Author's Notes: This story is dedicated to Maroon_Sweater, whose love for Contessa burns with the heat of a thousand suns.

Acknowledgements: I'd like to thank Maroon_Sweater, Pericardium, and Poe for helping me work on this. They're as much the author as I am and it wouldn't have been nearly as good as it is without them.

Contessa stood on the edge of the beach like an indecisive baby turtle. She'd slung her jacket over her shoulder and tilted her hat up. The wind teased her hair and ruffled her undershirt as the crest of the tide brushed the tip of her shoes.

Thirty years had passed almost as quickly as her village had collapsed. The experiments, the planning, building networks of contacts, working with the Doctor; all of it felt so recent. So fresh. But it was over now, and it was time for her to move on.

Everything had been arranged. The portal, the body, the supplies scavenged from Cranial and Bonesaw's old workshops. She looked down at the Tinkertech device in her palm. On the surface were knobs and screws and buttons that she couldn't make sense of, but her power could. She flipped two switches and cranked a dial all the way to the right. It thrummed in her hand and she felt as though she'd pulled the pin of a live grenade.

"The saltwater will destroy your extremely expensive custom leather shoes."

"No," Contessa replied, pocketing the tech. Behind her, the speaker strode across the loose sand. "It won't."

"We could have had this conversation somewhere easier to get to," said the Number Man as he finally reached her at the water's edge. He had rolled up his pants legs like a dork and was holding his shoes and socks in one hand, also like a dork. "I had to cancel a lunch date with Jeanne. I trust that you called me out here for something more important than catching up."

Her power told her to wait another few seconds in silence before continuing the conversation. "I'm leaving."

"We've got e-mail now. You could have sent one. 'Dear Kurt, bye. Please watch over my fern. Love, Contessa.' It would have been simpler than camping out on a beach on another earth."

"As someone with a Dali in his office, you should understand clumsy symbolic gestures."

"Fine." The Number Man wiped his glasses on the shirt. They weren't dirty; the adjustment was a subconscious acknowledgement he'd lost the conversation. "When will you be back?"

"I'm leaving."

He ceased his fidgeting. "Ah."

"And I would never give you custody of Cato. I wouldn't want him to pick up your bad taste or abominable sense of fashion."

"Am I to assume that I'm the only person you've decided to inform?"

Contessa stayed silent and Number Man sighed to himself.

"You know that no one is going to be happy about this," he said.

She knew he was already thinking of the arguments that were going to erupt the moment he revealed the woman who could do anything had chosen to abandon them.

"Won't they?" she asked. "It seems to me the powers that be don't want my help, they want me under their control or dead. Legend whines about 'containing' me to the Wardens at their directors' meeting every month. Dragon has programs running to keep an eye on me. There are four major organizations that plan to kill or capture me in the next week, and Teacher—"

Number Man pounced on this. "Jeanne and I are concerned about Teacher and the problem he poses for future stability."

"Teacher has been dealt with," she said, using her power to keep her voice perfectly neutral.

"And the students?"

Contessa adjusted her hat. "I suggest you inform the Wardens of Teacher's demise so they may deal with the cleanup."

Number Man sighed again.

She knew he was dreading having to tell Jeanne and Chevalier, how he would have to field complaints about her desertion for months to come. "Tell them over breakfast," she suggested. "If you time it correctly, Legend will choke and get coffee up his nose."

"I suppose it would be an appropriate 'goodbye' from you to give Legend one final headache to deal with."

"Nothing worse than what he gave me when he found out Cauldron wasn't skipping around planting flowers and saving puppies."

She waited for him to mount his objections. He would, despite understanding the futility of arguing with her.

"I'm not going to try to talk you out of it," Number Man said diplomatically, preparing to do precisely that. "I want you to know that Jeanne and I intend to see this through. Continue Cauldron's work. If you stayed, we'd back you to the hilt."

"Thank you. Your feelings are noted."

Contessa allowed the dismissal to fully sink in, then continued, "Scion is gone. The world is getting better and will get even better under Jeanne's guidance. I am no longer necessary."

"I understand why you're doing this," he said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "But we will have some very awkward conversations with the Wardens for the next year."

"It will be awkward, but I deemed this the least troublesome way to tell everyone." She paused. "Thank you."

"Of course. I'll just say you decided to nap on a beach for the foreseeable future," he said, and reaffixed his glasses. "Although I doubt this will keep anyone from trying to find you."

"They can try. They'll fail."

"And were you planning on telling me how exactly you're doing this?"

Contessa mentally stumbled. She consulted her power. It let her know that she would not put Number Man or Citrine in real danger if she shared the minor details of her plot with him. The only person insane enough to fight a heavily fortified city and simultaneously destabilize the financial markets of all earths at once for a hint at her whereabouts was dead in a pool of his own piss. Anybody else he told wouldn't believe him anyway.

"There are still worlds left unaccounted for. Worlds Scion didn't even touch. Safe havens where humanity was kept completely clueless about what was happening. One girl among billions won't stick out. And I am very good at avoiding notice."

"One girl?"

"One woman."

The awkward little shuffle that accompanied her words didn't convince him it was a slip of the tongue.

"That would explain Panacea's recent trips from her father's territory."

Contessa didn't deign to comment on his speculation, and he didn't provide more. She checked and Number Man was silently imagining how she would look and act as a child. She managed to contain the urge to deck him.

Number Man waited an appropriate amount of time before ruining the conversation. "The world could still use someone like you."

"Perhaps I don't want to be used."

"Perhaps not," he said. "But perhaps you believe another world could use someone like you more."

