Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. My sincere thanks to MEM-SEV for proofreading/beta help.

Hrothbert of Bainbridge had known as a child, and a man, and a sorcerer, that even without laws being enforced there was an equilibrium and balance in magic, and life, that simply was. There were demons, yes, but there were also agents of the divine – whether you saw that through Christian eyes or not, it was still there, real and true. There was an order to life; people were born and died in turn. There were cycles of rain and drought, day and night. And if you used magic to tweak things, well... the world bit back with very sharp teeth. Sometimes it was through the spells themselves, as loopholes, penalties, or traps that would leave an idiot badly burnt and paying off a karmic debt for the rest of their eternal life. Sometimes it was as significant changes in the weather, or society and culture; diseases and a loss of literacy or technology. Sometimes it was Christians burning magic users – and the just and the poor and the vulnerable – out of fear and ignorance.

That had been the price of the magical community being insular and closed-fisted with resources, and books. A population that was more used to prejudice and lies than information, and all magical beings and practitioners paid the price. Then there was the price of magic itself. The heady electric tingle under your skin, deep in bones, and eyes and mind was like a drug. Tempting, oh so tempting to indulge in the unnecessary, the spectacular, the dangerous. The price of that elation was fear and instability. It was like the old story about Pandora and her unspeakably important box. With every freedom came countless penalties and sorrow.

Maybe it was just the general nature of humanity. Whatever it was, though Hrothbert had studied any and all magic he had come across in his youth, he knew that the desires of one person – even a sorcerer – could not compare to the costs that some spells exacted from the user, and the wider world. There was a way to these things, a balance. As times changed, everyone he knew pulled their heads in; allied with demons and dragons, and vampires and angels, trying to create connections that could preserve knowledge in the face of the increasing intolerance of magic in the world. Very few people seemed to be able to maintain a balance or equilibrium; the needs of the one were always prioritised over rational behaviour on behalf of the many. It was disheartening, at best, to know how simple it could be prevented.

Hrothbert got by the best he could, always trying to be humane, and to maintain balance. He knew he would never make the mistakes of sorcerers past. He would never risk something larger than himself for the sake of power, or greed, or some ephemeral and intangible benefits. He wasn't that weak or petty.

It wasn't until after Winifred's death, after the tenth early attempt at her resurrection, that Hrothbert realised that only one second with her – one moment with the sweetness of her skin and the warm stubborn strength of her arms as she danced – was enough for him to condemn the entire world to Hell. For all his ideals and knowledge, that was Hrothbert's truth, his price. He didn't think it was cheap at all.

It hurt, when they'd punished and cursed him, oh yes. But she had come back. She had come back to him, and it was all worth it. Just for that short time, for the curl of the corner of her lips as she recognised him, the sound of air in her living moving lungs, and...

'So how do you do it, then?'

Hrothbert – Bob, rather – blinked and rubbed his forehead. He'd been daydreaming again. It had been a slow month. No new cases, no money. Harry had gone a bit mad in the boredom of it all, which had led them to where they were now. Harry getting lazy and sloppy in his spell-work, and Bob doing his best tohold his tongue. The last time he'd corrected Harry pre-emptively, he'd ended up stuck in his skull all night. Such a childish reaction that he despaired of Harry ever reaching adulthood. It was long overdue. How old was the boy; thirty? Not old for a wizard of course, but certainly old enough to know better.

Not that Bob could hold the moral high ground, of course. He was the textbook case for should-have-known-better.

'Bob?'

'What, Harry?'

Harry shrugged, and gestured vaguely with his free hand. 'You know, how to do it.'

Bob resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, and settled for merely crossing his arms. 'Harry, dear boy, if you need my direction for a ritual this simple, perhaps you should have paid better attention during your lessons. Or the ten other times I've taught you about this type of repellent.'

Harry laughed. He rotated the focal crystal even further in the wrong direction with a theatrical flourish, then sighed and with a carelessly deft hand twisted it back into precisely the right position. 'Not this, you arse. Whatever the simulacrum did, when he brought you back. That spell. I wasn't there, but I sure as hell know that even dark, evil necromancy isn't enough to revive a cursed ghost. Uncle... fuck. Morningway. He had his body, some personal effects, the tail-end of his own magic lingering in that simulacrum..'

