August 1st, 1993

Duarte let out a slow approving whistle as he stared at the nearly two meter tall brute, height made more impressive by the lack of hair to aid it. His bald head reflected most of the shaft of the afternoon light streaking in through the bar window. The man was dressed in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, and kept his eyes locked on Duarte. The man's physique looked natural, not like one of those American movie stars who spent hours in the gym.

Duarte nodded. "Yes, the boss will like you. A bruiser everyone can fear without shame. Very intimidating. What's your name?"

The man stared at him, gaze hard, for several seconds before finally saying, "Alexio."

Duarte raised an eyebrow and slid his gaze back to Tomas. "Well, Alexio, I need to confer with friend here," and he stepped over to the other side of the bar.

"Where did you find this one, Tomas? Is he trying to pull some tough guy routine on us? Not that he doesn't look it, but does he know who we are?" Duarte nodded over to the bartender who poured out a shot of bourbon - the good stuff - and took a drink. "Or is he on drugs, and has to work off a debt?

"No drugs, just an idiot. He's slow to answer, barely says anything, but if you put him in a scrape he's fine. Not a great fighter, but does he have to be? We can do the talking, he can tag along and look scary..."

Draco had christened himself Alexio, and refused to think of himself by any other name. Until he learned Occlumency, it was too dangerous. Alexio watched Tomas talk conspiratorially with the new man, the shorter one who hadn't mentioned his name. Tomas was more of a middle man, but the short one worried Draco. He looked dangerous, like he'd had to compensate for his size to demonstrate his value. He'd probably even been boasting about how the big ones are usually not so tough, but Alexio hadn't understood much. Even the simple question, one on the first page of any language book, had taken him precious seconds to work out. It wasn't like a classroom or tutoring - everyone spoke fast.

Tomas and the short man had moved over to the other side of the bar to conspire about him. Hopefully they hadn't realized how little he grasped. But this was easier, now he didn't have to focus on the words. Alexio could read the obvious greed in their faces. They'd dump their work on him and pay him too little. Alexio walked a dangerous path, but not in the sense that he'd be in much physical danger. Even a typical second year could deal with muggles, if they put their mind to it, and Alexio was in no way typical. He'd been practising a few wandless stunning hexes, typically targeting obnoxious passersby late at night. They shouldn't have worked, but they did. Perhaps his earlier tutoring paid off, or perhaps it was the physical age of the body. It was an interesting theoretical question, but he didn't have time to experiment.

Navigating the muggle world had dangers, and so he'd tested his skills, but he hoped to mostly hide them for the next year and practice alone, at his hideout. Casting spells in public risked alerting the local aurors while he clearly would be pegged as an outsider. Hiding had the less obvious (but much more important) risk - Harry would be actively consolidating power while Alexio waited in safety. No, Alexio knew he needed to start now. Because at some point, he would have enough power to be a threat to Harry Potter, and Alexio needed to make absolutely sure that his backstory did not simply start in 1993, with him as a newcomer who didn't speak the language. He needed to be someone who always spoke eloquently, but had chosen not to. Someone that had stories about him that easily predated his arrival.

Luckily Alexio had Vincent's example as a prototype. Be big, act stupid, speak only when absolutely necessary. Never break eye contact first, no matter how much you were afraid. Knowing he didn't need a wand in his hand helped calm his nerves. Alexio glanced over at the two, who were laughing now. They had made their decision. He turned his gaze to the television. The announcers still spoke too quickly (except for the news announcers) but they tended to have clear diction and usually never said anything complicated.

Tomas saw Alexio, sitting on the other side of the bar and watching them impassively for a few seconds before his eyes flickered over to the television and started watching the random trash it played. He and Duarte walked back over to Alexio, and Duarte slapped the big man on the back.

"Well, Alexio, it appears we will be working together. The only thing you should know is, I prefer redheads. So no making moves on any of them. Got it?" Duarte said.

Alexio just let out an amused snort, shrugging his shoulders. Tomas laughed.

"And how are you feeling tonight, little one?" Afonso Farias asked as he gently kissed his daughter's forehead. He could feel the slight fever in his lips, still there, but much reduced from the summer, when things had looked bleak. The doctors couldn't explain it, one had simply said it was a miracle but the others just quietly admitted that there was still a lot to learn about human physiology, and the body had defenses they didn't understand.

"I feel good, Father," Ana said. "Nanny read to me after lunch. We had soup for lunch," she added.

"That's good," Afonso added. He'd of course gotten a detailed update from Ana's nanny when he'd arrived home, and he knew that his daughter still slept about half the day. Her strength was returning slowly, but it was better than the alternative. It was barely sunset, and already her eyelids were drooping. "Perhaps you should get some sleep, my sweet," he said.

