Fog crept, silent, over the Great Lake and from the Forbidden Forest. There was no horizon—the overcast skies melted into the gray before me and into the water which reflected the colorless world above. Behind me, I could see the overlying illusion of ruins on the castle, forlorn stones superimposed over windows glowing with cheery light. One world where time had taken its toll, and another frozen and preserved. the bleakness fanned Discord, scratched at my Flames, fingernails on chalkboard in my soul.

It was cold. Not anywhere near the freezing temperatures of Siberian winters, let alone Antarctica's howling winds that tore away heat. But there was a particular sort of creeping dampness which soaked through clothing and skin and down into bone. Italy, Mediterranean and sunny, was a far cry from my motherland's ever-wet clime, but this land was close enough to make me homesick.

There were differences, of course. I could not feel malice bleeding out of the ground and pressing into my soul, nor the terrible pride that suffused the mists of Kirigakure. There was no sea-iron-tang at the back of my throat, salty and sweet and metallic, nor a familiar, ever-present patter of disembodied footsteps where I could not see. No phantoms formed by patches of lighter and thicker vapor; no whispers carried by the currents. Kirigakure no Sato was where gods died and reality wore thin; Hogwarts merely a bulwark of magic. Kunai felt out of place in kitchens, and I felt my foreign nature the strongest where I almost belonged.

Even so, I was disciplined enough to not find myself simply struck by bouts of loneliness. Legilimancy was a cruel art, for something so clinical in nature. I was accustomed to the careful teasing of genjutsu, the sledgehammers of dojutsu, and even the intimacy of Flame. The wizarding method was cleaner, clear cut and removed, but somehow, their ability to dredge up memory was far more potent. The professor's probe had stirred up settled things: Chigiri's glorious viciousness, the grand triumph of Kiri remade, and though it was worth it to learn to weave silk-fine threads of magic with thought to form Occlumency's cloth, the wound to my heart was still raw, hours after the lesson was past.

Bel was warm beside me, and had no objection to my tears soaking his shoulder. "It hurts." I stated, "Moreso that I can never return. Ages pass. My world has passed with them."

I did not need words of comfort, only an arm about me as I condensed my pain into sounds and syllables. "I have done my duty. There is no regret to focus my loss. I saw far enough, even then. This one knew that this one's people would go the way of Ozymandias, or mayhaps Troy. Victory, defeat, right, wrong; in the blink of an eye, they all are gone. The sun sets, a few degrees of red; the green mountains remain yet. A white-haired fisherman sits at the water margin, grown used to the sight of autumn moons and spring winds. A joyful meeting with a ladle of murky drink set between—how many things of times old and young, have become but the subjects of idle musings?"

"Kings remember little; Peasants even less. The hands that built the castles of kings are long forgotten; the years that bred the peasants' crops are gone beyond memory." Bel drew his hand through the water, "Who marks the marriage of hydrogen and oxygen, though life is lost without their union?"

"Though worn beyond recognition," I agreed, voice rough, "we still pave the path of history. The present walks upon us to the future, and though faded and forgotten, our contributions remain, rippling onwards towards eternity."

Yet all of history and all of the future is but an eyeblink in the life of the cosmos. The sickle swings overhead, the stars wheel in their slow dance, and everything ultimately dies a cold, silent, death.

Discord fed itself upon what I had seen in death, whispering of inevitable doom. I had heard much of this final fate however, and with the barest bit of effort, smothered it with a smile as I took Bel's hand.

"A spar, methinks, Prince mine, to burn this coldness from our bones."

He chased me into the fog-shrouded forest, and wraiths shaped by memory condensed out of Mist to battle him.

I joined Bel at the Gryffindor table this evening. We were both sore and aching from the fight, although I could have been said to have gotten the shorter end of the stick-my opponent had more sharp edges on him than Bel's. As a result, while we were equally bruised-or perhaps Bel was more so-I had a myriad of cuts scattered on my skin. Scrapes too, but those were mostly hidden by my clothes. Lines of red marked my throat and face, with another handful on my arms, not wholly obscured by my sleeves. And of course, though hidden by the curl of my fingers, the slash across them throbbed lightly. Even after treating our injuries, we were quite obviously, to use a colloquialism, a mess.

"What happened to you two?"

Hermione leaned over in concern and catalogued our injuries. "You look like you lost a fight with the Whomping Willow!"

Bel shrugged, "It was just a fair bit of fun."

"A fight, a cure for my Prince's boredom." I explained, propping my chin up with the palm of my wounded hand and stabbing a chunk of potato with the other.

