The Lewis House 33 страница

"What, they're getting ready to prosecute me?" Ron demanded. "You've talked to their Advocate?"

"No, I've just seen him. But I know his type - classic Death Eater sycophant." Sirius looked disgusted. "You've got nothing to worry about, Ron. Between the witnesses we have, and Colin's photographs from the hospital, we've got more on them than they do on you."

Ron tried to look convinced. "Sure," he said. "So I'll just sit tight till next week, then." He knew he sounded terrified, but he couldn't help it.

Sirius gave a short laugh. "Look, if you're nervous, I'll tell you what. Come up to London with me and sit in on tomorrow's trial. See what a real criminal has to go through. I guarantee, once you hear the charges against some of these people, you won't have a care in the world."

"I... wouldn't want to interrupt or anything," Ron began, but he had to admit he rather liked the idea. He'd get to see the inside of a courtroom; he'd get to know what trial proceedings were like. He wouldn't be so uninformed, when he went up against Malfoy.

"It wouldn't be an interruption. You'd sit behind Council, and observe." Sirius pulled his wand. "Invitation's open. I'll be leaving at seven, tomorrow morning, and you can come then, if you want. See you all tonight." He Disapparated.

"Well," Harry said after a moment. He was looking, rather tensely, at the place where Sirius had just been.

Ginny looked up from her book again. "You all right?" she asked. Her fingers were still on his, and it looked to Ron like she had tightened them.

"He hasn't said a word to me about Azkaban." Harry smiled grimly. "Not one word. Don't you think that's strange?"

Ron was about to answer when he realized that Harry wasn't really talking to him. He was talking to Ginny, who was answering quietly - now moving her fingers a little bit on Harry's hand.

Not wanting to watch them have some sort of talk, Ron escaped the room at top speed, still thinking about London. He had to work late tonight, so getting up at seven in the morning was going to hurt. But it would hurt a lot less than getting pounded in court, and anyway, it would be gratifying to see Sirius putting a couple of Death Eaters away for life. Ron had a sudden mental image of Sirius, marching up to criminals and frightening all of them into immediate confessions. It would be great to sit back and watch him go.

Feeling much better about things, Ron realized that he was suddenly hungry again, but he had no desire to go back into the dining room and find out what Ginny and Harry were doing. Deciding to grab a snack in the village, Ron headed out of the house and down the road. He pulled a wad of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it to read while he walked.

"Dear Ron," read the familiar, tidy cursive, "I haven't had to write you a letter in almost two years. It's funny, but although I hate being away from you, I love writing you letters. It's nice to be able to say whatever I like, too, and this is the first time I've ever felt that I could. The last time we were apart for a summer, I was just fifteen, and I didn't feel quite comfortable telling you everything. I used to choose every word very, very carefully."

Ron grinned, though he'd already read Hermione's letter a hundred times. She was so damn cute.

"I was so scared you'd laugh at something I said! Of course now I realize that no matter how sensible I am, you're going to laugh at whatever I say, so it's no use laboring over every line.

I love you. I miss you. I'm glad we were able to spend the night together, because it helps to have that time to think about. (All right, I'll be honest - I feel funny writing that, but I don't think it's because I'm embarrassed, really. I think it's more that I'm terrified that Harry or Ginny - or Remus or Sirius! - will walk by and pick this up and see it. So either you keep it very safe, or you have to burn it up.)

Cortona is so beautiful that it doesn't seem real. Neither does Delia - she's the Thinker. She's so... wise. Or she seems wise. You know the way Dumbledore just made you feel that he knew? Delia has that quality. She had me tell her all about how we built Expecto Sacrificum, and she hasn't kicked me out yet, so I guess.... I guess I'm staying. I'll write more about the island and the robes she gave me (they are sleeveless. I like them.)"

Ron had a feeling that he would, too. Imagining Hermione in sleeveless robes, he continued reading.

