The Lewis House 47 страница

"How do we normally track people?" Delia prompted.

Hermione kept her eyes shut and gritted her teeth. "It's very simple," she managed tightly. "Magic is very well regulated, and adults' wands are registered. Spells are entirely individually traceable -"

"But children? Children who don't know magic."

"You said normally," Hermione answered, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "I gave the normal answer."

"All right. How do we normally track things, then?"

Hermione took several deep breaths. Clear your mind. Focus. "Erm… there are small devices… there are - well, they're not magic, though. Muggles have mechanical devices… there's Accio…but that's a Summoning Charm…"

"What was it that you said earlier, about adults' wands?"

It was obvious that Delia already had the answer, and was only leading her towards it. Hermione knew that her teacher meant to be helpful, but she was already so aggravated that Delia's tone of voice seemed overly patient. Condescending. It was as if she were speaking to a very small child.

"Look," Hermione said, and opened her eyes. She glared at Delia. "You already know how to do this. Don't make the Ministry wait for me to figure it out, because I never will. You know I'm not a Thinker." She tossed her head.

"Hermione -"

"No. Admit it. You know I'm not the right sort for this."

Delia folded her hands in her lap. They were sitting in the usual place: the great, wide, tiled patio, all ringed with columns. The ocean beyond them had whipped itself into frenzy; its waves were choppy and white-capped, and they smacked against the shore in a bizarre rhythm. Hermione agreed with them.

"Perhaps it would help you to know," said Delia, after a long time, "that there are certain realms of magic in which I have always been blocked."

Hermione shrugged her indifference. "The Ministry writes you with every problem they have," she retorted. "So does Hogwarts. And you've Thought of a spell for everything."

"Not quite everything." Delia's smile thinned, a little. "You arranged the Containment Charm, around the pomegranate, without my help."

"But you could've done it," Hermione pointed out. "It's not as if that was very helpful of me - it was only practice."

"No." Delia gazed at her. "I seem to be incapable of spells that relate to either captivity or death. I was perfectly useless, when it came to Voldemort. Imagine how that must have felt."

Fully surprised, Hermione stared at her teacher. "Incapable?"

"Either that, or blocked. The result is the same." Delia sighed. "A very frustrating business," she mused, and her eyes focused past Hermione, towards the sea.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said quietly. She didn't know what else to say. "That must've been awful."

"Yes." Delia was quiet for a long time, and then she spoke again. "You are highly intelligent," she said evenly. "Even wise, for your age, which is unsurprising, considering what you have been through. And you have conceived a spell - albeit simple - that was beyond my power. If you are asking me to tell you that you are incapable of this magic, then you are asking me to tell a lie."

Hermione clenched her teeth in frustration. One spell didn't make her a Thinker. Perhaps Delia was blocked - but it wasn't the same. "But I can't do it," she protested. "You've seen me -"

"You can," Delia interrupted. "But you take no pleasure in it. It is not natural to your mind, and your mind therefore rejects it."

"Then you admit I'm not right for it," Hermione said, unfolding her legs and standing up. She paced to the edge of the patio and leaned against one of the columns, facing the sea. The column was cold and smooth against her arm, and she leaned her temple against it, too, trying to cool her head. "Why did you let me stay here when you knew it wasn't going to work?" she demanded. She heard the sound of Delia breathing deeply, behind her. "Why didn't you send me back and wait for someone else?"

"You've asked me this before. Your real question lies deeper."

Hermione snorted. "Not really."

"No?" Delia's voice was very quiet. "Don't you want to ask me what you are supposed to be, if you are not this? Don't you wish to know what your purpose is, in life?"

Hermione had a childish urge to hit something, or sob. The sun had just slipped past the horizon, and the clouds were performing a symphony of color above the sea - purple and gold and red - as beautiful as the ceiling at Hogwarts. "I don't think I have one anymore," she finally answered, barely eking out the words without crying.

"Then you had one, once?" Delia asked softly.

"Yes. Harry and Ron and I - we - had one. We always had one."

"And did you fulfill it?"

"Yes." It was a whisper. Hermione slipped her arm around the marble column and wished that it were Ron.

