Eight hours, sixteen minutes, forty three seconds. Forty four seconds. Forty five. Peter stretched one leg out across the sofa where where he'd been diligently waiting since 5 am to meet his idol. Never mind that he had no idea what he looked like, or if he would be of any use to Peter, or, honestly, even existed. It had taken him the better part of his first term at Cambridge to even sort out where he could find Ferox, since no one seemed to know where his lab was, and another two weeks to work up the courage to go and see him. Since then, he'd been unsuccessfully waiting in the science lounge where he'd been told Ferox was occasionally, hoping the man would show up one day. (And decide Peter was an unheralded genius who deserved his guidance, but that was just wishful thinking.)

On his third day waiting in the morning, a passing grad student had asked what Peter was up to, and helpfully informed him that Ferox kept very unusual hours. So Peter had shown up this morning long before dawn in hopes of intercepting him. He'd decided he was just going to camp here until either Ferox appeared, or he starved to death because he only had a small packet of crisps in his backpack, which he'd already eaten half of. Looking down, he brushed a few errant crumbs off his jeans.

Someone was coming. Peter scrambled to his feet, blinking sleep out of his eyes, as a man rounded the corner and approached. No, wait, too young to be Ferox. He was expecting someone venerable, older like his Cambridge tutors, possibly with a beard. His shoulders sagged in disappointment. The man continued toward him, shuffling a few things in his hands and nearly dropping a sheaf of papers as he crammed a tie into his beat-up bag. He was oddly dressed, in dark clothes that were incredibly well cut but carelessly put on, collar and cuffs of his shirt undone, hair damp as though he'd just showered, but unshaven. Peter waited for him to pass by so he could go back to being mind numbingly bored.

Shockingly, the man stopped and perched on the edge of a chair. No one ever stopped here; it was rather out of the way. He put down the mass of papers that had been precariously in his hands along with the tie and a styrofoam coffee cup, apparently needing a moment to sort them and put them away before he went on. Peter glanced down at the papers, which looked like the draft of an article. Ferox 4. Typed on the top right corner of a page. But this couldn't be him. It had to be an assistant proof-reading for him, or a student with an already published article. Ferox would be older, more distinguished. But--just maybe--it was unlikely, but if it wasn't him, he'd never see the bloke again. Not so embarrassing. Peter cleared his throat as the man (Ferox?) stacked the papers again and tucked them back into his bag. Okay, remember not to sound too Scottish. You'll confuse him. Peter's heart was thumping. This could be it. This could be the moment when he stopped being rubbish.

"Sir?" The man looked up, blinking. His eyes were massive, frigid against his pale skin. Peter noticed a welt, suspiciously in the shape of teeth, below his ear. This wasn't Ferox. He was too young, too well-dressed, too (inexplicably, considering he looked rather like a vampire) popular with women, given that mark, for a scientist. But, as usual, Peter had started talking and couldn't help himself. "Mr. Ferox? Hi? Hi. Hi." Stop saying hi. "I'm Peter Shaw, Pete. I've been wanting to meet you, if it's you--ha, is it you?--for a really long time. I've read all your papers, and I think they're brilliant, because I love theory and I'm really rubbish at magic, and I thought maybe you could help me. But I'm not rubbish at everything, I'm here for Chemistry and I got four A-levels and I really, really want to learn and-- Look, Mr. Ferox, all good geniuses have assistants. Do you need one?"

Cal had woken up sometime after noon, after Jasper had come up for what was, increasingly, an habitual lunchtime interlude of such things as cuddling. And things. He'd been distracted, though. He had to finish an article for Potion Masters Monthly. Ordinarily it wouldn't trouble him, but there was the matter of walking the fine, fine line that ran between what Shallah wanted him to keep secret and any discoveries he made that might be useful to the academic community. Every so often he published a Muggle paper in physics, if someone would take it, but he hadn't done that in months; it hadn't been what occupied his time since, really, his early twenties. His latest transfiguration equations all had to do--that spell--and he didn't want to risk getting too close. As for potions, generally speaking he found his ideas were too esoteric, and relied upon too much of the methodology he had established himself, to reach any trade publication without compromising the sanctity of his work. Not that he hadn't done so while Carlisle was alive.