"But I'm going to write all of the newsy things later on, in a letter for the whole house. This one is just for you and I'm very tired, and not really in the mood to put down a lot of details like, 'And then I had tomatoes and olives.'

I know that you'll beat Malfoy. I know that between you and Sirius, there's nothing anyone can do to get at you. And if you need me to come back for any reason, you just tell me, and I'll be there.

I love you,

Hermione

p.s. - Please tell Crookshanks that I miss him, too."

Ron read letter over and over until he felt it had burned right into his eyes. He wished he had a quill with him. He wanted to write her back, right now, and tell her that he loved her too - tell her that he was an uncle. She was going to have an attack when she got the snapshot of Leo; Ginny had taken an extra one just for her, in which the baby appeared to be sticking out his tongue at the camera. Perfect for Hermione. Ron grinned and shoved her letter back in his pocket, trying to imagine up a good reply. He was so busy imagining his letter, and her expression upon receiving it, that he forgot to look where he was going, and very nearly ran down an elderly wizard.

"Whoa there, young man!" croaked Mr. Archibald. He was a slight old man, who cut quite a figure in brown wizard robes and a tweed cap. He tottered from the collision.

"Sorry," said Ron quickly, reaching out to steady him. "My fault." He liked Mr. Archibald. The little gentleman showed up at the Snout's Fair once or twice a week, and always ordered one sipping whiskey, which he'd sip for three hours before heading home.

"It's all right," said Mr. Archibald, leaning against Ron with one hand as he straightened as best he could. Then he smiled. "Perhaps you can help me, Mr. Weasley - I've got to put this sign up, but I've gone and left my wand inside. Got yours?"

"Sure," answered Ron, pulling his wand out of his pocket. "Are you starting a business or something?"

"No, no," Mr. Archibald was now surveying his house with an air of authority, hands on his hips. "Just trying to rent out my place. My granddaughter’s insisting that I go and live with her family in Hogsmeade. Says I can't be trusted to remember my wand any longer. Guess she's right, eh?" He chuckled at himself and nudged Ron's arm with his elbow.

"Yeah, right," said Ron slowly, looking at Mr. Archibald with a mixture of amazement and disbelief, and then towards his cottage, which was looking a bit rundown, but certainly inhabitable. It had a comfortable looking front porch, and a somewhat overgrown garden. One of the outer walls was as turquoise as his father's old Ford Anglia. The other walls were a dull brown, but the paint was peeling a bit in places, revealing that shocking turquoise had once been the color of the whole house. It was eccentric, but it was nothing that a bit of magic couldn't fix. "Say - how much rent are you asking for this place, anyway?"

"Fifty Galleons a month is enough to keep me stocked with Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, peppermint imps, and Wizards Digest I should think," Mr. Archibald answered cheerfully. "Why? Know anyone who'd be interested?

"Yeah," Ron answered with a smile. "Me."

"Really? But don't you just live down the street? Ahh....." A look of comprehension flickered across the old man's face and he leaned in close to Ron, winked, and whispered, even though the street was deserted. "You want a place to entertain the ladies. I remember those days...." and Mr. Archibald stared off into the distance, his eyes slightly weepy, as he remembered something that Ron figured he'd probably rather not know more about.

"Er, yeah," answered Ron, deciding just to agree with Mr. Archibald for the moment.

"So, when will the place be available?"

"Well," answered Mr. Archibald, scratching his nose and attempting to look authoritative. "I'd prefer to be in Hogsmeade next week, it's my great-granddaughter's birthday. I've got twelve great-grandchildren, you know." Mr. Archibald looked at Ron as if daring him to top that one.

Ron grinned widely. "That's wonderful," he answered, trying to remain calm and nonchalant during this important business transaction. "I've just got one nephew - he was born yesterday, as a matter of fact."