"Fortunate girl." Delia sighed. "To have achieved so much, so young."

"Yes, but what now?" Hermione wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and then under her nose. "I can't just get a job at a shop and pretend I'm satisfied, not after Voldemort."

"What about your friends? How are they coping?"

Hermione shrugged. "Well they're fine, aren't they? Ron's found his job, and Harry…" She trailed off. Harry hadn't found his niche at all. Harry must feel what she felt, multiplied a thousand times. "That's why he's riding the dragons…" she mumbled to herself, surprised that she hadn't thought about it that way before.

"And your friend Ginny?"

"I don't know. She always seems so… I don't know how to put it. It's like she could be happy anywhere."

"But you can't."

"No." Hermione turned around and opened her hands uselessly, as if something might fall into them. "I can't. I want to - to think, and learn, and do something - enormous. Something enormous. And don't say that I've already done something enormous, because that wasn't only mine." Hermione nearly put her hand to her mouth. She hadn't meant to say that. She hadn't even realized that she felt that.

Delia nodded. "So you came to be a Thinker. That would be yours."

"But it isn't." Hermione dropped her hands and her guard. Delia's face was so sympathetic. "This morning, I was writing to my - my boyfriend." The word felt funny and inadequate in her mouth. "I was writing to Ron, anyway. And the truth is, I want to go home. I know this isn't what I want to do with my life, and I miss him."

Delia smiled. "Is he what you want to do with your life?"

Hermione jumped in surprise. "He - well - partly, yes." Her cheeks grew warm. She had never admitted as much to anyone before, not even Ron.

"Then go home. I will be neither disappointed, nor offended."

"But I would." Hermione paced over to where Delia sat in her serene position, and dropped down to sit in front of her. "I promised myself I'd stay until Christmas, and I - well, I've only quit one other thing in my life, and it was partly because I detested the teacher. I can't quit this."

"Then stay until Christmas."

Hermione crossed her legs anxiously, and adjusted her robes over her knees. "But you know I don't care for it," she said. "You know I'd rather quit. Doesn't that - bother you? Wouldn't you rather I left, if I'm never going to use what you're teaching me?"

Delia laughed beautifully, and then she did something that surprised Hermione very much: she reached out one cool hand, and cupped Hermione's face. "Child, what I want makes very little difference, I have found, in what actually happens." She held Hermione's gaze. "The journey through life is hard enough to make without carrying the burden of so many expectations, and the ones we place upon ourselves are heaviest of all. This is one small part of your journey. Accept it as such - no more, no less. And perhaps you will use it one day, after all." She left her hand on Hermione's cheek for a moment, then withdrew it and silently stood up. "Take the rest of the afternoon to decide whether or not you would like to stay. Let me know at dinner." Delia walked into the house, and disappeared.

Hermione rocked back and forth on the tiles, her cheek tingling where Delia had touched it. Her mother had used to touch her face like that.

After a time, she quietly shut her eyes and, before she had decided to do it, her hands were open on her knees and she was meditating freely.

"We register wands…" she mumbled aloud, after several minutes had passed. "Which can be tracked because, obviously, they're enchanted…" A lovely breeze moved her hair and stirred her robes. "If the children were enchanted… but it's illegal to enchant the body of a minor… If something that they… their clothing…but they could change their clothing…"

Hermione's eyes snapped open.

"Their hair?" she whispered, to no one. "It's dead, it's not the living body. But they can't change it. If the M.L.E.S. could mark their hair…" She shook her head. "Is it that simple? It can't be that simple. Nothing important is. Is it?"

"Yeah, that's it, we'll just love him to death, that'll work," Ron's voice said suddenly in the back of her mind.

Hermione had to laugh. "Or perhaps it is," she murmured. Feeling calm and strong, she stood up to go and find Delia.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Very Late, Really Long Chapter From Hell

Author’s Notes: No, we don’t know when Chapter Twenty-Seven will be posted. J

Fleur hadn’t seen Bill Weasley since Halloween. He sat across from her now, at the low end of a big conference table in one of the Gringotts meeting rooms, taking detailed notes on a piece of parchment in front of him as Barknap, their goblin project manager, outlined the various types of charms he might expect on vaults number 687 to 712. Barknap and several of his assistants were seated on a platform at the high end of the table – a typical goblin-like attempt at appearing powerful.