He wrote up the vaguest treatise he could on the use of homologous organs in potions made in complex temporal fields and hoped it would be good enough. To print it he had to leave his lab and his laptop and trek to the library. He stopped to spend a few pence on the automatic coffee maker.

While he was out he ran into--or shoulder-bumped--someone he thought was Dorian, but it wasn't--ad nearly spilt his coffee. He ought to try to find him. Juggling his papers, he tried to unJasper himself. Jasper had, predictably enough, laid out his clothes for him, and he'd put them on after a hasty shower, but they were much too formal for the lab. Someday Jas would have to start listening to him about this... not that he minded, really, did he mind? Did he mind anything he did?

Funny thing about pronouns, he thought, when he thought. The way they implicitly warred, if they were both masculine and thus ambiguous. Was that why he had the identity problems he... or jealousy...

No, this paper. It was so much easier to think only about lab work when he was actually in his lab, or at home. That was why he didn't like to go out. It jarred him and made his thinking shallow.

Maybe he'd see Dorian. That tended to lift his spirits, for whatever reason.

He turned distractedly into the common area near his lab, put his satchel on the floor, finally whipped the tie out of his undone collar and wadded it into his back. He perched on the edge of an armchair and tried to rearrange his things. Sometimes Dorian--

He looked up to find a young man, a boy really, staring back. Undegraduate, obviously. He looked no older than seventeen, not that Cal was an accurate judge or example; he'd looked quite young until at least twenty. He looked nervous. Sometimes, Cal knew, he frightened people. It pleased him until it embarrassed him.

"Sir?" God, he wasn't that old, surely? Sir. Did one become a sir at thirty... The boy's eyes bobbed down--what was he--one hand came up to cover a bite mark on his neck. He never thought anyone would see. Usually they didn't. "Mr. Ferox? Hi? Hi. Hi." Right. If he were a spy he was the worst-- "I'm Peter Shaw, Pete. I've been wanting to meet you, if it's you--ha, is it you?--for a really long time. I've [...]"

Cal blinked and leaned back, shocked into his automatic academic posture. Hands folded, legs crossed loosely at the knee, imaginary deerstalker had firmly in place. When confronted with someone so earnest and so juvenilely eager this was the pose he took. It was a few seconds before he realized he could hardly make out Shaw was saying through an ear-creaking accent. Scots? Something. He blinked rapidly, warding off the likewise imaginary dazzle of his voice. It was really so high-pitched it seemed visually bright. At the same time there was something--maybe--a little endearingly awkward about him. Not that he himself had ever been like this. What was he on--something about A-levels. Chemistry. Geniuses and assistants.

"Pardon me?" he said, when the chunk of words seemed to have reached its arbitrary end. "Mister. Shaw? I'm Calixtus Ferox. I'm not sure exactly what you're after, but as an undergraduate..." No one had ever asked to assist him before. How many Wizards were there at Cambridge? A handful, maybe, but they were there to escape that world, generally speaking, not. Whatever this was. He cleared his throat. "You're unqualified." One hand moved restlessly over his neck. "I'm sorry. How did you find me? My lab is more than unPlottable."

It is him. It is him. Don't say anything stupid. Don't hyperventilate like the time you saw Ronaldo in a pub. That was so embarrassing. But he was so cool, and they'd just won the-- Pay attention. Pay attention. Pete made himself sit back down, balancing on the edge of his chair as Ferox settled back into his. This was the point where it was especially imperative that he didn't act like an idiot. Geniuses needed genius assistants. Or at least ones who weren't gaping like morons. Breathe. Breathe. He felt like he had when he asked Carlie Barratt to Cambridge's winter formal last week (miraculously she'd said yes, even though he'd tripped on the carpet when he walked up to her), only around five hundred times as nervous. There was a pause when he finally finished speaking. Ferox's eyes practically lasered him with skepticism.

