3rd April, 1891 — Early Morning, Padmore Park

He’d woken up drowning for the third night in a row.

He only had flashes of it left, when he was awake, but he knew it was something. It wasn’t him, for one; he was not in his body or wearing his clothes, and there were shapes in the water that felt like more.

But if Savino wanted to figure that out with the usual methods, he had to know what to look for - so he had to remember it first, with the details intact. So this was where things got weird, because he’d tried just washing his face and tried falling asleep in the bathtub and it wasn’t close enough, it wasn’t dredging up the dream like he wanted.

So, the moment he had woken up today he had dressed in something of a stupor and apparated to Hogsmeade, hoping he could get this over with quickly before anyone asked questions. Finding himself in the park, the morning crisp and cool and clear, Savino wandered towards the water’s edge, hoping this bank of the lake would be close enough and vast enough to make it surface.

He settled on the bank, pulling off his shoes and socks and putting his feet in - it was April, it was Scotland, it was freezing but that was right, it should be - and shut his eyes, trying to drift back off.

It was helping, at least a little, and he was far enough in it that when he shifted forwards and began wading into the lake fully-clothed, walking like he was sleepwalking, Savino was entirely unconscious of how strange this looked. Still, once the water was waist-deep he sank further into it, letting out a gasp as the cold water hit his chest and then going under.

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   Reuben Crouch

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It had been a while since he'd done this, but after a March that was hectic, to say the least, Ford felt like he needed it. The peace of just being on his own, not dealing with his sisters or his mother or with the dark storm cloud that seemed to be hanging over his brother's head any time they were in the same room these days. Someday things would be better, but not today, and he had a long Saturday full of pretending ahead of him. As they drew nearer to the social season, Saturdays were beginning to feel like more work than the Ministry did, and today was no exception. If he was going to have a minute to himself, then it had to be early, but he was used to getting up early to get ready for work (something no one else in his house ever did), so he didn't mind. He'd skipped shaving in favor of having more time on his own, walked down to the park, and shoved off in one of the little rowboats that were always available at the dock with a book of poetry under his arm.

Sometimes when he came out like this he split his attention between reading and people watching, all along the banks of the Black Lake, but this early there was nothing to see and so he'd gotten lost in the lines instead. The flicker of movement in the corner of his field of vision made him look up, but it was only a man sitting on the bank, which wasn't odd at all — and wasn't really his business, anyway. He tried to refocus on his book, but then another flutter of movement caught his eyes. The stranger was walking into the lake now, and it — still wasn't any of Ford's business, although now it was definitely odd. Ford shifted awkwardly, feeling as though he was spying on a private moment of some kind, though he didn't understand what it was. This wasn't his business, whatever this fellow was doing, and he'd just come out here to read...

And then he went under the water entirely, and Ford let out an immediate squawk of alarm. He dropped his book in the bottom of the boat and groped clumsily for the oars of the rowboat. Should he yell out something? He didn't imagine that man would hear him now — or that he would care, since he'd clearly done this quite deliberately — but Ford couldn't just sit by and watch someone drown themselves, whether it was his business or not.

"Shit," he said under his breath, starting to row over towards him.

  

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Set by Lady!

Once he was below the water, he felt it again, knew he was in it. He couldn’t say if his eyes were open or closed or even who he was, but the water had changed - a different colour, a stronger current tugging at him than the stillness of the lake. So he struck out deeper, further down into the water and the dream, feeling shadows of looming rocks over him and pale thrashing limbs grasping; he turned his head suddenly and felt like a room had been tipped up sideways, everything askew, objects crashing and sliding and floating away with nothing to moor them to one place -

Now there was a shadow on the surface of the water, a patch of darkness above that could be part of the dream, or might not be. He tried to resist the doubt, but it only took a heartbeat to leak in, and doubt only tore these dreams apart. Trying to resist it, Savino struck out downwards instead, propelling himself as much as he could whilst his lungs emptied and the pressure in his head strengthened by the second.

Was this constricting feeling Savino’s body that wanted air so badly, or theirs? He wasn’t sure, but it was reeling him to the shadow and the surface all the same, and he was himself enough to know he had broken the surface for air again. But there was still a part of him fighting it, thrashing in place, partly in a concerted effort not to lose the threads of this - and partly in crushing, visceral, heart-stopping panic.

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Ford had been panicking but plotting as he rowed over, trying to think of how he was going to get the man out of the water. Presumably a spell could do the trick, but (predictably) no spells were coming to mind at the moment that would be well-suited. The next thing that occurred to him was a bubble-head charm, which would enable him to reach the fellow, but then what? What was he supposed to do, wrestle him back to shore? Call for help in Mermish and hope that someone was close enough to respond (and not too annoyed to find two trespassers in their lake)?

