Victor spent the next couple of days scouring the professor's desk, looking for information on why his father had the DNA test done. After a fruitless search, the disgruntled teen headed to the bedroom he shared with Jason. A glance at the clock confirmed it was almost bedtime. 

Standing near the dresser, he stretched a hand toward the brush on his nightstand. Might as well get in a bit of practice, he thought.

"Come on," he urged. "It's late. I need to crack on."

The brush didn't move.

Victor took a deep breath and tried again.

The brush still did not cooperate.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, dropping his hand in defeat. Victor had noticed a change in the magic in the last couple of weeks. The responses were either sullen or overeager, forcing him to work harder or pull back to contain it. At first, he couldn't fathom what the problem could be. He racked his brains for days—then it came to him. His once inner tranquility was gone—a distant memory since he'd regained full-fledged emotions. Learning about his parentage hadn't helped the situation at all.

Kristy had returned, but the genie had her own concerns as she set down permanent roots in the human world. Victor hadn't wanted to bother her with his latest problem, preferring to solve it himself. Perhaps he needed balance between his emotional state and the magic. It worked fine until he became annoyed, fearful, or agitated—a common occurrence living with the Dueling Duo.

The bedroom door opened, and Jason poked his head inside. "Vic, Rosetta stole the toothpaste again. Can you—?"

The brush shot upward and flew toward Victor. He yelped in surprise and ducked, groaning when he heard a loud breaking noise. The brush had flown into the mirror, cracking the glass.

Victor groaned. "Blimey!"

Jason didn't miss a beat. He mouthed, "Hide," then stood outside the door. Victor heard Lovedae's footsteps approaching as he dove behind Jason's bed, the furthest from the door.

"Hey, Mom."

"I heard a noise."

"I was popping some giant bubble wrap," lied Jason. 

The explanation stopped Lovedae from entering the room. "Well, save some for Rosetta. Bedtime, kiddo." Her footsteps receded down the hall.

Victor pulled himself up as Jason reentered the room. "Thanks, mate. I owe you." He stepped to the mirror, concentrating on the crack. The damage was an easy fix, requiring only a hint of magic. The mirror glowed, and the fracture disappeared. "Why can't it always be that easy?"

"You're lucky you ain't getting seven years of bad luck." Jason huffed. "Do me a favor, 'k?

Victor picked up the brush, ready to battle his wayward curls. "What's that?"

"No more magic in here! You're a menace to our bedroom."

"Agreed."

Victor opened his eyes, wondering what had happened to the house.

He stood in the large living room when he distinctly remembered going to bed. The applewood and oak furniture seemed the same, but many of the knick-knacks and family photos on the mantle were gone. Lovedae's magazine collection sat neatly in the magazine holder instead of scattered over the table near the chaise lounge. Victor stepped to the button chair he had perched on the first night he'd arrived at the house. The material on the elegant chair seemed worn and in need of reupholstering.

The knotted rugs that covered the wood floors were the same. Shrugging, he gazed at the paintings on the wall. How he'd loved them the first time he'd come into this room, delicate treasures in their gold-leafed frames of the English countryside. His eyes scanned the room, settling on the professor's winged chair. It eased his mind that it remained in its usual spot.

Victor toured the house, noting the missing piano in the den and the strange playpen in the hall near the kitchen, now painted a muted blue instead of its current yellow. He stood in the kitchen doorway and muttered, "What in blazes is going on?" Then it hit him. "I'm dreaming. Maybe this is what the house used to look like. Still, this is the most realistic dream I've ever—"

Something moved out of the corner of his eye.

Victor spun and saw the apparition of a shaggy-haired little boy. The shirtless child stood near the staircase in the hall, bouncing and dancing a jig as if he hadn't a care in the world. Although he couldn't hear him, his lips moved as if singing. The child twirled in a circle before running up the staircase.

Stunned, he followed the little intruder upstairs. As Victor stepped onto the carpeted landing, he heard giggling coming from the room he shared with Jason. Peeking in, he watched as the one-year-old redhead sat up in his crib, laughing at the ridiculous antics of the little specter. It never occurred to Victor to question why Jason had decreased in age. He rushed into the room, and the boy took one look at him, giggled, then hopped out of the open window.

"Come on, little man, finish your nap." He tucked up the babbling child, rubbing his back to draw him back into sleep before rushing downstairs, out the back door, and onto the dirt path through the trees. Victor knew where the apparition had gone.

The clearing.

Victor reached the area, marveling at the bright sunshine that covered the lush expanse of grass. In the center of the verdant glade stood the red leaf maple tree, and beside it was the child. The little fellow began running aimlessly around in circles, stopping to dance, skip, and fall onto the carpet of sweet-smelling grass in a fit of giggles. Strange that here he could hear the laughter and chatter of the small boy who now seemed quite solid.

Victor ran closer, calling out, "Oi, mate! A word with you?"

Chuckling, the child skipped over to him and looked up, causing Victor to gasp. He knew this little boy; he knew the face. Victor saw the older version every morning while peering in the mirror.

He gazed at a younger version of himself!

The little fellow stared up at him with identical green eyes. "Jolly nice of you to drop by!"

Victor gaped at hearing the piping voice. The same inflections and tone, spoken in Estuary English, the accent of contemporary London. Victor knelt before the smaller version of himself. "You're me, but I don't remember this age."

"You don't remember our play area?" The animated version of Victor made a sour face and began bouncing in place.

Hop, hop, hop.

Victor frowned. "I was seven when I came to the Grants. How old are you?"

"You mean we were seven." The child tilted his head and held up three fingers. "And now we're five."

