Horace frowned again. "It doesn't look like anything I know of."

 

Leonide sighed and put his glasses back on. "Have you asked Arnold?" he said to Garrick.

 

"Yeah, but he doesn't know anymore than you do." Garrick sighed. "I'd really like to find out what all this means." He ran a frustrated hand through his thinning hair. "Thanks for all your help, you two. I appreciate it."

 

"Never mind that," said Leonide earnestly. "We'll help you figure it out, won't we, Horace?"

 

"Oh, yes. Oh, yes, of course." Leonide turned and bent over the table again. Horace tried to help him, but his gaze kept drifting to Leonide's rear.

 

"Horace?" Leonide was looking at him funny. "What's wrong?"

 

"Nothing," said Horace quickly, scratching his ear. "What did you say?"

 

"I just said you ought to try to brew that potion—to see if it works. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you discovered a potion that had been lost since the time of Merlin?"

 

Horace had to admit that this prospect was rather intriguing. "You don't say…"

 

Leonide gave a self-satisfied smirk. Horace was surprised at first that Leonide had known what to say to make Horace do what he wanted, but then again, maybe it wasn't surprising. He suddenly wanted to kiss him. It was a true shame Garrick was there, getting in the way.

 

"How much of the translation work have you gotten through?" Leonide asked suddenly, seemingly unaware of Horace's eyes on him.

 

Garrick frowned. "Not much. It's not like anything I've ever seen before. I get the words, but the grammar's so different from everything I've seen before, even from this time period."

 

"What other sorts of things have you been finding?" asked Horace.

 

"Nothing this big, certainly," said Leonide, moving to the other side of the table to get a look at the Liber Atavus from a different angle.

 

"He's right," confirmed Garrick. "Listen, can I get you boys anything? We can go sit in the mess and chat."

 

Horace thought they were already in the mess—the room was one of the dirtiest he'd seen—but Garrick was heading for the door with Leonide at his heels.

 

When they were outside, Garrick locked the door and led them across the compound to a long, one-story building with smoke sporadically coming out of the chimney. On his way in, Garrick grabbed an armload of wood, and led Horace and Leonide down a dark hallway to a kitchen.

 

"This is the mess?" Horace asked in confusion.

 

"Yep," said Garrick, dropping his armload by the fire and placing a few more logs on it. "Can I get you boys anything to eat or drink?"

 

"I'm fine, thank you," said Leonide at the same time that Horace said, "What have you got?"

 

Garrick laughed. "Not much but the essentials," he said. "We do have tea," he added, "though I'm not sure it'll be to your taste." He grabbed a dusty, little-used teapot out of a nearby cabinet and wiped it off with a dishtowel. Horace gulped, but thought it impolite to refuse.

 

With a flick of his wand, Garrick added water and placed the kettle over the fire. As he was hunting for some tea leaves, he said, "Leonide, give our friend a little history of what we do here."

 

Horace turned to look at Leonide, who appeared to have been staring off into space. He looked startled when Garrick had spoken.

 

"A-All right. Well, I'm not really involved…" He looked at Horace apologetically.

 

"Summer intern, four years in a row," Garrick cut in. "That's involved enough for me. Lord White okay, Slughorn?" He shook a box of tea over his head. "Sorry it's bags."

 

"That's quite all right," said Horace.

 

"Good," Garrick continued. The teapot forgotten, he extracted a chipped mug from another cabinet, filled it, and set it in front of Horace. Almost as an afterthought, he tapped it with his wand and muttered, "Fervefacio."

 

Horace accepted the warm, if weak, tea gratefully. "So," he prompted, "You've known Leonide for quite some time."

 

Leonide smiled softly. "Since I was a child."

 

"Back when we first came out here, Arnie and I ran English classes for the locals on the side," Garrick explained. "To bring in some extra money—us grad students don't have much, you know."

 

Horace wondered how someone who looked at least ten years older than himself could possibly still be a student. What in the world was wrong with the American education system?

 

"How old were you, Leonide?" Garrick went on. "Ten? Eleven?"

 

"Eight," said Leonide sheepishly.

 

Garrick chuckled. "That's right. And probably our most dedicated student!"

 

Leonide lowered his head, so that his hair fell over his ears, which were turning red. "I liked it," he said quietly. "It gave me something to do."

 

"I think it proved to be a very useful skill to have," said Garrick, sitting across from the other two men.