Luckily he was saved from having to consider the question further, because just as he reached the right spot, the man broke the surface. Ford scrambled to the right side of the boat and reached out, scrambling to hook his arms under the stranger's shoulders so that he could hold him up above the surface. Doing this caused Ford's boat to dip dangerously low on that end, so much so that water sloshed into the bottom and likely ruined his poor book.

Having the man on the surface was a start, but Ford didn't know what to do next — he didn't think he was strong enough to pull him into the boat, and was worried he might tip the whole thing over if he tried it. And the man was thrashing around, which made it impossible to do anything.

"Hey, calm down," Ford called, as he struggled to try and keep his grip on the man. He wasn't trying to yell, but he felt he had to raise his voice in order to be heard over the splashing. "You're alright. I've got you. You're alright."

  

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Set by Lady!

Someone was grasping at him, lifting him up from under his arms, and now he had no sense what was part of it and what was now, but there were still words in his mouth that weren’t quite his, names he didn’t even know, and he was trying to get them out - but he’d gulped a bit of lakewater instead so only coughed, coughed hard enough that he had to stop kicking or concentrating on anything else but that until he could start to breathe.

Someone was talking to him - in the present, here - and Savino sagged slightly for a second as the nearer physical sensations sharpened into focus: cold, wet, sputtering, shivering, waterlogged clothes...  Then he realised the person holding him was in a boat (the dark shape on the water, much smaller than the shapes in his dream) and he tried to be more useful - to hold himself above the water himself, trying to turn better towards the man and find some purchase on the side of the boat that was tipping towards him without... well, filling it with water.

Hopefully Savino was not bringing the dream to life right now by accidentally causing the poor person trying to help him to drown, because that would be a unfortunate turn. But no, the magnitude of the dream had been - something else. Salt water. Rocks. “More than one body,” he mumbled, in the middle of mouthing everything he could remember to himself.

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The man had turned slightly towards the row boat, which was a good sign overall since it meant less thrashing and more holding up his own weight. It did mean that Ford had to lean out farther to keep his grip on the man, though, and now he had one arm elbow-deep in the lake and water sloshing around his knees in the bottom of the boat.

More than one body was a very weird thing to say. Since the other man still had his back to Ford, Ford had missed all of the non-verbal portions of it, which was probably for the best, because he was having a hard enough time with just more than one body. Was this some sort of bizarre existential crisis? Some spiritual thing? Ford had, admittedly, never paid much attention in church when the Greengrass family did decide to go. Maybe it was more literal than that... there were, in fact, two bodies here now that Ford had intruded on his little swim lap.

It probably didn't mean anything at all, because this man was probably unhinged. His action so far would have pointed towards unhinged or suicidal, which was... just a different form of unhinged, really (and also becoming something of a recurring theme in the men Ford met — was there something in the air in Hogsmeade lately?)

Well. Anyway. Whatever was meant by more than one body was less important than trying to get this man into a not-drowning position. Glancing around to take stock of the situation (not excellent: Ford's boat had at least a few inches of water in the bottom and was tipped quite precariously towards one corner, and his grip on the other man was secure enough to keep him from sinking but not nearly strong enough to do much in the way of lifting him), he eventually decided he needed to let go for a minute. Hopefully this bloke wasn't going to push off into the lake to spite him, or anything.

"Here, take my hand, alright?" Ford directed, slipping one arm out from under his shoulders and reaching for the man's hand. "I'll pull you up." (He was not confident that he could, but one bridge at a time).

  

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Set by Lady!

By the time the man had let go of him for a minute there was enough air in Savino’s lungs again to think clearly, and enough presence in that to be able to tread water for a moment while they evaluated the situation. Savino had intended to swim back to shore - would have easily, usually, he’d grown up visiting the lakes in Lombardy and ocean-swimming off the Sicilian coast - but reliving the dream had sapped an unnatural amount of energy, and it felt as though he’d been treading water for hours, not seconds, felt as though he’d been through a - well, a drowning... a shipwreck.

So, too exhausted to swim and too exhausted to explain himself, Savino scrounged up the last vestiges of energy in his body and lurched up for the man’s hand. Aware that the boat was liable to capsize or that he might pull the stranger in, he tried to split his weight between the hand and his grip on the boat, and tip himself over the side. It was ungainly at best, and he had to swing a leg up to make it over, and there was water already in the bottom of the rowboat when he toppled into it but hopefully not too much to see them sink immediately.

Savino cleared his throat, still more concerned with the vision than anything but had settled into calmness again enough to recognise that this looked a little weird. “I, ah - thank you,” he offered to the stranger (although really the man had been the one to interrupt him), with a polite smile to match as if this was entirely usual. Shifting from where he was sprawled to sit up a little, Savino reflexively checked his pocketwatch as he usually did when he made any record of things he’d seen - only he’d left his pocketbook for that kind of thing with his things at the lake’s edge, so had nothing to make notes with here. Having glanced at the slightly-sodden book laying nearby as if that would be any use either, Savino eventually returned his attention to the man. “Sorry about that,” he added, perhaps a little belatedly.

