"No," said Horace calmly. "We—I didn't see anyone. Coming or going." He shifted awkwardly on the uncomfortable red leather couch in the Magical Law Enforcement office in Demagie. He wasn't sure how many more times he'd have to tell this story.

 

The English-speaking detective nodded. "Thank you. I wanted to be sure." He tapped his quill with his wand and it stopped writing. "If you think of anything else, be sure to come back."

 

Horace assured him that he certainly would, and set off to find Leonide. Horace found him waiting by the entrance, leaning against a wall, looking sullenly at his feet, his hair over his face. Horace placed a friendly hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

 

"Let's go home," he suggested. "A rest will probably do you good."

 

"All right," Leonide agreed warily, pushing off from the wall and following Horace out of the office. The walk home was silent. Upon reaching Leonide's mother's house, he immediately retired to his room, shutting the door behind him.

 

Horace headed to the stairs to follow him, but Mme. Allard called to him from the kitchen.

 

"Horace! Can you come help me with dinner?"

 

"Of course!" Horace replied, trying not to let his voice show any of his reluctance.

 

Mme. Allard seemed to be making some sort of casserole with the leftover potatoes, and she directed Horace to peel the potatoes, while she prepared the sauce.

 

They worked in silence for a few moments until Mme. Allard spoke. "It's terrible about Garrick," she said softly.

 

Horace started. "How did you…?"

 

She waved her hand vaguely to indicate the shop. "I heard."

 

"Ah," said Horace, going back to his peeling. "He and Leonide seemed very close," he said finally.

 

Mme. Allard lowered her wand. "They were," she said sadly. "I'm very glad Leonide had Garrick—it's how he got where he is today. He was really like a father to Leonide." She shook her head. "I just can't believe he's gone."

 

Horace sighed. "I wish there was something I could do to comfort him." He scowled, frustrated with himself.

 

Mme. Allard reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Don't worry about it," she said. "It's not your fault. He's a brooder. He's been like that since he was baby." She smiled slightly. "There's not really anything you could have done to comfort him, I imagine. Even you, he would probably ignore."

 

Horace nodded, though this baffled him. He was Leonide's… well, he was Leonide's lover! Leonide should have been able to confide in him, shouldn't he? He returned to the potatoes. Maybe he and Leonide weren't as close as Horace had thought they were. Horace shifted uncomfortably and grabbed another potato. He really had expected Leonide to confide in him, to let himself be comforted by him. Horace bit his lower lip. Why did he have to be so bloody unsure?

 

The half-peeled potato in his hand exploded, showering pieces everywhere.

 

Mme. Allard looked up. "What's wrong, dear?" she asked.

 

Horace blinked. "Nothing," he said as calmly as he could manage. "Evanesco." The pieces of potato vanished.

 

Leonide's mother smiled slightly. "I don't think you would make a potato explode like that if nothing was wrong."

 

Horace scowled and put down his wand. "It's nothing," he said. "I was just thinking."

 

"By any chance were you thinking about my son?"

 

Horace blushed and picked up his wand again.

 

"I'm sorry," she said, trying to suppress a laugh. "Of course you were." Her expression softened, and she paused for a moment, as if thinking of what to say. "How did you and Leonide meet?"

 

Horace looked up, surprised at the sudden shift. "Hasn't he told you?"

 

She smiled fondly. "He told me, but I want to hear your side of it."

 

Horace shifted. What had Leonide told her? How much had he told her? He was remembering the night of the Halloween Ball.

 

"We met at Hogwarts," he said finally. "He'd just… he'd just arrived, actually." He smiled, settling into the familiar story. "He asked me where the Headmaster's office was, and I told him. That's how we met."

 

She smiled. "He said you were very cute."

 

Horace blushed and Collette laughed softly.

 

"He also said it took a very long time to get you to come around. Did you know that he told me about you? He thought you were very special."