Oh, the boy was an idiot. 'If you think I'm about to divulge something that could possibly upset or draw the unwanted attention of the White Council, Harry, you are delusional.'

Harry focused for a moment on the ritual, incanting Latin word quickly and kneeling on the edge of the circle to pick up Mister's newly enchanted collar. With Harry's income and work skills it was cheaper and easier to apply than flea powder, and in a town like theirs it didn't hurt to have a few extra protections on even a pet cat. Bob would have pointed out that their initial cost analysis hadn't taken into account how quickly Mister managed to lose, dislodge and destroy his collars, but he suspected that even economy, and common sense, would not be enough to convince Harry to try flea-powder or those treated baths a second time. They left the lab and moved into the kitchen, Harry on the lookout for any cat-like shadows.

'I don't want to do anything to you, Bob. I just thought the knowledge might come in, er, handy someday.'

Bob raised an eyebrow. 'Like dark vodun? I think not, Harry. I think we've both learned our lesson from that incident. Even if you swore on the souls of every living being you held dear, I would not chance the risk of, well, you. You do have a habit of employing any means to resolve even the most menial of cases.'

Harry had been pinching his fingers together, making tutting noises and trying to draw Mister out to be collared. He glanced up from a dark corner of the room he'd been eyeing hopefully, to look Bob in the eyes. 'This isn't what I'd call any means, Bob. And it's hardly a dangerous case. In fact, it's not what I'd call a case at all.'

'Heaven forbid.'

Harry gave up and left the collar on the kitchen table, stood in front of Bob, while crossing his arms, and mirroring his posture. 'Business is slow. Cats are vain bastards. Both not my fault. And you haven't managed to distract or deflect me. You know how? I'm not asking you to tell me, okay, I just want to know whether you know.'

'I know the theory.'

Bob watched Harry's face, but he didn't see any signs of surprise or interest.

'Could you do it again, or get someone to help you?'

Bob honestly did not have a full answer for that. He took a moment to think about it, pacing about the room and taking care to not brush up against any books or wayward hiding cats. 'There was a necessary material component that was destroyed in the process.' Bob held up a hand as Harry's mouth opened. 'A unique item of personal significance. I doubt there could ever be any replacement.'

'Oh.' The way that Harry said that warned Bob that he'd better rule out the option of anyone being resurrected, before Harry started getting foolish ideas into his head. He hadn't had any windmills to tilt at for a long time, though becoming Harry's latest 'dude in distress' was far from his central concern. Harry hadn't asked any of these questions following Justin Morningway's most recent – and hopefully final – death. Bob had been concerned for some time now, that in a lull in action like this Harry would start thinking, start wondering and planning, and ignoring all Bob's warnings.

'No.'

'No, Bob?' Harry grinned, and it was clear that he was entirely aware of what Bob had meant. 'What do you mean by that?'

'You want to try to fix me, Harry.' Bob wrinkled his nose in disgust at the thought of it. 'Even if it wasn't going to endanger your life or infuriate the White Council, I would object to this solely on the basis of self preservation. I have been stable, aware, and happy at times, while under my curse. I'm not about to risk my consciousness or an eternity in hell just for the sake of relieving your boredom and indulging your baffling guilt complex.'

'I- I don't have a guilt complex! You know that, it's all just about trying to even the score. Catch up on good juju, to make up for my negative scorecard!'

Bob just looked at Harry. The boy was really not fooling anybody. 'What have I told you about sensitive spells and incantations, Harry?'

Harry groaned and recited in a bored tone. 'Intention is just as important as action when handling magic. I know, I know.'

Harry rubbed behind his ear and rolled his neck a little to stretch it. That always made Bob's heart catch in his throat; Winifred had done exactly that every time she'd had to bring water up to their cottage. She had always complained that a life of sorcery involved far more hard work and heavy lifting than it should.

'Bob?'

Harry was closer than he'd been before, looking concerned. He raised a hand as if to touch Bob, but then dropped it again. It was so strange, to think that Harry had known Bob for the better part of his life, and yet he still seemed to forget the ethereal nature of ghosts.

'Sorry. I...' Oh, it would do no good to lie to Harry. Bob avoided meeting his eyes, and backed off to get a bit of space. 'I must confess that I have spent more time today thinking about Winifred than is perhaps entirely healthy.'