"Pardon me?" It was a flat voice, lower than Pete had expected and slightly bemused. "Mister. Shaw? I'm Calixtus Ferox. I'm not sure exactly what you're after, but as an undergraduate..."

There was a heavy pause and Ferox's fingers slid over the red welt on his neck. Pete realized he'd been looking down at it, if only to avoid making eye contact. His eyes dropped to the ugly carpet of the lounge, a weird orangish color. Maybe it hid potion stains or something. The pause had come in a less than promising place, and his stomach twisted a bit nauseously. Why had he had to say "Hi" three times? Ferox thought he was totally mental. Now he was going to have to go through his whole life unable to do more than accidentally turn dish towels into radishes.

"You're unqualified." Of course I am. A look that was something vaguely like pity flickered across Ferox's face and was gone before Pete could fully register it, sliding back behind the serious, chilly set of his lips and too-sharp cheekbones. He was practically cadaverous. Pete wondered if "keeps unusual hours" was a code for "is undead" that he'd misunderstood. "I'm sorry. How did you find me? My lab is more than unPlottable."

"That's why I'm here, sir. I asked about your lab, don't worry--it really is impossible to find. One of the grad students told me they saw you here every once in a while, so I've just been waiting. Sorry, that sounds really weird and like something's wrong with me, like, I'm not stalking you or anything, but I just really wanted to meet you, sir."

He paused and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He should have cut it, maybe he would have looked older or smarter or something. Or he should have gotten glasses. Or not worn plimsolls. God, look at Ferox; he was dressed like he'd just had a car chase after a GQ photoshoot. Of course he wasn't going to take on some idiot teenager. He made himself take a deep breath. He'd gotten into university just to meet this man; he couldn't give up so easily.

"Mr. Ferox, I know I'm not very old, or educated at all compared to you, but I'm good at chemistry, sir. I got into loads of schools here and in America, but I came here because of you. I'm, look, honestly, I'm incredibly rubbish at magic. I didn't go to Hogwarts, that's how bad I am, but I really want to learn. My sister tried to help me--our parents are Muggle-- but she doesn't know about theory or why my magic is so defective or anything. And I thought maybe you could help me, or at least I could do theory with you or something. And I heard--"

--that you're terrible at magic too. You can't say that, don't be an idiot. He doesn't like you as it is, don't talk about how bad he is at magic.

"--that you might be the person to help me."

Cal couldn't quite make out everything Pete was saying. That heavy accent--mixed with the speed at which he spoke--all combined and created the overwhelming sense of a lawnmower coming right at you. More annoying than frightening, but--very annoying.

"Mr. Ferox, I know I'm not very old, or educated at all compared to you, but I'm good at chemistry, sir."

Cal caught himself parodying Pete in his head, an ironic half-mockery just a beat behind. The pause contained all of his cruel judgment and all of his labored translation of the Scottish accent.

"[...]And I thought maybe you could help me, or at least I could do theory with you or something. And I heard--"

That pause he knew. That was the 'is he a Squib' pause.

"--that you might be the person to help me."

Oh. Or not. Cal ran his hand over his neck and down to fiddle uncomfortably with his shirt-collar. There was something queasily enjoyable about this. In the same way there was something enjoyable about--the reference left. Something. But in some way wrong, too.

"I don't help people."

That was what it was. He felt in a movie. He felt incompletely connected to the moment. There was that whole--the way he sometimes felt with Jasper. Or how he'd felt when he'd gone to Atlas's shop, before everything went so horribly awry. At the same time it was--how had he sounded approaching Carlisle? Similar.

"Theory with me or something," he added, contemptuously. "Write out the equations for a supratemporal quale transfiguration and then we'll talk." He stood up, trying to seem impressive, but only knocked his bag off the table somehow. Sh-t. He bent to pick it up.

"I don't help people."