 

Horace blushed again. "I didn't… I didn't know he told you that." He grabbed another potato and they worked in silence for a few minutes.

 

"What else did he tell you?" he finally asked.

 

"Besides your lovely personality?" She Summoned some the peeled potatoes onto her cutting board and began chopping them. "He cares very much for you, Horace." She paused again. "And I can certainly tell you care deeply for him."

 

Horace looked down at his hands. "I do," he finally said. "I… do."

 

She nodded. Then, she said softly, "Have you told him?"

 

Horace numbly shook his head. He opened his mouth, and for once, it didn't feel like it was full of Puffskein hair. "I haven't been able to. I'm nervous." He ran a hand through his hair. "What if he doesn't agree? Or…" Horace bit his lip. "What if he decides that because he's going back to Beauxbatons, we ought to… ought to move on." He had never even phrased these fears to himself, but he had them, no question. His biggest fear was not losing Leonide, but that Leonide might decide to end their relationship to pursue men closer to his own home.

 

"I think," Collette began gently, "that you two are very good together. I think you have the ability to make a relationship work, even if Leonide returns to France. You could see each other on the weekends. You could talk by Floo every night. Your hearts will help you decide what to do. Just speak honestly with him."

 

Horace pondered this. While he knew this was probably the best decision, it was hard for him to fathom telling that to Leonide.

 

"Thanks," he said unconvincingly. "I'll try."

 

"I'm sure he knows how you feel," she said. "Though I think he'd like to tell you himself, I also think he assumes you know more than you do."

 

Horace nodded. That made sense. He'd noticed before that Leonide had a tendency to assume Horace knew what he was thinking. He wasn't a Legilimens!

 

"I think you do a good job of showing it," she added. "For what it's worth…" She paused. "You seem very good together. You—you're certainly the one I'd rather Leonide was with."

 

Horace nodded. He didn't want to press. He was always uneasy when Leonide alluded to the fact that he had previous experience, though he had (thankfully) never gone into details. It seemed to make him uncomfortable, too.

 

Horace realized with a jolt that he had opened up quite a bit to Leonide's mother.

 

"Thanks," he said finally.

 

She smiled. "I'm glad we were able to have this talk." She reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. "We can always talk whenever you want to. I gather you don't really have anyone to…"

 

Horace shook his head.

 

She smiled. "Then come to me if you need anything. I can be impartial."

 

Horace beamed. "Thanks," he said, and meant it.

 

**

 

Leonide opened his eyes and sat up, blinking blearily. He looked at the sunlight slanting through his bedroom window at an odd angle. How long had he been asleep? He didn't remember falling asleep; all he remembered was dropping onto the bed as soon as they'd gotten home from the MLE office. He rubbed his eyes. They stung. He guessed he'd been crying in his sleep. The wave of grief hit him hard as he remembered and he blinked back fresh tears. It wasn't fair! Garrick hadn't done anything to anyone! Who would do something like this? He wiped his eyes again.

 

He lay there for several minutes, just staring at the ceiling. It still didn't seem real. Garrick had been there for him since he was a child. He had been so supportive, throughout Leonide's education and the beginning years of his career. Leonide's passion for Runes and wizarding history had grown from the Tomb, and his thirst for languages had grown from Garrick's English lessons.

 

Leonide gave an involuntary sob. The idea that Garrick was gone, that Leonide would never be able to consult with him on an article, would never co-write a paper or a book, would never be able to tell him about Horace, or seek advice from him… it was almost unbearable.

 

He sighed. What was he supposed to do now? He didn't feel like doing anything at all; he wanted to just lie there on his bed until it didn't hurt anymore.

 

A few more minutes went by. He heard the muffled sounds of conversation downstairs and smelled something in the oven.

 

He supposed there was nothing he could do other than just get up and keep going. Horace… hwa wanted to be strong for Horace. He sighed, reached for his glasses and put them on. It still hurt, of course, but he had to keep going.