Harry's face pulled tight in a sympathetic and tight-lipped smile. 'Shit, sorry I brought it up.'

'Not at all. I was already reminiscing before you got onto the topic of my curse. And I do so like to recall some of our finer moments together. After all a deep and loving relationship is not mutually exclusive with deliciously dirty sex, or an incredible arse. She had...' Bob cupped his hands, as there weren't words or means enough to convey how lovely she had been.

Distracting Harry had been easier than expected, all things considered. He was laughing and trying to pretend that he wasn't, shaking his head and calling Bob a 'Smutty bastard' as he finally caught Mister and tightened the new collar around the cat's neck.

'If you lose this one before the end of the week, I'm taking you to the vet. The vet, Mister. Vet.' The threat might have been more effective if Harry hadn't been grinning like a loon and scratching Mister's head obligingly.

It wasn't until after dinner that Harry recalled their earlier conversation. He leaned casually against the kitchen sink, soap-suds from the dishes soaking into the back of his ratty old shirt.

'So you don't mind being like this, then? For all these years, even when you've ended up with someone like Uncle Justin?'

There wasn't going to be an easy way to answer this. But one risk was far worse than the other, and Bob could not allow Harry to think he could interfere in any way with his curse.

'No, I do not. You do remember what happened when I ventured into that blackness, Harry?'

Harry swallowed. He looked quite distressed. Bob knew he'd recalled the pertinent facts. Bob gathered his own courage, for a conversation he hadn't had to have with any of his masters for a good hundred years or so.

'If I am freed from my curse, Harry, I won't be absolved of my crimes. I will not go to heaven or enjoy a normal life as a living man. If I am freed in any way, all my debts will come due at once. I will go to Hell, Harry, forever. You of all people know what awaits for me there. No matter how much I may miss some sensations or grow bored of this long existence, I know there is something worse waiting in my future.'

'Ah. Right. Stupid of me to ask, really, then.'

Bob couldn't help but grin at that. 'Quite.'

'But what if I could –'

Damn the stupid boy! Bob raised a hand to interrupt. 'I had hoped that I would not have to explain this next part, but I can see that you are addicted to stupidity and danger. Sit, Harry, and I'll tell you more about how the curse works. The important parts.'

Harry frowned. 'I just ate, Bob, really, please.'

'Sit.'

Harry sat. Bob took a deep breath in, thin without any lungs or real oxygen, and closed his eyes. He visualised the way that Winifred used to shove her ice-cold feet up against his sleepy warm legs at night, the way she squealed when he rolled over and poked her in her side. The lull and silent calm moment of peace after that, before either of them needed to move or speak.

'The first thing you need to understand, I think, is that this wasn't like a slap on the wrist. The White Council – and all the other names it's gone by over the years – has never been maliciously vengeful in that sense. In cases like mine, they need to make examples of the criminals. What I did was criminal. They need to adhere to their own rules, make no exceptions for their own. But there was also an element of mercy and sympathy in my sentence. As long as I am indentured through my skull I benefit the council by making my knowledge available to each successive generation, meanwhile the debts I drew against my own soul cannot be redeemed.'

Harry was nodding, but Bob was far from done yet. He gave Harry's easily distracted and overwhelmed mind a few seconds to process all that before he proceeded. Bob did not want to have to repeat himself.

'But more than that. There's more to it, than that. I... I did not have any living family, but you know well enough yourself that genetic association is not the only way to tie one's soul to another. In the name of justice, Winifred should have been killed, returned to her rest and afterlife. But as my wife, my love and soul mate, she was herself at risk of...'

Harry winced and nodded brusquely, sparing Bob from having to say it directly. 'Right. Got it. But wait... so she's a ghost somewhere, too?'

Bob gave Harry what he hoped was an exasperated look, and not a wistful one. 'No. Why would they do that? She was innocent of my crimes, after all. Instead they... it's a trick usually considered too cruel or stupid to use on a soul. But in her case it was the best solution that would spare her from what I had brought down upon our heads.'

Bob's hands were shaking. He didn't feel it, but he could hear the shivering of iron around his wrists and against his shirtsleeves, and he could see the way that the kitchen table didn't seem quite on the same wavelength as his arms. All shuddery and wobbling around the edges.