"You also, Father. You look very tired," she said, but her voice was already fading. Afonso nodded. He'd felt tired for the last year, strained by the experience of caring for his late wife and his recovering daughter. He watched her fall into a peaceful slumber for a few minutes, then went into the kitchen and prepared a small dinner and ate in front of the television, watching Baovista's latest match. They'd just been promoted to the second division, so they were getting thrashed. The score was still nil-nil, but it was only a matter of time. Afonso sighed as he cleaned up the dishes. No point in watching, he was tired. A small noise startled him and he turned to see a large looming figure in the kitchen point a stick and say a word. Afonso froze, muscles locked, and crashed into the floor. The man - nearly two meters tall and with curly black hair and a hardened jaw, looked unkempt, like he hadn't shaved in days, but he easily picked up Afonso and through him over his shoulder, saying nothing.

Afonso panicked, unable to move. Why am I frozen? And what did the man say? It wasn't Portuguese, it sounded vaguely like English. Or corrupted Latin, perhaps. Playing the scene back in his mind, Afonso was startled to see he was being carried up the attic ladder and started to whisper a prayer.

As he finished, the figured deposited him into a comfortable leather chair. The attic wasn't like he'd left it, full of boxes. The clutter had been replaced by a reasonable (if spartan) set of furniture. Afonso's eye's glanced around and saw a desk, bookshelf, chair, and a small mattress on the floor. The figure walked over to the small television placed in the center of his view and turned it on, pushing a VCR tape into the machine. He then simply went back down the ladder.

The tv screen flickered for a moment, and then Afonso saw ... himself.

"Do not be afraid, little conqueror," he said. Little conqueror was a nickname Afonso's father had bestowed on him when he was eight. "The man who did this to you is our guest. He is a warlock, or some such. He asked us for help with learning the language and the city, and to hide him. In exchange, he is helping Ana. He cannot cure her, that is beyond his power, but you've seen he does have power. But he is helping. And he has promised that once he is fluent in Portuguese he will find someone who can cure her. Perhaps we should not believe him. But what can we do? A few hours of lessons most nights, and then we forget about him. Perhaps in a year, he will be gone. It is a fair deal."

While listening with growing confusion, Afonso could hear the man downstairs, making a plate of food for himself. By the time the tape ended, the heavy footsteps climbed back up the ladder. The man set down a rather large sandwich on his writing desk and then took out his wand and said a few words. Prepared this time, Afonso recognized the words. Finite Incantatem.

"Good evening, Professor Farias, and my apologies," the man said. He spoke slowly and carefully, as if following the carpenter's adage to measure twice and cut only once. When he finished speaking he set down his wand and picked up the sandwich, then took a bite. Afonso stood up slowly and cautiously. He started to say something, then paused. The man - the warlock, Afonso had said on the tape - stopped chewing and swallowed.

"I know what you are thinking. About the police," the man said, then took another bite, then picked up a sheet of paper and walked over and deposited it on the tray table besides the leather chair. Afonso picked it up. The handwriting's elegance didn't hide the clumsiness of the language, but clearly the man had a much better grasp of written Portuguese than spoken. Or perhaps just had more time to compose his thoughts.

Apart from the fact that you trust your words on the television, I am helping your daughter's recovery. Private tutoring is a small price to pay for that, even if it must be clumsy because you do not remember each session. And since you always ask each night, removing your memories is as much for your safety as mine, as I have powerful enemies who are hunting for me. And you know the police would laugh at you, or much worse.



As for my name, we've generally gone with Orpheus. Please critique the writing on this letter while I finish eating. Also, can you tell where I am from?

"You are English, Orpheus," Afonso said, voice steadying after a few words.

"How do you know?" asked Orpheus, before taking another bite.

"Your accent is good, but your sentence construction betrays you. And in any case, no native would consider going to the police a serious threat. At least, not from someone who wasn't wealthy." Afonso spoke slowly, but Orpheus repeated the sentence back, emphasizing a few words, which Afonso translated into English. It took several repetitions, but Orpheus grasped it. He is, actually, a surprisingly attentive student.

Orpheus nodded at the sentence, one he grasped its meaning, and chuckled at the last part before swallowing the last of the sandwich.

Afonso looked up. "That is it, isn't it? You will consider yourself fluent when I cannot guess your accent?" While Orpheus struggled with that sentence, particularly with the word fluent, Afonso walked over to the bookshelf and read the titles. An entire row of books on elementary Portuguese, and some tourist guides for Brazil and also Portugal. More interesting were the scrolls and ancient looking tomes that could have been pulled from a movie or child's fairy tale. English books with bizarre yet somehow mundane sounding names, Intermediate Transfigurations, Practical Divinations for Everyone, Runic Lore, and seven volumes of Miranda Grawshank's Standard Book of Spells. Names that implied that 'wizard' might simply be another trade, like professor, lawyer, mechanic or scientist. Beside the bookshelf a small cauldron bubbled quietly.

"Yes," Orpheus said. "You said another year to be fluent. Ana should be fine within a few months. I cannot cure her. Healing magics are not ... mine. I can brew palliative formulas."

"A surprisingly complex word, palliative," Afonso said.

"Which you taught me. Now, the letter? I've written more, Correct them for mistakes. Formal language for writing, common language for speaking. Correct anything I say. We have ninety minutes left, to work. Then we both sleep."

Author's Note - The final chapter will be posted on Christmas Eve.