 

Suddenly, there was a knocking on his bedroom door. "Leonide?"

 

"Come in!" he called. Horace opened the door and entered, just as Leonide was getting out of bed.

 

"How are you feeling?" Horace stood in the doorway, not drawing closer, as though Leonide were sick.

 

"I'm fine, Horace," said Leonide briskly. He wanted Horace to see him back on his feet, not moping. He headed over the dresser—he had to wash his face, and his hair probably needed brushing.

 

"Well, if you're interested, dinner's ready." Horace looked down at his feet. "You don't have to come if you don't feel like it."

 

"Honestly, Horace," said Leonide, giving his hair a harder tug than he'd meant to. "I'm fine. I'll be down in a minute."

 

Horace nodded, but he didn't turn to go back downstairs. Leonide stared at his reflection. His eyes were still red, and his hair was sticking out on one side.

 

"Leonide?"

 

"Mm?"

 

Horace crossed the room and pulled Leonide into his arms. "I'm sorry. About Garrick." He gave him a tight hug.

 

Leonide was touched to hear that Horace cared so much. He gratefully returned the embrace and buried his face in Horace's chest. Then, to his horror, he began crying again.

 

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

 

"Nothing to be sorry about, darling," said Horace gently, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

 

The tender gesture only made Leonide cry harder. "No, I just… I wish there was something I could do. Other than sit around and cry all day."

 

Horace tilted Leonide's head back and handed him his handkerchief. Leonide blew his nose. Producing a second handkerchief out of somewhere, Horace began blotting at the wet spot on his waistcoat. Leonide sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. Horace joined him, looping an arm around him. Leonide rested his head against Horace's shoulder.

 

They sat like that for several moments, until Leonide murmured, "I just wish there was something I could do to help him."

 

Horace nodded sympathetically. "That's understandable…" He paused. "I suppose you could, well, try and see if you can't continue on with his research, perhaps. Maybe the Liber Atavus?"

 

Leonide grunted. "Can't do anything with that. There's nothing there, it's hopeless."

 

"Oh come on!" sputtered Horace. "You can't tell me you can't find some clue, like the Muggles in your books…"

 

The corners of Leonide's mouth twitched. He couldn't help it. "What would you know about that?"

 

Horace shifted. "I may have… snuck a peek. Over your shoulder."

 

Leonide's twitchy lips turned into a full smile, and he leaned over to kiss Horace. "So, if we are going to be detectives, what do you suggest we do first?"

 

"Dinner, I suppose." Horace patted his stomach. "Can't hurt at least." He winked.

 

Leonide grinned again, and took the arm Horace offered. "Let's go, then."

 

 

**

 

Even though it was mid-afternoon, Joe Reilly needed coffee. He'd sent that Paulson fellow to get him some, but it seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time. He sighed. Really, he wanted to go home. It was a Friday, and he really needed to talk to Alma. They'd had something of a squabble—all right, it was a fight—that morning and he hated the thought that she would be mad at him all day. In fact, that's exactly what he was going to do. It was a Friday in summer, and he was a senior investigator. There was no reason he shouldn’t be able to go home early if he wanted to. Joe stood up and headed for Frank's office.

 

Joe only even considered telling Frank that he was leaving as a courtesy. Even though Frank Ellis was the Squad Commander and Joe's boss, it was a slow time of year for the Investigation Division of the International Law Agency, and the Boston office, which was the main American branch, was all but deserted. The smart ones were all on vacation. Joe hadn't put in for any days yet, which meant he was stuck working until at least August—this was partially the reason Alma was mad at him. That and she seemed frustrated that he hadn't been promoted yet. This was something she got to complaining about every few months. She'd kept asking him how long men usually stayed in his position, and talking all about Leroy McGraff and how he'd gone through training with Joe but was now Deputy Division Chief of the entire San Francisco office.

 

Joe rolled his eyes. She'd get over it. Joe figured a promotion was coming his way eventually, but there was no use complaining about it.