 

Leonide looked up again. "I guess you're right," he said, his gaze resting on Horace for a few seconds longer than was probably strictly necessary.

 

"Either way, Leonide kept on coming up here, and asking questions. He wanted to know everything about the place. After his fourth year at Beauxbatons, we gave him an official position."

 

Leonide grinned. "I still remember my speech." He closed his eyes, tossed back his head and recited, "Whether or not Merlin is actually buried here, Merlin's Tomb is an important place for wizarding kind worldwide. Seeing the significance of such an historic place, the French Ministry, with the backing of the Worldwide Coalition of Warlocks and the Magical Treasury of Significant Sites established the International Merlinological Research Station, currently administered by the Salem Institute from Massachusetts, United States. The contract was originally held by the École Normale Supérieure de Magiciens in Paris with a new contract to be awarded every fifty years by the administrating doctorate. Salem's contract expires in 1935, when—"

 

"Hopefully-by-then-Dr. Wagner will select the best candidate from a pool of applicants," Garrick added. "They're already swarming—just this week, I've had calls from the Imperial University in Kyoto and the Runes Fellowship Institute in Oslo. You'd think it wasn't still ten years away! I might not even be here by then if my thesis goes through." Garrick rested his head in his hands.

 

Horace nodded sympathetically.

 

"What's held it up this time?" Leonide asked, leaning in.

 

"Oh, some crap about how it wasn't defensible. Told you I nearly lost my curatorship."

 

Leonide frowned. "But now that you've found the Liber Atavus…"

 

Garrick smiled, his eyes shining. "I guess they can't say no to me now, can they? It's the find of the century—possibly of all time." He looked giddy. "I just have to think of the right way to show the world."

 

"I can see why you want to find out as much as you can about it," said Leonide. "Have you been outlining your paper?"

 

"Yeah, but I'm not sure what to put in it," Garrick grumbled. "I need to figure out some more about it." He scratched at the top of his head. "We've got a real mystery on our hands here, boys."

 

"I like mysteries," said Leonide. Horace raised an eyebrow. This was news to him.

 

"So, will you help me?" Garrick looked beseechingly at Horace and Leonide. "Help me through these potions?"

 

"Of course we will," Leonide assured him.

 

Garrick seemed to brighten. "Thanks," he said. "So," he grinned, "how's England treating you? Like your first taste of a proper winter?"

 

**

 

An hour later, Horace and Leonide were heading back to Demagie. Leonide had lingered talking with Garrick for a few moments longer and seemed subdued when he joined Horace at the head of the path.

 

He said nothing for the first few moments of their walk, but then said, "I'm very proud of you, Horace. You're going to be very helpful to Garrick."

 

Horace remembered the strong compulsion to kiss Leonide he'd experienced an hour ago.

 

"It was nothing," he said. He slid an arm around Leonide's waist. Leonide grinned.

 

"I know you were bored," he said, stopping and returning Horace's embrace. "But it means a lot to me."

 

"Well," said Horace softly. "I admit to being intrigued by the opportunity of fame and glory." He leaned in and gently pressed his lips to Leonide's.

 

Leonide deepened the kiss, his hands going up to tangle in Horace's hair. Suddenly, he pulled back.

 

"What's this?" he asked in surprise, running his fingers lightly over Horace's upper lip. "I saw you shave this morning!"

 

Horace smiled and kissed Leonide's hand. "I did, but not my moustache." He liked the sound of the words, my moustache. It sounded incredibly elegant.

 

Leonide gave him a skeptical look.

 

"It won't be as prickly in a few days," Horace assured him. At least, he hoped this was true.

 

Leonide pursed his lips.

 

"I promise," said Horace calmly, "that if you still don't like it in two weeks, I'll shave it off." He was surprised at how readily he had offered such a high-stakes gamble, but was rewarded with Leonide's smile.

 

"Deal," he said, with a laugh, slipping his hand into Horace's and leading him back down the hill.

 

 

**

 

"So what are you boys' plans for the rest of the day?" Leonide's mother asked, setting a tureen of potato soup on the table for lunch.

 

"We're going to brew potions!" said Horace happily, patting the packet of papers in his waistcoat pocket.

 

"They're experimental potions," Leonide confided. "So we'll use the back downstairs room, if that's all right?"

 

"That is just fine, dear," said Mme. Allard. She turned to Horace. "You will be doing the brewing, won't you?"

 

Horace blinked. "Er, yes, I suppose."