What he meant, of course, was "I don't help unqualified magical idiots." Pete had known he'd get this response at first, and he supposed it wasn't unwarranted. If you had the kind of talent Ferox had, you couldn't spend your time entertaining every moron who crossed your path. At the same time, he'd hoped there might be a little bit of sympathy in Ferox somewhere, if nothing else because they, he thought, had something in common. He would even have accepted pity if it got him in the door. Pete had suffered enough embarrassing failures in his attempts to learn magic that very little actually shamed him anymore.

There was an awkward pause. Pete didn't know exactly what Ferox expected him to say now. He supposed that the other man thought he might give up and leave. Most people would have, after the scathing finality of the last comment. But this was really the last resort for Pete. He'd planned his university career around meeting Ferox.

"Theory with me or something." Ferox looked like he was hovering on the edge of a bitter laugh. "Write out the equations for a supratemporal quale transfiguration and then we'll talk."

Pete almost did want to leave, then. Supratemporal--maybe he could do half of one, but clearly Ferox thought he was entirely incapable. It was practically an impossible task; Ferox would just find some tiny flaw and use it to dismiss him. The older man stood, obviously sure that the encounter was over, and Pete's shoulders sagged back against his chair. He hadn't gotten anywhere. He was ready to stand and retreat when Ferox knocked his bag off the table clumsily. A few papers spilled from the open top.

How--human. Pete felt a sudden jump of courage. Whatever academic, haughty veneer had been surrounding Ferox cracked a little bit. He dug into his own backpack quickly and pulled out a yellow notepad and the nub of a pencil.

"I--just give me a minute, sir." He started scribbling furiously, glancing up sometimes to make sure Ferox was still there. Okay, start off with a simple motion formula, that gave you the transition into time eventually. No, wait, it was transfiguration not disillusionment, you had to use a different variable. He found he'd written himself into a corner and scratched out a hastily sketched parabola. Useless. He went back and corrected his mistake. Bit of Grindlewald's Theory of Transmutable Characteristics--

He was so close, but he couldn't get through the final step. There was only one more, he knew, before he had the equation, but he hadn't understood that paper. One of Ferox's, actually. Damn. He offered the paper up in defeat.

"That's almost it, I know there's one more thing but I'm not sure about the last step. It's from one of your papers on the physics of transfiguration--I wasn't as good at physics as I am at chemistry, and Rebecca--my sister-- tried to help, but she's a wandmaker, she doesn't know anything about this kind of stuff. This is why I came to you, because I want to understand this kind of stuff. If I can't do magic, I want to at least know why I can't or how I can or--something." He shook the paper slightly, bringing attention to the long equations. "I mean, I can learn, sir. I learned nearly all this alone. I thought maybe if I had someone who actually knew what they were doing it would make a difference."

Cal finished sorting his things and stood up, swinging his satchel onto one shoulder. He picked up his cup of coffee--nearly spilled it--looked down at Pete, who looked back, fearful-puppy-style. But he'd gotten out a pencil and paper.

"I--just give me a minute, sir."

Cal blinked and stood back, shuffling the coffee between sticky fingers and lips. He finished quickly, eyeing the paper--it was easier for him to see pages from either very close or quite far away, but he would not get reading glasses. When he finished he tossed the cup into a nearby trash, then swung back, hands shoved into his pants pockets, and hunched closer to Pete.

He'd done the right primary equations--at least for a subset of supratemporal spells--that surprised him. It didn't exactly impress him. He was, of course, hard to impress; he didn't like to be impressed.

Pete had nearly reached the end, pressing harder with his pencil, and Cal leaned over him, first on one foot, then another. He wanted to correct an error, but it would hardly--but this was how he got sometimes. When he'd been in school he had suffered from the near-constant urge to correct or improve everything he saw. When it was public art it sometimes occasioned criticism. When it was his physics professors papers, it occasioned departmental strife. When it was fellow students it only made them hate him even more than they already did.

He was going the long way around the problem. Instead of the algorithm Cal had developed, he was using Transmutable Characteristics. For a moment he remembered how it had felt--skimming alongside Pete down the line of numbers and symbols--not to have the shortcut quite in mind. He'd been an undergraduate when he'd figured it out. What he recalled was the sense that he might not think of an answer. There had been no one to tell him he ought even to work on the problem.