"You fought because you were bored—you were made to fight because he was bored?" Her plate of shepherd's pie was neglected as Hermione turned her full attention on us.

I frowned at her. "A servant who lets his Prince suffer ennui is a poor one indeed. There was little making involved. Bleeding is quite little to demand of me."

On the other hand, partially loosing use of one hand was. I nudged Bel gently. Bel reached over to cut my meat for me.

The girl's eyes were narrowed suspiciously as she took in the knife-marks on my skin and the distinct lack of them on Bel. To be fair, it was easier to use Rain Flames to soothe inflammation and reduce bruising than to close open wounds.

I sighed, then jerked up my sleeves to categorize each injury. "Defensive wounds, offensive wounds. That one's a scrape from a slip. That's a bruise from hitting a hard surface too quickly. Oh, and that one's self-inflicted—I don't know why people expect you to cut your hand when your arms work far better. It was a spar, and one that went on past first blood. Hurt is expected, Hermione, and also reciprocal."

Bel helpfully drew up his sleeves to catalogue his bruises, as well as the burns I had inflicted with fire and lightning, freeing me to eat my dinner before it cooled. Unlike me, he gave a brief explanation of the characteristics of each type of injury. He would have made an excellent teacher if not for his peculiar combination of sloth and pride.

Hermione took in Bel's words thoughtfully. "I can see where you're coming from," She allowed, "but you're still hurting each other, and little making is not none. I've read up on Astonia—the monarchy gives you power over your subjects' lives and deaths."

"My prince has no power over me that can not be disallowed." I countered gently, "And injury is not always the same as harm. My relationship with my prince uncolored by that of subject and sovereign."

Hermione frowned, "But you two are master and servant…"

Untrue, for all that we made play at such. Bel was a peer, an equal, and a friend. He was neither my Kage nor liege-lord, and for all that I would die for him (and vice versa), I did not give him the power to command my life and my death. I kept such thoughts away from my expression as I watched the girl's thoughts on her face.

I arrived at her conclusion before she did, though at the same time as Ron, "'mione wan's you t' tal' 'bou' Shpew."

"Master and servant—master and slave." I mused.

Bel giggled, "Though 'slave' is too ugly for the peasants to use!"

"You might be the only people who can legitimately comment on the issue from experience—your clarification on the differences between servants—even lifelong ones!—and slaves would have to be recognized! You can force wizarding society to change how they treat House Elves!"

"How Wizarding Britain treats House Elves." I corrected, because Oma wouldn't send me a Christmas present if I didn't.

"A worthy purpose." Bel agreed, "The Prince accepts it! But it's almost time for dessert, and the Prince will not have it spiced with serious conversation!"

His warning came in the nick of time. No sooner did Hermione shovel her last bite of pie into her mouth than the plates emptied, to be replaced by tarts and pudding and fudge.

"Umbridge is looking worst and worst these days." Harry observed, "Once you made that scene and walked out with half the class, people've just stopped going, especially muggleborns. I didn't think so many people had it in them."

"The broken window effect." I ate a bite of apfelstrudel, "A spark of chaos will give rise to an inferno. Once someone does it, it's just escalation."

"Hanging together lest you all hang apart." Bel interjected cheerfully.

"Slytherin put it to vote." I revealed, "It had to be noted Umbridge still has influence in the Ministry. There are individuals whose parents are under Umbridge's power, therefore vulnerable to retaliation. We have agreed that we will give up this year's House Cup and allow individuals to strike if they wish. I believe Ravenclaw has taken a similar measure as a stopgap, and is designing more organized resistance. Hufflepuff has collectively walked out."

"That doesn't solve the problem of us actually learning defense though." Harry pointed out.

Hermione suddenly smiled, "Actually, Harry, I have an idea about that." Turning to us, she said, "The first Hogsmeade Weekend's this week. I've organized a meeting to talk about that at the Hog's Head Pub. Belphegor can come, although as a first year, you aren't allowed in Hogsmeade, Bael."

"That will be alright." I shrugged, "I trust my Prince to keep me informed."

As a transfer student, I should be allowed the chance to experience more of the local culture, so I doubted the usual age limit would apply. Besides, I was a professional criminal—if lawbreaking was acceptable, rulebreaking was too. On the other hand, I was a Slytherin, and we were treated with more suspicion than Kumo, so my participation would bring far more awkwardness upon these teenagers. Being pleasantly exhausted and in need of a chat with the Headmaster, I was willing to concede.

The Discord is a future plot point in WADRS, and this time, it's Bel speaking Basil's language, instead of the other way around. Homesickness bring first person pronouns, although the Ozymandias line is spoken by the Basil who is, instead of who he once was.