 

Leonide's mother smiled. "You haven't seen him brew, have you?"

 

Leonide scowled. "Maman…"

 

"You're lucky," she went on, turning back to her son, "for your young man to be a Potions master." Then she looked at Horace. "Do you cook as well?"

 

Horace was caught quite off guard. "Er, no," he said. "I… I don't cook."

 

She smiled. "You ought to try. You might be good at it, if you can brew."

 

Horace had never considered this. "Leonide makes the coffee," he finally said.

 

"Coffee doesn't explode," said Mme. Allard, taking a sip of her tea. "He's gotten quite good at that."

 

 

 

**

 

After an afternoon full of unsuccessful brewing, Horace was grateful to sink into bed that night. He could barely keep his eyes open, but Leonide seemed to have difficulty sleeping.

 

He sat up most of the night, his nose buried in a slim Muggle novel he'd bought at a shop in Glasgow where they'd caught the Portkey from.

 

"It's a murder mystery," he had explained to Horace. "I want to see how it ends."

 

Horace had to admit, however, that it was a little annoying to be constantly awakened by Leonide's shocked gasps and muttered exclamations in French.

 

"I'm sorry, Horace," Leonide would say, absently reaching out to pat Horace on the shoulder. "I'll put out the light when I finish this part."

 

Horace wondered if, however, Leonide might actually be distressed by their lack of success that afternoon.

 

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, sitting up and suppressing a yawn.

 

Leonide sighed softly. "I'm just frustrated that we couldn't get any potions to work today."

 

Horace shrugged. "Half of brewing is trial-and-error. If we didn't learn from our mistakes, try again… there'd be no potions! Why, in just last month's issue of the Society's journal, I read an article by Hector Dagworth-Granger, where he said—"

 

"That's not it, Horace," said Leonide, laying his book aside. "I just…" He looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. "I just want to help Garrick. He has done so much for me… I feel like I owe him a lot. I want to do something for him." He pulled the sheet up over his knees, even though it was a warm night and the window was open. There had been no breeze and the small room was very stuffy. "It was probably my mistake anyway."

 

"Leonide, don't say that!" Horace placed a finger under Leonide's chin and turned his head to face him. "You're brilliant! The fact that he's asked you to do this…"

 

Leonide scowled and pulled away. "But Garrick deserves the respect more than I do. He's been working far longer than I have…"

 

"And you're helping him!"

 

"I can't help him if I can't translate the damned things," Leonide spat. Horace had never heard him swear before.

 

"Oh, Leonide," Horace murmured. He reached over and took one of Leonide's hands in his, gently massaging his fingers. They relaxed. "You may have made a mistake," he said gently. "And I also think it might be difficult, with something this old. The meaning would have shifted, perhaps."

 

Leonide sighed. "Yes, that happens." He smiled slightly. "I'll just have to try again." He kissed Horace. "Perhaps tomorrow I will talk with Garrick about the viability of going to the library in Paris."

 

Horace smiled and lay back down again. "That's a wonderful idea, my dear. Now put out the light and come to bed." He opened his arms in what he hoped would be an inviting gesture.

 

Leonide hesitated. "Well…" He looked over at his book, open on the bedside table. "I've just come to good part. I'm almost done, I promise."

 

With that, he kissed Horace on the forehead and returned to his book.

 

 

**

 

The next morning, Leonide seemed far more chipper than he had any right to be. He was up before Horace, and greeted him in the kitchen with an enthusiastic kiss.

 

"I feel much better this morning," he confessed, pouring Horace a cup of coffee.

 

Mme. Allard smiled. "Are you boys planning to see Garrick again today?"

 

"We were," said Leonide, taking his seat beside Horace. "That is, unless you think you need our help…?"

 

"Well…" Mme. Allard paused as she sliced bread and passed it around. "M. Fournier is ill. I must go to him. I had hoped I could leave you in charge, but—"

 

"Non, Maman," said Leonide quickly. "I can do it! I used to do it all the time, remember?"

 

"I had thought it would be very boring for Horace…"

 

"Oh, he won't mind," said Leonide quickly. "Will you, dear?"

 

Horace smiled sweetly. "Of course not, dear."

 

It was actually sort of fun to help Leonide in the shop. They were moderately busy and Leonide would translate what the customer needed, calling out their orders to Horace, who would fetch them.