'Bob, are you all right? You can tell me later, if you...'

Harry didn't look any better than Bob felt. His eyes were wide and looking a little damp around the edges. His fingers held tight to the edge of the table, knuckles white.

'So, Winifred's soul was bound, but in a less punitive way than my own. Instead of being captured by demons or destroyed completely, she has been bound to this plane of existence. It is something like purgatory. Continually reborn, she gets fresh chances at life. To work off the debt that I incurred against her. One day, maybe, she'll behave herself long enough to regain balance, find some peace...'

Bob looked at Harry, and bit his tongue against the words that almost fell out naturally. But that's hardly likely to happen this time around.

It was, in all, a tragic story about the stupidity and selfishness inherent in all humans. Being dead gave a bit of perspective to it all. The living, of course, seemed to prefer to take more romance than caution from the story, and none of the important parts like eternal suffering, karmic debts and redemption.

Harry was smiling, laughing a little with the foolish relief of the living. 'Great! I mean, why didn't you tell me all that earlier, Bob? So she's out there, somewhere... you don't have to meet her, but we could research this. We could find her, help her, if she needed it. Maybe you could talk to her through me, or...'

'Enough, Harry.'

Harry seemed to be torn between happiness on Bob's behalf and consternation. He pushed up and away from the table, and fell into a pattern that he usually only moved through with his most female and needy of clients. Kettle filled, onto the stove, Harry was trying to subtly check the teapot for mould and emptying the old still-damp leaves into the potted plant on the windowsill. He rinsed the teapot, and got out a fresh scoop of his 'calming' blend.

'Enough, I said, Harry. Why must you always be so stubborn?' If Bob could grab things, he'd have been relieving Harry of the stupid teapot and shoving him into a chair. As it was, all Bob could do was join Harry by the sink and try to catch his attention.

'You have to ask?' Harry ignored Bob and fossicked around in the cupboard for a clean cup.

'Do I ever? No. Because some spoilt little upstarts wilfully ignore their wise teachers and avoid vital knowledge no matter how important the situation.' Bob knew he was overreacting, but he couldn't calm his voice down. He was far too caught up in the moment, the emotion, his own memories and guilt, as well as his concern for Harry. He tried to suck in another breath, missing the clarity that could come from it.

'Harry, sit. Please. Tea can wait.'

Harry sat, looking a little dejected. 'Fine. I'll listen, if it means so damn much. But if there's a way you can see her again, or a way for me to take care of her on your behalf, then I'm going to find out.'

'There isn't, Harry. You already...'

Harry's head snapped up, his eyes wide and intent. 'Already? You... you know who she is, don't you. So who is it... Murphy?'

'Harry Copperfield Blackstone Dresden, will you for one moment wait and let me finish?'

'I...'

Bob held up a finger, one finger, feeling like Harry was all of ten years old again, tripping over himself in his eagerness to move on to more exciting things.

'Silence. Let me finish. And don't you dare open your mouth. If you had memorised your runes properly, and studied any languages – Latin and English included – properly you'd have been able to read this all from my skull years ago. We're bound together. My skull, my very curse and self, is chained to her soul. This is very deep and dangerous magic, Harry, so don't even think of trying to fiddle with it. She will never be capable of recognising or remembering me. I know who she is, I'm content that she is safe, and I am hardly languishing in loneliness or boredom currently. As I was saying earlier, you yourself have helped me several times, in ways I simply cannot explain to you.'

Bob must have got through to Harry somehow, because he relaxed then, shoulders falling and tension leaving his body. When Harry got up to make tea once again, Bob simply waited beside the table until he was sitting down again. The silence between them was comfortable. Bob found himself relaxing. He hadn't broken any rules, hadn't touched on the grey areas of the boundaries of his curse. The real risk had lain within Harry and the fool child's unpredictability, in the uncontrollable nuances in Bob's words and demeanour. But in the end Bob hadn't revealed anything more than he should, and judging from the way Harry was regarding Bob and smirking, he hadn't upset the balance between the two of them either.

'So... is it Murphy, then?'