 

He reached out to knock on the door of Frank's office, which was slightly open.

 

"Reilly!" Frank barked from inside. "I was about to have Paulson go get you. Come in."

 

Puzzled, Joe pushed the door the rest of the way open and entered. He hoped he wasn't about to get saddled with more work. He needed a break, and the last thing he needed was more paperwork.

 

Frank was kneeling on the floor, with his head in the fire. "Just a second," he said to whoever he was talking to. "He just walked in." He stood up. Frank was a good head shorter than Joe and twenty-five years older and looked it. He put his hands on his hips and regarded Joe solemnly.

 

"Joe, there's a guy in the fire from the Salem Institute. Says there's a big case and they asked for you."

 

Joe blinked in confusion. "Me?" he asked. "Specifically?" It would never have occurred to him that anyone at Salem Institute would know the name Joe Reilly. He'd never so much as set foot on the campus.

 

"Well…" Frank scratched the back of his neck. "He actually asked for the best I had, but you're the best I have."

 

Joe decided this was good enough. "What's the case?"

 

"There's been a murder." Frank sighed. "You know Merlin's Tomb?"

 

Joe shook his head.

 

"Me neither. It's a place over in France. Apparently, Salem's got guys working over there—researchers or something. One of them's been killed." He shook his head. "Salem wanted us to do the investigation. They don't seem to trust the local authorities."

 

Joe wasn't sure what to say. "So… I've got to go out to Salem, or…" Salem wouldn't be so bad. He'd just pop up there for an hour or two and then be home for a weekend with his wife. Maybe he'd bring her something to make up with.

 

"France, Joe. You have to go to France. Go on home and pack some things. I want to tell the Director of the Institute I'm sending you over. Time is of the essence. Go!" He stuck his head back in the fire.

 

Well, thought Joe, at least I'm going home early.

 

**

 

Horace slept surprisingly well that night, and he thought Leonide did as well. He was actually sort of looking forward to see what Leonide would make them do the next day.

 

They were up early and had a quick breakfast before they headed off to the Tomb.

 

"I want to look around," Leonide explained. "I want to see if anything inside was disturbed."

 

"But don't you think the authorities will have already looked?"

 

Leonide rolled his eyes. "Our local office?" He laughed harshly. "They won't have touched a thing." He kicked a pile of leaves angrily. "I just hope we can find something."

 

"I'm sure we will, dear." Horace squeezed Leonide's elbow. "What sort of thing are we looking for, anyway?"

 

"Anything out of the ordinary," Leonide replied. "I'd like to take a look in Garrick's room, and maybe get another, better look at the Liber Atavus."

 

Horace nodded. They had come to the compound. Horace did not want to look in the direction of the Tomb itself. Yesterday's discovery was still too fresh in his mind. He noticed Leonide wasn't looking that way either.

 

Horace followed Leonide to the bunkhouse. "Can you get in?" he asked, just as Leonide drew his wand.

 

Leonide nodded. "Garrick taught me how years ago. I think I still remember, and I don't think he's changed the charms." He waved his wand and muttered something under his breath. Tentatively, he reached out and pushed the door. It swung open, and they entered.

 

"I wonder if anyone's told Arnold," Leonide mused as they made their way down the dark hallway. It seemed eerie somehow, and Horace was glad that someone had broken the silence.

 

"I don't know," said Horace. "I forgot to tell them about him…"

 

Leonide paused when they came to a particular door. "I think this is it," he said slowly. "Let's just hope he didn't put any spells on it." Gingerly, he tried the handle. The door opened with no problem.

 

Garrick's room was, to put it mildly, a mess. His bed was unmade, and books and papers spilled off a shelf and covered a desk. The desk chair was standing, held up by magic, on three legs, the fourth leg having been tossed into a corner as if in anger. The wall above the rickety bed and the desk were covered with old maps, charts with lots of scribbles and yellowing newspaper clips. Leonide entered the room, gingerly moving aside a pile of dirty clothes with the toe of his boot.