"Then congratulations are in order!" cried Mr. Archibald. "Yes, yes! Once an uncle, you'll get the itch to have one of your own, I remember it well. Definitely going to need a place to bring the ladies." He looked contentedly from Ron, to the little house behind him. "It'll be good for this old house to see some young life."

"So then, it's all right if I rent it?" Ron asked, ignoring the comments about fatherhood as best he could. His ears felt remarkably hot.

"Quite all right. No reference necessary - I know you're working steadily at Goldie's. Will there be a - oh, what do you young people call them now - will you have a flatmate?"

"Just my friend Harry. You know him."

Mr. Archibald started visibly, and gave Ron a knowing look, but seemed determined not to make a fuss about fame - though Ron imagined that, once in Hogsmeade, he'd be spinning tales to all twelve of his great-grandchildren about how Harry Potter now lived in his old house.

"I'll bring a deposit by this evening on my way to work, then, shall I?" Ron suggested in the most businesslike manner he could muster.

"Certainly," answered Mr. Archibald, with a matching air of formality, reaching out to shake Ron's hand. "I shall expect you."

"Great." Ron shook his hand and had jogged partway back up the road toward Lupin Lodge when he remembered something. "Mr Archibald," he called back, "does your cottage have a name?"

"The Notch," Mr. Archibald called back.

Ron jogged the rest of the way home - but it wasn't going to be home for long. In a week, home would be the Notch. He grinned to himself. Great name. Weird color, but it had character - and it was barely a quarter of a mile down on the same street. Harry could stay near Sirius. He could stay near Hermione.

He burst through the door of Remus's house and jogged into the kitchen, forgetting that Harry and Ginny had been in there, talking - they were there, still, and the talk looked quite private, but whatever it was, it could wait. "Harry," Ron interrupted happily, ignoring Harry's reluctant glance and Ginny's despairing look, "do you want to see our new flat, or what?"

~*~

"Bill,

Tried to come in and find you, but these damn goblins are ridiculous. As if they don't know who I am. They act like they don't even know who YOU are! Anyhow, I just wanted to introduce you to the person they sent over from Charismatics, because the P.A.P.'s Diversion Enchantments are up and running, and they're amazing - honestly, Mick just flew out there on Viking - that's the biggest dragon we've got - and we're entirely safe, from two miles into the shoreline to two miles out past Azkaban. These spells are exactly like the ones your old girlfriend used during the war, seriously. Go introduce yourself - the charms at Gringotts will be restored in no time.

Got to go,

Goblins trying to strip-search me,

Charlie"

Bill threw the note into the top drawer of his desk along with his identification badge, which he was tired of feeling around his neck, and looked around his office. It was unusually tidy, and had been ever since he'd taken the job in London. In Egypt he'd come and gone, securing treasure and busting curses all over creation, and there had never been time for cleaning up offices. But here, he only worked in the lower vaults of the bank itself. He was often at his desk, therefore, and had taken to keeping it clean.

He had to admit he was bored. London was great, England was home, and it was good - if trying - to be with Charlie. Best of all, he felt like a real help to his father. But, Bill admitted to himself, picking up a polished stone model of a pyramid and standing it up in his palm, he wouldn't have minded facing down a Sphynx, or a Sand Wraith, or blasting apart a particularly difficult curse shield. The Death Eaters had left some corkers in the depths of Gringotts, of course, but those were mostly eradicated by now, leaving Bill's work a series of menial, almost boring tasks. He wanted a challenge. He wanted sunshine and travel. He thought of his mother, who was finally occupied by something other than her sons' affairs, and knew that he could make an escape without notice if he went very soon. The birth of Percy and Penelope's son had the whole family wild with joy; they'd hardly bat an eye if Bill suddenly disappeared to the other side of the world. He clasped the pyramid in his fist and made himself a few quick promises. He would help his father destroy the Dementors, giving that problem his full attention once Gringotts was entirely restored. Until then, he'd help the Charmer to get acquainted with the bank. It would speed the process along. And when all of it was done, he'd go back - perhaps to Egypt, perhaps to a new country. Bill rested the pad of his thumb on the point of the pyramid, and thought. He could go to South America. The Mayan temples had always intrigued him. Or he could try Rome; the ruins there were fascinating, and that wizard culture was entirely different from the one he knew. And there was always New York - people said it was the one place where you couldn't tell the Muggles from the wizards.