Bob paused, stalled for a second. Perhaps things weren't as defused as he'd thought they would be. 'Harry, I cannot risk exposing Winifred's current identity. Not even to you. I absolutely refuse to put her eternal soul in further danger.'

'You know, Bob, I don't blow up everyone I try to help.'

Bob shook his head. 'No. Sometimes you only set them on fire. If you were trying to convince me, you have failed miserably.'

Harry cupped his hands around his mug and regarded his tea. 'I'm not an idiot, Bob. I wouldn't go trying to talk to her about it, I wouldn't tell anyone at all. But I could, you know, get you photographs, or send flowers anonymously, or something nice like that.'

Harry was such a sweet idiot sometimes, that Bob had trouble reconciling his smile with the angry power and danger that lay in the core of his magic.

'That is hardly worth the price, the risk. I do not wish to risk Winifred for something as superficial as that. I will not risk you. I might have limited influence on the world, Harry, but I do hope you can allow a very old gentleman some control over his own romantic troubles.'

Harry shook his head, yawned, and looked very seriously at his tea. 'Stars and stones. And I thought I had made some big mistakes in my time. Fuck.'

Bob watched as Harry poured his tea down the sink and rattled about in the kitchen for a few minutes. Without any words or even a glance over at Bob, Harry strode across the room and into the basement. He picked up Bob's skull and climbed the stairs to the loft while cradling it in the crook of his arm.

'Harry? It's barely ten. You can't be tired yet.'

When there was no answer, Bob had no choice but to follow Harry upstairs. He took in the now familiar sight of Harry in bed, curled around Bob's skull, covered up in a collection of fraying blankets and rugs.

'So...' Harry trailed off. Bob perched himself on the edge of the mattress, and waited for Harry to gather his thoughts together.

'So,' Harry began again after a few minutes, 'it's part of the curse, then? That she never remembers?'

Bob pointed through the blankets at the markings on his skull, and waited while Harry swore and fought back the mess of his bedding. When the skull was visible again in the low light, Harry's fingers traced thoughtfully over the chicken-scratch markings.

'Right. I see. No memory, and what is this? Something involving time, and... huh. So even if you did tell her, the curse would just bite back. Make her think you were mad, or drive her mad, or something?'

Bob nodded. 'I have never thought it worth tempting fate there. The phrasing is ominously vague.'

Harry settled onto his side again, curled around Bob's skull. Bob shuffled his feet a little awkwardly and cleared his throat.

'You could always purchase a stuffed toy, if you need something to cuddle up to at nights. Or, better yet, you could bring home some hot young tart. You know how I like those, the ones with nice supple skin and those tastefully lewd undergarments.'

Harry frowned, and placed a hand palm-down on Bob's skull. He was already drifting off, and his voice was a little rough around the edges. 'Not gonna tempt fate, not risking you again, Hrothbert.'

There was something so familiar in the way that Harry smiled and settled into sleep that made Bob ache and wish that he could undo all the mistakes he'd made in his life. Retract all the arrogance and self-importance of his youth, make sure he didn't commit the same crimes again. But then Harry shifted even closer around Bob's skull, and Bob realised he didn't actually wish that after all. If Bob hadn't condemned Winifred's soul to this cat-and-mouse game of reincarnation, Harry wouldn't be here. Bob's fingers itched to pull the blankets and rugs up over Harry's shoulders properly, but instead he simply watched over him as he slept.

'I am sorry, though.'

Bob didn't realise he'd said that thought aloud until Harry opened his eyes and blinked in drowsy confusion. Harry mumbled a grumpy protest, and then gathering what seemed to be all the energy left in his tired body, he said 'Go on, get in your skull. Bedtime.'

Instead of pointing out that they'd be much safer if Bob was out in the room keeping watch, he obeyed. And with a gleeful sense of comeuppance – even if Harry would have no idea, not understand at all – Bob brushed one deathly cold ghost of a finger along Harry's calf. He was fast enough that he was already in his skull, safe and protected, when Harry twitched and swore under his breath.

'Hell's bells, Bob! You gotta stop doing that!' Harry poked a finger at Bob's skull, but he wouldn't get any responses that night. In the darkness now, Harry shifted to get comfortable and stared up at the ceiling as his heartbeat slowed down from the shock. 'It's not fair, you know, when I can't fight back. You bloody arsehole.'