Nice to know I learned to count, he mused.

"Tell me, uh, Victor, how'd we get here?" He leaned forward, anxious for the answer from what he thought of as his subconscious while acknowledging he conversed with himself.

"It's a crossroad." The younger Victor danced backward before stopping to dig his toes into the grass. "The past can't stay hidden in the shadows, especially since it caught up to you."

"You're talking in circles, mate." Victor shook his head. "This is the most confusing dream I've—"

The child's eyes widened, and the little face grew angry. "Learn the differences, please! And do be careful. You're already off-balance."

"Off-balance? Wait, what in blazes are you talking about?"

The little boy chuckled and then pointed to Victor's chest. "It's solid white. So pretty."

"What is?"

"The magic column." The little boy began to bounce again. "Or pole. Or pillar, or tube, or—"

Can't believe I'd dream of myself as this annoying, thought Victor. Aloud he asked, "You can see it?"

The child nodded. "It's like a tiger waiting to pounce."

"Tigers pounce when they hunt, I'm not doing that."

Hop, hop, hop. "Yes, you are. You're hunting for the truth. Your truth."

A cluster of ominous clouds rolled across the darkening skies as the winds picked up. Both Victors gazed upward at the sudden change in the weather.

"Oh, fiddlesticks," said the child. "Thought we'd have more time. Mustn't get caught because you're supposed to be alone." Little Victor turned and ran toward the tree. "Try to keep calm and trust yourself, okay?"

"What? Wait!" Victor jumped up in pursuit. Even running full throttle, he couldn't keep up with the little scamp. The child ran behind the professor's tree and vanished. He made his way around the tree to investigate and—

Victor found himself standing in the middle of a busy office. Scores of workers sat in box-like cubicles with their colorful array of jackets thrown over chairs as they typed on keyboards or yelled into headsets. A staticky radio played in the background. Several women strolled around the office, coffee cups in hand, as they shouted instructions into cell phones plastered to their ears.

He gazed around the busy space, wondering what he should do when a woman in a drab gray suit paused as she spied Victor standing in the walkway. "He asked to see you several minutes ago." She pointed to the door behind him with a manicured fingernail. "You don't want to be late."

She eyed him with such disapproval that Victor opened the door and slid inside the unknown room. He stepped into a lavish office with polished wood floors and large picture windows overlooking a city chock full of tall buildings and hordes of traffic. An executive desk sat in the center of the room with its natural veneer and elegant inlay work. A man, his back to Victor, resided at the desk, the top of his gray head just visible from the depths of the plush chair. A plain wooden chair sat before the stylish desk, seeming out of place in the luxurious office. Not knowing what else to do, Victor stood by the door, wondering when he'd wake.

"Please close the door. Our talk is private and of the utmost confidentiality."

Victor froze. He knew that voice as well as his own. The older man swiveled in his chair to face the astonished boy.

It was Professor Craig.

"Sit down, dear boy," said the professor as he began shuffling a stack of papers on the desk. "We need to dispose of this unfortunate business as soon as possible."

The expensive pinstriped suit with the golden cufflinks and a pure silk tie displayed a look the professor had never worn in life. A confused Victor stumbled to the wooden chair and stared with devoted eyes at the man he knew was his father.

"Papa! I can't believe—"

Professor Craig ignored the boy's joyful outcry. "Victor, foremost, I'd like to relay my deepest appreciation for all the good works you performed in my absence. The position is not only a difficult one but extremely challenging. The reports I received were quite pleasing."

A deflated Victor stared at the professor in disbelief. He found it baffling that he didn't recognize him.

But I'm dreaming, thought Victor, taking comfort from that knowledge. None of this is real. He glanced at the desk again, surprised he hadn't noticed the small golden frame that sat near the corner of the desk. As he peered at the picture, he recognized the face. 

Little Victor. To his astonishment, the child winked at him.

The professor began speaking, recapturing Victor's attention.

"There comes a time when one must admit what once fit doesn't always remain the best fit in changing situations." The professor leaned back in his chair as he smoothed an invisible wrinkle on his Bloomingdale shirt. His eyes, so different from the gentle ones Victor remembered, were sharp as they bore into his. "All parties involved must admit defeat then go their separate ways."

The muddled teen shook his head as his hands gripped the arms of the chair. This dreamworld confused him. The man who sat before him might resemble his father, but the relationship ended there.

Victor shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand what you're saying."

"It's as simple as this, dear boy." The professor opened the massive desk drawer with the gloss wood finish and pulled out a handgun. He released the safety with an expert hand and pointed the weapon at Victor.

"What are you doing? Papa?" His eyes lit on the gun pointed at his chest. The chair uprooted and clattered to the floor as Victor stood.

His hands came up, building a wall between him and the gun. The magic came alive, initializing a churning inside Victor as he called it into play. A barrier appeared, a shimmering wall of light—that petered out like a relationship gone sour.

Victor paused, lowering his hands in shock as his magical column darkened. Had his emotions skewed the magic?

"It means your misguided links of love and blood are obsolete. You deserted me, and I paid with my life." The professor aimed. "In return, your tenure on this plane, like mine, is terminated."

And he pulled the trigger.

The flash from the gun's barrel caused Victor to wake. He hurled himself out of bed and fell to the floor, sweating palms clutching the moist sheets.

Someone was screaming.

Jason threw the covers back and hopped out of bed, calling Victor's name. The bedroom door opened, and Lovedae and Rosetta hurried into the room.

As his family rushed to his side, Victor realized the screams were coming from him.

Thank you for reading! Any votes or comments are appreciated!