Or you could go to France, his mind interjected. Bill laughed briefly and wryly at himself, but allowed the thought to stay. He had stopped punishing himself for every thought that led back to Fleur. He supposed he couldn't help it if a beautiful woman hung about in his memory, and besides, there weren't any girls in his life to distract him at the moment. Perhaps one of Charlie's dragon riders would be interesting, or maybe someone would show up at the Ministry before too long. No one at Gringotts was even a remote possibility - though Bill was getting sick enough of his mother's "Any love in your life, dear?" at every family dinner, to consider dating a goblin. Even his father had asked him if he was dating anyone: "How about Rose Brown? Quite pretty." But Bill had only laughed - Mick was very clearly working that corner of the room. No, there was no one at the moment. Even the memory of Fleur grew dimmer all the time. At least, he liked to think that it did.

Bill plunked the little pyramid onto his desk, stood up, and stretched. He was sick of deskwork and daydreams. The quicker he met the new Charmer and got him adjusted to the twists and turns of the underground vaults, the quicker he'd be back in the desert, battling Sand Wraiths.

He left his office and walked down the dark, twisting corridor, making eye contact with each goblin he passed. He'd discovered they were more likely to trust him, that way, and though they glared beadily at him as he went by, he was not detained until he rounded a corner and came to a short corridor. It was lit by just one lamp, and etched above the stone archway were the words "Temporary Gringotts Staff". Standing in the archway were three goblins, all narrow-eyed and sharp-toothed. They never trusted temporary staff, and now they glowered at Bill as if, by coming to this place, he was no longer a long-standing Gringotts employee.

"Hey, Bogsmack," he said as easily as he could, to the only one of them he was familiar with. "I'm here to introduce myself to the wizard from Charismatics Spellcraft - the one who'll be working on restoration. Can I pass?"

"Identification," said the goblin on the left.

Bill nodded, and reached for the leather cord on his neck, then groaned. It wasn't there. He'd left it in his desk drawer. "It's in my office - Bill Weasley, Curse Breaker - if one of you would escort me back for it -"

"I'm afraid not," said the one on the right. "Not another step down these halls until we have proved your identity."

"Oh, come on," Bill tried. "Bogsmack, you know it's me."

"Polyjuice," Bogsmack replied thinly. "Glamours. Shape-shifting. These means have all been employed, in the past, to confuse us and take advantage of this bank." The goblin pulled a scroll from his pocket and unrolled it with his thick, knobbly fingers. His clawed nails glinted in the dim light. "William Weasley," he read. "Also identifiable by birthmark."

"Now, just a second -"

But Bogsmack ignored Bill's protests and continued. "Lower back, center, just above the tailbone. Eight large, dark freckles in the shape of Cepheus."

Bill knew it was useless to fight. He'd been careless, leaving that I.D. behind. He knew better. Grudgingly, he untucked his shirt and lifted it slightly, turning away from the goblins. Immediately he was pushed against the dam wall; his nose crushed up against his and his forehead smacked hard on the stone. "Easy!" he yelled, turning so that his cheek dug into the wall. Goblin hands pushed up his shirt and tugged down on the waist of his pants, and he felt a pointy fingernail touch each of his oversized freckles.

"There are only seven here," one of them finally said. "Seven freckles."

"I put in for a correction to that list," Bill said irritably. "It's been wrong for three months - Cepheus only has seven stars, check a map."

"That true?" Bogsmack asked his cohorts.