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The man had gotten into the boat (probably more on his own strength than on Ford's assistance), so that was one hurdle overcome. So now they were both wet, and Ford was starting to feel a chill creep in from the misty morning air, but at least neither of them were in any imminent danger, which was an improvement over every prior piece of this interaction. Ford took a breath and shook one hand in the air in front of him, as though this would help dry his sleeve. Then he retrieved his book, whose pages were already starting to crumple like a sixteenth-century ruff collar. Ford frowned at it, then laid it gently down on the seat next to him, hoping it might dry a little flatter than it currently was but not holding out much hope for it.

"Are you?" he asked in response to the man's apology, raising one eyebrow at him. "Not to be rude," he added, pausing slightly as he tried to find a polite way to convey what he was thinking. "That just — seemed very — intentional."

Even if he wasn't sorry, though, it was probably nicer for Ford's sake that he could pretend to be. If he'd been combative about having his suicide attempt interrupted, Ford really wouldn't have known what to say in his defense. There wasn't really anything to say in your defense if you were talking to someone who was unhinged, was there?

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Set by Lady!

He was a little sorry - this had not been part of the plan - but he had not been expecting to be questioned about it so directly. He supposed he could try and make it seem like an accidental near-drowning, but judging by his comment the stranger had evidently seen too much of it to believe him. What this man thought he had been doing, deliberately wading fully clothed into the lake, Savino wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t sure he would believe he’d only been going for a casual swim, the way he’d been thrashing about a few minutes ago. I wasn’t trying to drown myself, Savino was a beat away from assuring; but then, he sort of had been, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to get into all of that now. I wasn’t trying to die. But it turns out other people are going to.

“Well, I -” Savino offered slowly. “I am sorry for - interrupting your reading,” he amended, with another brief smile and absolutely no explanation of what he had been doing. “I hadn’t noticed that anyone was out here already.” Savino had been half-asleep upon arriving here, so all his motions had been mostly automatic. This man was not going to think he was normal, he knew that, but he couldn’t be too preoccupied with that or with trying to placate this stranger, because truth be told, he wasn’t very sorry that he’d interrupted his poetry reading. At present it was more important, Savino felt, to keep running through his mind all he had just remembered of the dream, and trying to commit as much as possible to memory before he could get somewhere alone to actually sort it all out. (The ship. But which ship, and where, and when? Every sign and symbol he had could be the detail that made the difference.)

But he could not get anywhere until he had his wand on him again to apparate home, and his wand was tucked in his shoes on the bank, and he was apparently, unfortunately, hijacking a stranger’s rowboat. Savino looked at him hopefully, and jerked his head at the bank. “But would you mind - dropping me off?” (Not that there was much choice in this: Savino had no intention of hanging around soaking wet and freezing cold in a rowboat. Presumably this man didn’t either, now Savino had summarily ruined his little excursion - and he had gone to such effort “saving” him that Savino wasn’t sure he’d take kindly to him jumping right back out to swim himself to shore, either.)

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   Fortitude Greengrass

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Ford surveyed the other man with a puzzled look at that explanation. It might not be true, but supposing it was, this fellow was either terribly polite and was genuinely sorry that his attempt to end his life had inconvenienced anyone, or that wasn't what he'd been trying to do at all. As much as Ford would liked to have believed he'd misinterpreted the situation, he couldn't think of any alternative explanation for the behavior he'd witnessed. If he'd been intending to walk down to the bottom of the Black Lake without drowning, he would have cast a bubble-head charm or something before he'd gotten in so deep, and he wouldn't have been thrashing around in the water like that if he'd had some plan on how to get through it without hurting himself.

Maybe he was suicidal and polite, then.

"Yeah, 'course," Ford agreed after this brief moment of consideration. It wasn't as though there were many alternatives; they certainly couldn't both stay in the rowboat in the middle of the lake forever. "As long as you promise not to do it again," Ford said with a wry twist of his mouth as he reached for the paddles and started angling the boat around towards the nearest shore. It was an attempt at levity, but he wasn't sure if it was intended to put the stranger at ease or to increase his own comfort with this bizarre situation.

"I come out this early sometimes because it's quiet," he explained, to the man's earlier observation about not having noticed anyone else around. "Well," he amended, "It's usually quiet."

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   Savino Zabini

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Set by Lady!

Savino managed a chuckle at the thought of promising not to do it again. “Oh, no,” he said, as if it was unthinkable, as if were he to have another vision of drowning he would not be back out here tomorrow, and he grinned slightly, supposing making light of it was the best way forward, no matter what the man thought he had been trying to do. “It was much colder than I thought it would be, so,” he offered with a little shrug. (It had been colder than he’d expected, when he had been underwater and not there.)