 

"Do you think there was a struggle?" Horace asked, following him into the room.

 

"I'm not sure," said Leonide. "Garrick isn't—wasn't—exactly the neatest person." He eyed a mug on the desk suspiciously as if it might contain something alive.

 

Horace turned his attention to the bureau. It contained an odd assortment of bottles, of the sort Horace himself usually kept on his bureau. He noticed that there was a half-empty bottle of the same brand of cologne Leonide had bought for him for his birthday back in November.

 

Leonide knelt and opened one of the desk drawers. "I'm looking for his notes," he explained. "Garrick always kept his important notes in the bottom drawers. He was afraid people would find them otherwise."

 

"Did he really think people would steal his ideas?" Horace wondered.

 

Leonide shrugged. "Not really, I don't think. I think it was just a habit."

 

Horace made his way over to Garrick's bed, avoiding some of the fouler-looking piles and examined the newspapers he had pinned to the wall above it. None of them were long stories; in fact, they all appeared to be small clips from Garrick's local newspaper announcing when he'd won some award or grant.

 

"Modest individual, wasn't he?"

 

Leonide scowled. "He was proud of his accomplishments. He really didn't have that many. He's always sort of been a bit of an outcast in our field." He laughed mirthlessly. "Did you know that when I applied for the Beauxbatons job that I didn't get a recommendation from him because that would probably have counted against me?" He rolled his eyes. "Imbéciles."

 

Horace turned away from the newspaper wall. Leonide pointed to the bureau. "Look through there, would you? See if he's stashed anything important in his underwear."

 

Horace sighed. Whenever he'd looked over Leonide's shoulder at one of his Muggle stories, Homes, or whatever the man's name was, never looked through anyone's underwear drawer.

 

Leonide was accumulating a small stack of notes, which he was tucking into a folder he'd taken from Garrick's desk. "This is interesting," he remarked.

 

"What is?" Horace asked, looking in a cigarette case, only to be disappointed that it did, in fact, contain cigarettes.

 

"A grid of the Tomb and what they've been finding where. Look." He shoved it under Horace's nose. It was a map of the area with a grid superimposed on it. Various words in Latin were scribbled at different spots all over the grid.

 

"It doesn’t have the Liber Atavus on it," Leonide supplied. "But it's also got some other things—these—" he pointed "which are dated this week."

 

"Perhaps he forgot to put it on," said Horace, checking the cigarette case for a false bottom.

 

"It's the find of the century, Horace! You don't just forget to—" Leonide froze. "Shh! Someone's coming."

 

He grabbed Horace's arm, and yanked him across the room toward the closet, knocking over the chair in the process. Horace tripped and went down hard, knocking the wind out of him. As soon as Leonide flung open the closet door, an ear-splitting whine filled the air. The footsteps outside increased and Garrick's bedroom door flew open.

 

"What the—" The man at the door was a stranger, who sounded American to Horace's ear. He had a shock of graying hair, though his face did not appear to be that old. He was dressed in rumpled robes and there were circles under his eyes. "Damn. Er… Qui… Qui est vouz? No, no, that's… DAMMIT." He clapped his hands over his ears. "If you can't shut that blasted thing up…"

 

Leonide slammed the closet door shut. "Ten-thousand nine-hundred and twelve," he announced clearly. The wailing stopped. He turned to Horace and explained, "Quodpot statistics. The passwords are all Quodpot statistics. That's, er, Donovan Beckster's career save record, I think." He shrugged. "I just memorized the numbers when I was fifteen."

 

Then he realized Horace was staring at the man in the doorway, who now had his wand out and was displaying a badge with his other hand. "Investigator Joseph Reilly, Magical Law Agency, Boston. And if you can't explain yourselves in ten seconds, you'll be under arrest for evidence tampering."