There was a shifting of fabric; perhaps one of the others had shrugged.

"Well it's obviously Cepheus," Bill said, growing more annoyed all the time, "And it's a birthmark, isn't it?" Birthmarks were, for some odd reason, the only body features left unchanged by a Polyjuice Potion. "It's not as if anybody else is going to have one just like that."

"Scrape at it," said one of them. "See if it's paint."

"It isn't paint!" But Bill shut up when he saw a door swing open at the end of the short corridor. That had to be the Charmer. Bill winced at the thought of meeting him with goblin hands up his shirt. He felt them pull his trousers down over the band of his knickers. This would make a wonderful first impression.

"Look, are you done?" Bill hissed, hoping for a quick escape. He could go back to his office now, grab his badge, and meet the Charmer under better circumstances.

"I don't remember what Cepheus looks like," one of them admitted. "Inkhorn, go and get the book."

"For God's sake!" Bill cried in frustration, still staring at the door down the hall and hoping no one would come out of it. But, to his horror, someone did.

The first thing he registered was the hair - sleek, so light in color that it appeared pale even in the orange light of the one lamp, and so long that it eclipsed the face, profile, and even the waist of the person in the doorway. The Charmer was a woman, after all. She tossed her hair behind one shoulder and peered down the hall, her expression a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. When she locked eyes with Bill, however, her face went white and her mouth dropped open. Bill felt his features mimic hers as his heart stopped briefly in his chest.

It was Fleur.

A series of images flashed through Bill's mind, suddenly as sharp as they had been in the weeks following their only meeting. Her eyes full of tears for Percy - that was perhaps the strongest memory. Bill nearly opened his mouth to tell her that he was a brand new uncle, that his brother's baby had been born beautiful and healthy, that they still had a living piece of him. It was a nearly overwhelming urge, and for some reason he felt that she had a right to know - as if they'd been friends for a very long time. He could anticipate her reaction; he knew she would be thrilled, for his sake. He remembered her sister, lost in Mont Ste. Mireille, and he still wanted to lift her grief. He remembered the way she had built the Diversion Enchantments, with simple, powerful efficiency, her fingers steady, cursing under her breath. He still wanted to watch her work. He remembered everything, down to the fit of her form against his, her hands on his neck, sliding beneath his ponytail, the first soft brush of her mouth.

Without meaning to, he began to breathe more heavily than usual. His heart sped up in his chest. She was right there. Really right there, not a dream, or a mirage. It was a long, long moment before he realized that his back was bare and his knickers were on display.

"That's enough," he muttered sharply, jerking out of the goblins' grip and turning toward them, never taking his eyes from Fleur's face. He heard the goblins laugh nastily, almost as if they'd been hoping for this embarrassing turn of events, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw all three of them bow very low to Fleur. Bill was shocked by their unusual courtesy, but Fleur didn't seem to notice their adulation or to find it at all disconcerting. She only stared back at him.

"You," she finally managed. Her voice was dry. He recognized it immediately and realized how strange it was that he had not spoken to her for nearly seven months, yet she sounded so familiar. He would have recognized her voice without looking at her: low, lilting with her accent. Beautiful. "You," she repeated, as if dazed. "Bill Weasley."

The three goblins straightened up and turned to leer at Bill, clearly nonplussed to learn that he and the Charmer knew each other.

"We are working to determine," one of them said silkily, "if he is, indeed, William Weasley."

"Yes. Pardon us, Mademoiselle Delacour, as we must... escort him back to his office and check the necessary identification."

"And I'll stay to guard this area against further intruders," Bogsmack said quickly.

Bill would have gaped, if his attention had not been so centered on the pale face at the end of the hall. He had never heard goblins sound so cultured, nor so polite. He was too stunned, both by Fleur's presence and by their odd behavior, to protest when two goblins moved to either side of him, took his arms, and propelled him away from the Temporary Staff corridor, toward his own quarters. Fleur watched him leave, her mouth still partly open, and he did not take his eyes from hers until he had rounded the corner and lost sight of her.