There. Pete reached a stopping-place. Cal sighed and rocked back on his heels.

"Not quite." He lifted the paper delicately between two fingers and examined it, lips pursing unconsciously. "Good enough." He threw it down in front of Pete, who began to babble something in his heavy accent. Something about magic, his sister, Cal's paper... "Right. I suppose I can use someone to--" His bag fell from his shoulder to his elbow, and Cal caught it before it hit the floor. "--carry things for me. Clean up. I'll think about it. I a not a chemist; I work mainly with potions. What, exactly, is wrong with your magic? Are you a Muggle or merely untalented?"

Ferox lifted up the paper between two spindly fingers. He really was cadaverous. As he scanned the sheet Pete wondered when he'd last seen sunlight, and placed a conservative estimate at about three and a half years. Sometimes, when he walked at home, Pete turned over rocks on the muddy edge of the loch and peeked at the pale, pigmentless bugs underneath. Ferox made him think of those.

"Not quite." There was a pause and Ferox's eyes flickered over the bottom of the page. "Good enough."

He released the sheet and it wafted to the floor, where Pete snatched it up, elated. Good enough was good enough for him. He wanted to run down the corridors of the building jumping for joy. He was going to work with the theoretician. Maybe, maybe, maybe, he was going to learn to use magic at last. He tried to say something, but Ferox had on the blank stare that generally greeted him when he tried to talk to American tourists in Inverary, so he trailed off.

"Right. I suppose I can use someone to--" He fumbled with his bag again and Peter suppressed a smile. "--carry things for me. Clean up. I'll think about it. I a not a chemist; I work mainly with potions. What, exactly, is wrong with your magic? Are you a Muggle or merely untalented?"

And there it was. Pete knew the question had been coming. He wanted to ask the same of Ferox, obviously, but that would just be absurd. This was where he got rejected, in all likelihood. Like at Hogwarts. Ferox couldn't possibly have imagined how awful he really was.

"I'm--a Wizard, technically. I have magic. I just can't use it. It goes wrong every time. I think of the spell and then I can't find the right bit of magic in my head, so I just sort of choose the first one, and then, you know, I turn someone's shoe into an alligator instead of doing a Lumos or whatever. It's really terrible. My parents tried to help me, I had a tutor, and Rebecca but--we can't figure it out. That's why I want to do theory."

Well, this was turning into a pity party. Pete stood and smiled brightly. "It's going to be great, I won't disappoint you, sir!"

He put his hand out. "Want me to get your bag? Should I come now, I can start today, I haven't got lecture and you could show me around the lab and--"

He realized he'd been very rude.

"Thanks. Thank you so much."

Cal frowned, eyebrows coming together, and shuffled himself upright.

"Yes, please." Why not. He would only drop it again and humiliate himself. "Be careful, I've got my papers inside." He jerked his head at Leo and led the way toward his lab, thinking through the boy's magical problems. If he believed him. Maybe he was just a Squib, like Cal. Cal had once done that, in a distant and horridly embarrassing moment in his past; had pretended he was only very bad at magic.

But Pete didn't seem the type. He seemed too pathetic even to try to dissimulate. No, it was probably what it seemed. Disappointing. He might turn out to be useless. But Cal supposed it would be proper to keep him. Potions Masters were supposed to take apprentices within the first ten years of their certification, if they weren't teaching. He would be up for review, might as well... bloody... he fabricated Jasperly epithets in his head and let them calm him.

"Right here. Hold on. Stop. First I need to know if you're really committedi to this, because otherwise it's quite possible I'll have to wipe your memory." He tried for some of the fearsome stare Carlisle had so perfected, and felt horribly inadequate, simulacral. But the boy did look frightened--and now he felt a bit bad-- "--well, have to keep the lab secret, don't you know," he added, lamely.

He took out a vial and a needle, kept conveniently in one of his pockets for just such an occasion. "So--I'll need your blood before you can get in; the wards are complex, I'm afraid. Hold out your hand."