 

They worked well together, and Leonide was a better salesman than Horace would have taken him for, greeting his customers warmly, though the customers' responses ranged from politeness, to grudging acknowledgement to something bordering on rudeness. Horace even had to prevent a group of boys from upsetting a barrel of beetle eyes, which was difficult, as he couldn't make himself understood.

 

Thankfully, their mother herded them out, though Horace suspected they didn't get in the trouble they deserved.

 

"Tired?" Leonide asked him, sidling up to him and pulling a worm out of his hair.

 

"A bit," said Horace, smiling more because Leonide was near him than that the shop was deserted. "I'll tell you, I wouldn't want to do this for the rest of my life."

 

Leonide chuckled. "That's why I became a teacher."

 

He looked ready to lean in for a kiss when the bell over the door jangled. Leonide turned.

 

"Oh, Arnold!" he cried. "How are you?"

 

Arnold smiled. He looked to be about Garrick's age and Horace assumed this was his co-worker at the Tomb, which was confirmed by Leonide's subsequent introductions.

 

"I thought you had come in earlier," Leonide said conversationally, as he was filling Arnold's order.

 

"Oh," said Arnold, looking a bit flustered. "He told you that, did he?"

 

Leonide handed Horace Arnold's order slip, which contained about ten items.

 

"Who, Garrick?" Leonide nodded. "He said you'd probably come down yesterday."

 

"Oh, I did," said Arnold quickly. "These things—" he indicated the boxes and bottles Horace was collecting "—are just things I'd forgotten about."

 

"Ah," said Leonide, apparently satisfied. "Well, it was nice to see you. Are you going to be up there this afternoon?"

 

Arnold shook his head, having apparently recovered from his earlier nerves. "I have to go to Berlin to get some things; be back in a day or two."

 

"Well, we'll see you again, then," said Leonide, but Arnold had already fled from the shop.

 

"He seemed a bit of an odd fellow," remarked Horace.

 

"Oh, he's always like that," said Leonide dismissively. "Come on, help me set up this display again."

 

 

**

 

They worked until lunchtime, when Mme. Allard returned. After lunch, they set out for the Tomb.

 

As they walked, Horace remembered something that Leonide had mentioned several days before they had left.

 

"How's your book coming?" he asked.

 

Leonide sighed. "I'm not sure what to write about. At first, I had hoped I could go to some of the sites surrounding the Tomb and look at some of the older archaeological materials, but it looks like we'll be so busy." He frowned. "And then when we leave, it's going to be hectic…" He trailed off, but they both knew what he meant. Leonide would be returning to Beauxbatons before the beginning of the school term and Horace wasn't sure how much time they would have together.

 

"It would be nice to do something," he said finally, "just you and me that is."

Leonide grinned cheekily and slid his arms around Horace's neck. "Well," he murmured, kissing the corner of Horace's mouth. "We'll just have to see about that."

 

Horace responded by kissing him back, teasing him with his tongue. "Aren't I more fun than some moldy old rocks?"

 

"Mm… I'll admit you have your moments, Mr. Slughorn," Leonide whispered, as Horace moved down to kiss his way up his neck. "But now, we have a job to do. You can ravish me all you want later."

 

Horace sighed in mock reluctance. "Promise?"

 

Leonide laughed. "Promise."

 

Together, they proceeded up the hill, toward the Tomb.

 

**

 

As they came upon the cluster of buildings, something felt off. There was a funny taste in Horace's mouth that he couldn't shake, and there was a noise that sounded like birds… but they weren't birds, Horace was sure of that. He looked for the source of the noise, but he couldn't see anything.

 

"Where's Garrick?" Leonide wondered aloud. "He said he'd meet us." He began wandering toward the bunkhouse. "Garrick!" he called. "We're here—it's Leonide and Horace!"

 

After a few minutes of searching, Garrick proved not to be anywhere in the compound.

 

"He couldn't have gone up to the Tomb, could he?" Leonide scratched his head, and then turned briskly and marched toward the woods to the west of the compound. Horace followed somewhat more slowly. Leonide was striding so quickly that he had to jog to keep up on his shorter legs.

 

Suddenly, Leonide reached a clearing and froze. Horace stumbled up beside him.

 

"What's—"

 

He saw the rope first. Then, in slow motion, as if he subconsciously knew what he was about to see before he saw it, his gaze followed the trail of the rope to the exact center of the circle of stones. There, the rope ended, wrapped around the throat of Garrick Wagner.