He hardly noticed the goblins after that. In his office, he went through the motions of proving his identity, all the while unable to think in a straight line. Fleur. In London. At Gringotts.

Bill ushered the goblins out, noticing absently that they seemed peeved at being unable to kick him out of the bank altogether. He swung his badge around his neck and went to shut his desk drawer, but first withdrew the note from Charlie. "These spells are exactly like the ones your old girlfriend used during the war, I'm serious," he muttered aloud. "Charlie... you total bastard." He'd had no warning - though he could have had one from his brother - and Fleur had caught him by surprise in a rather humiliating position. "I'll get you," he muttered at the parchment, then crumpled it up and tossed it into the waste bin.

She's here. She's right down that hall. Go on, find her - show her around - ask her how she came to be here. Ask her how she is. Ask her if she knew you were here before she took the job. Give it five minutes, and it'll be just like it was before, you know it. You felt it.

Bill leaned over and rested his hands on his desk, still breathing oddly, still unable to believe whom he'd just seen. He thought about crying off work and running to the pub. Or to the Ministry. Or home, to his mother.

A knock on the door sent Bill three feet into the air. "Come in," he called, his voice cracking for the first time in at least eight years. The door opened and Bill forced himself to look up.

She stood there, so beautiful that he couldn't really comprehend it. He'd told himself again and again that he'd glamorized her memory, that she hadn't really been perfect, but he'd grossly understated it instead. She was beyond perfect. She was -

She was a veela.

Bill remembered that fact with sudden fierceness, and sat down abruptly in his chair. He hadn't thought about it in a long time - he hadn't had to - but she'd tricked him once. The feelings he was having - he'd had them before. They were overpowering, yes, but they weren't real feelings. They were induced by her magic, or her... whatever it was. She'd manipulated him, and then left without a word the next morning. He remembered that feeling; it had been real enough. It wasn't going to happen again.

"Hello," he said with surprising evenness. "Come in."

Fleur hesistated, then stepped into the office and shut the door behind her. Torches burned in sconces on either side of her, sending light across her hair and skin. She swallowed visibly, then smiled at him.

Bill wondered how long his resolve was going to last, in the wake of a smile like that. He looked down at his papers, took up a quill, and tapped it needlessly against a bit of parchment as if he were going to take notes. He glanced up at her. "Fleur... what was it?"

"Delacour," she said, very quietly, her eyes alight. "You remember me."

He cursed himself inwardly. They hadn't said her first name; he'd remembered that from months ago. He shouldn't have admitted it. "Of course," he said briskly. "You did the Diversion Enchantments for my brother, last February - and out at Azkaban yesterday," he added, for good measure.

"Oh, zen you..." Fleur's forehead creased slightly between her eyebrows. "You knew I was 'ere?"

The accent was killing him. "Sure," he said lightly. "Charlie said the charms you set up were fantastic. That's great news."

She smiled again. "Yes. It was 'ard, but zey should keep trouble away. I thought it was so interesting, what your - brother -" she pronounced the word carefully, and Bill remembered that she had once said "bruzzer", " - is trying with ze dragons. I 'ope it works."

"Well, I can't see why it wouldn't," Bill said, looking down at his paperwork again. He found he couldn't concentrate when he looked at her, and vowed to kick Charlie's ass when he got home. There was supposed to be a nice, strong, Love Charm Repellant on him. It should have worked on everything, from simple Kissing Solutions to veela airwaves, and it wasn't working at all. Her power was stronger than whatever Charlie had done; she even had the goblins falling all over themselves, and Bill realized that he wasn't going to be able to control himself much longer with her in his space. He wanted to talk to her. Tell her everything. Act as if no time had passed. He had an idiotic feeling that it was what he was supposed to do, and that she even wanted him to do it.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04