He felt like he ought to offer to help with the rowing, rather than let the stranger ferry him all the way, but they were already moving and it did give Savino more room in his own head to keep running through the vision. He had - questions, and ideas, and half a temptation to talk them through - but there was too much context to give, people rarely took the Seer thing particularly well, were scoffing and skeptical as often as otherwise, and there was little use just asking questions about ships out of the blue to someone who probably knew nothing about it, and Savino probably already seemed mad enough.

So, in a conscious effort not to begin murmuring to himself and just as likely book himself an enforced trip to the asylum, Savino pretended to be preoccupied with rolling up his sodden sleeves and wringing out the bottom of his shirt, as if this would make him any drier. He tucked his bare feet under him to hopefully make them feel a little less numb, and was just running a hand through his hair at it’s usually quiet, so pulled a face that was slightly amused and slightly sheepish. “It is - nice,” he considered, casting his gaze out at the early morning landscape for a moment and exhaling slowly. As if maybe he could drink in some of that external peace, and pretend it would get rid of the constricted feeling in his chest and lungs that he already knew was going to sit with him for some time, whether the drowning happened to him or not. “What do you read?”

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The man's remark about it being cold was probably intended as a joke, but Ford didn't manage a laugh or even a smile in response. It was too similar in tone and style to the conversation he'd had with Noble after he'd passed out at the dinner table, and they still hadn't really resolved all of that. Noble had said he wasn't trying to hurt himself, but was there any meaningful difference between actively trying to hurt yourself and just not caring enough to be properly safe about things? The attitude behind it was similar, Ford thought, and the impact if things went too far would be the same.

He didn't actually want to be thinking about that, though — he got out here to get away from all of that, not to wallow in it. Luckily, the other man's question gave him an easy out to avoid having to pretend to enjoy the joke. He glanced over at the book sympathetically, as though it were an actual companion whose outing had been equally interrupted instead of merely an object.

"Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass. It's — you know, actually, of all my books this is probably the one that would least mind being wet," Ford mused as he continued to row. "Whitman's an American poet. Very strange fellow. Lots of nature references in his poetry. He'd probably think this is a very romantic look for a book to have."

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Set by Lady!

The book had been a safe change of subject, then; the boat-rower seemed a little more at ease talking about this Whitman and the book; Savino might have tuned out entirely and gone back to dwelling on the vision if he hadn’t heard very strange fellow and had to make sure this stranger was not talking about him.

But actually – Savino gave another small smile, in spite of his weariness and the weight of the wreck in his head – this fellow was a little strange, himself, at least with the fond way he talked about the poetry book sitting by him.

“I will have to read his work, then,” he said, as they neared the bank – mostly sincerely, though. He hadn’t read much poetry in English – did not entirely trust that his English was good enough to appreciate it properly – but he had some interest in America, and some sympathy for very strange people of any sort. “I would have offered to buy you a new copy,” Savino added lightly, looking at the pages crinkling with damp, “but if you think it suits it...” He shrugged, jokingly. (He still ought to reimburse him for ruining it, someday, somehow – he hadn’t apparated to the park with any money on him – but the book of poems was not the biggest casualty on his mind today, so perhaps that would have to wait.)

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If he'd known it would mean turning down money, he wouldn't have said a word about Whitman's romantic tendencies, Ford thought wryly. Not that there was anything to be done about it now; there was no way to gracefully steer the conversation backwards and say that yes, he very much would like to be reimbursed, thank you. Even if there was, he'd probably feel a little guilty taking this stranger's money in order to buy a new copy of Walt Whitman when there were so many more pressing things to spend it on; the sickles he handed over would probably end up covering the bustle of Verity's next gown, or something, not another poetry book. Really, all of Ford's books were relics from a simpler time, when he hadn't had to worry about household finances at all.

"Don't worry about it," he said with a shrug. The bottom of the boat chafed up against the floor of the lake, sending a little jolt through the boat to signal that this was as far inland as it would go unless someone got out to pull it up. Ford could have, but he felt he'd gotten wet enough that particular morning. His boots and socks were the only things not damp, and he would have preferred to keep it that way. "You can get back from here?" he asked hopefully — there was less than a foot of water at the edge of the boat closest to shore, which hardly presented much of an obstacle.

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Set by Lady!

“Yes,” Savino said, cheerfully enough, as the rowboat came to a halt. “I can. Thank you again,” he offered with a smile, gathering himself up – he’d left a fair puddle in the boat – and hopping out. His feet and his trousers were still wet, anyway, but this time as he waded the couple of steps back onto shore he felt properly awake, the dream more distant in his head.

But no less terrible, and no less real. Savino shot the stranger a slight sheepish wave and turned away to collect his shoes and socks, his smile fast fading on his face again.

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