She scowled at the sea. "I plan to have a normal childhood this time."

"Whatever it is you plan on doing, enjoy it. You've more than earned it." Number Man turned to her for the first time in the conversation, his mouth set in a frown and his eyes dull even as he offered a hand. "I suppose this is goodbye."

She took his hand, pulling him towards her. He reluctantly put one arm around her, and she grabbed his other arm and forced him to give her a proper hug. "Goodbye, Kurt."

"Goodbye, Contessa. Good luck, wherever you may find yourself."

"Have a nice life."

She released him and watched him go, heading up over the dunes until he disappeared behind one. Her fingers traced the device in her pocket.

"Good luck," she murmured.

Contessa pressed the final button and everything went black.

Fortuna woke up.

She lay in bed staring at the wall, somewhat conscious but lacking the will to actually get up. It had been one of those dreams again. Herself and a man, talking. Fragments stuck out to her: the water on her shoes, her irritation, the hug at the end. The harder she tried to remember, the faster the memory faded: the man's appearance grew fuzzy and the conversation dissolved into white noise. Eventually, it was gone, leaving only the vaguest sense a dream had occurred.

The only memories that ever stayed were the bad ones.

Her roommate, Ash, had gone downstairs already. She rolled out from under the sheets and fell over the side of her bed, landing in a crouch. It had only taken one time landing on Ash that she checked with her power every time before doing it.

The attic was cramped, occupied by a bunk bed, two cabinets, a hanging rack, and four stacks of boxes. The Simmonses hadn't cleaned anything out when they'd put their first orphan up there, and had deemed it good enough for their second as well. It was tight living, but not painfully so.

She checked what she needed to know right now. Her family was awake, breakfast wasn't ready, and there was a strange woman visiting today. Fortuna asked and found that, yes, it would be fine to wear her Princess Luna hand-me-down sweater and faded black pajama pants. She grabbed her hat from the bedpost and was putting it on when one of her foster brothers, Max, poked his head in.

"You up? Mr. Simmons says there's someone downstairs for you."

"Okay."

As he disappeared down the ladder, she straightened her fedora in the mirror. The hat was crisp and clean, without the usual creases and tears that blemished the hand-me-down clothes she and her siblings wore. Once she was satisfied, she touched her pocket knife. It had never left her side and never would; it was better to be safe than sorry.

She popped the attic door open and climbed down the ladder onto the second floor. The Simmonses' house was a mess of bodies, furniture, and possessions. They had adopted seven orphans over the years in a house that was barely big enough for four and had accumulated the belongings and clutter of ten. The hallway was lined with doors, some open, some shut, but all filled to the brim.

Fortuna weaved between Sam and Kris, the two seven-year olds who were the latest additions to their family, playing tag in the hallway, and skipped over piles of discarded toys and dirty laundry. When she reached the staircase, she could see her foster father making conversation with an older woman at the bottom.

Fortuna clasped the handrail and launched herself over to land gracefully on the floor below.

Mr. Simmons was a man with a body like a bowling ball and a head like a bowling pin. His face was bright red most days from running after children to keep them out of trouble. It was bright red now, as he startled at her sudden appearance.

"I really wish you wouldn't do that," he told her for what must have been the hundredth time.

Fortuna didn't respond, instead looking expectantly between the two adults.

He shook his head and gave up that battle. "Fortuna, this woman works at a boarding school in Scotland. They noticed your test scores and think you'd be a good fit."

It came as no surprise that her academics had garnered interest —she'd been getting straight As in her classes ever since that first teacher had put that first pencil in her hand and asked her to shade bubbles. She'd understood only half of the questions, but her power had filled in the rest.

"Good morning, Miss Floris. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Professor McGonagall, one of the teachers at Hogwarts."

This woman was tall, even for an adult. She looked like an extra on Downton Abbey, one whose prolonged exposure to subpar storytelling had worn her down like sandpaper. She had the type of dress that looked forty years out of style—but with how old she appeared, may have just been bought when it was fashionable.

McGonagall extended her hand and Fortuna gave it a firm shake. It was important to make a good first impression. McGonagall reached into her pocket and produced a thick envelope sealed with wax and handed it to her.

Fortuna looked down at the address.

Ms. F Floris. The Attic. 107 Bassett Street. Fulbourn. Cambridgeshire.

They knew that she lived in the attic? Fortuna glanced up at the Professor, who had a reserved smile on her face.

"Hogwarts has produced some of the greatest talents of this generation, Ms. Floris, and it would be a pleasure to have you grace our halls in September. I'm hoping you'll allow me to discuss what Hogwarts could offer someone with your talents."

"Sounds like a great opportunity," Mr. Simmons butted in. He paused. "It would be good to have the extra space and one less mouth to feed. Oh, but I don't want to be the one making that decision for you."

She could take a hint.

A crash came from upstairs, and Mr. Simmons winced. "It's all up to you," he emphasized.

"If there's something you need to take care of, I would be happy to speak alone with Ms. Floris," McGonagall said. "We'll need to discuss some of the things that make Hogwarts unique, as well as why she was chosen and what her studies would cover. It's a big decision to be made at her age and it will take some time to go over everything."

With a hasty thank you, Mr. Simmons hurried away, and the two women were left alone. Fortuna had barely noticed the end of that conversation. She'd asked three questions after being handed the letter. What did the school teach? Magic. Really? Yes. Would she be happy if she went?

Yes.

"Would you like to move somewhere more comfortable?" McGonagall asked.

"Yes," Fortuna said, "I would like that very much."