There was no need for Fleur to take notes. Unless Bill or one of the goblins managed to break the charms that she had set, she was free to leave London and Gringotts at the end of the week. Not only that, but she’d also be leaving Charismatics Spellcraft International and be free to work where she wanted, not that she had a clear idea of where that was for the long term. At any rate, she couldn’t leave soon enough. She had put in tireless hours reconstructing charms on the bank vaults, and in the evenings had taken to spending most of her time in the flat she had let, reading books and practicing more charms. Walking home through Diagon Alley each evening was a test of patience, as it usually happened that at least one wizard on the street would prove to be unaccustomed to seeing a quarter-veela, and would try to follow her home. Never had Fleur tried so hard to be unattractive – she was getting very little sleep, yet circles refused to appear under her eyes. She’d stopped brushing her hair for a whole week, and yet it refused to tangle. She’d never had this problem at home – but then again, at home she had often welcomed the attention.

Bill had attempted his second apology at Halloween. After talking with Professor McGonagall and Neville Longbottom at the celebration, Fleur had decided to take a walk around the grounds, to try to get a feel for what types of charms might assist in protecting the castle. No one had been able to determine exactly how Albus Dumbledore had managed to keep the school secure for so long, but Professor McGonagall had explained to her that since Voldemort was no longer a threat, it was not necessary to have the strongest charms – ones that might take years to perfect – in place before the school opened the following September. The Headmistress was more interested in restoring basic boundary charms – enough to give parents a sense of security.

Fleur was grateful that Professor McGonagall had accepted her offer of help. It had been a lucky guess that Hogwarts might be in need of assistance with charm reconstruction, and Fleur had sent a blind letter to the school in early October, searching for any opportunity to stay away from France. Her parents were upset that she wasn’t returning home right away, although she’d promised to come back for Christmas. She just didn’t want to go back yet. Too many things in Mont Ste. Mireille reminded her of Gabrielle. Her parents were having a difficult time of it, but at least they had each other. Fleur was very much alone.

“I’m sorry?” Bill looked up from his notes and addressed Barknap. “Look, it might help me a bit if you tell me who some of the patrons are for these vaults. If I’m expected to think like a criminal, then I’ll need to know what I’m supposed to be stealing, won’t I?”

“Mr. Weasley, we’ve discussed this before – we cannot breach Gringotts’ security by telling you what’s in each vault!”

The two continued to bicker back and forth for a few minutes, and Fleur held up her hand under the pretense of inspecting her nails. In truth, she was inspecting Bill instead. He wasn’t handsome in a conventional sense – not handsome like her tall, dark-haired father or the Quidditch player who had accompanied her to the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament. She could almost hear Clara, her school mate at Beauxbatons, sniffing something disdainful about the way his nose was a trifle too long, or how his build was a bit on the slender side. Of course, it didn’t matter what Clara might have thought – Fleur had caught a glimpse of the Culparrat transfer lists while working at Azkaban and had seen Clara’s name on the list of prisoners.

Bill was… interesting looking. The arms that emerged past the rolled-up sleeves of his robes were very freckled, but his face, in comparison, was unblemished. The hair that was pulled back into that ponytail was thick and slightly wavy, and very, very red. Fleur often received envious stares and compliments on her own hair, which fell to her waist and shimmered as though enchanted, but somehow she liked Bill's better.

“Miss Delacour? Miss Delacour?” Fleur put down her hand and stopped a blush before it could start. She might not look tired, but she felt exhausted. Barknap was speaking to her. “Could you assist me up here with some of the charts?”

Rising from her seat, Fleur mounted the platform where the Goblins were sitting and, pulling out her wand, levitated the piece of parchment that Barknap had just unfurled so that Bill could read what it said.

“This is a map of the vault area that you will be inspecting,” said Barknap, nodding at Fleur to point to the parchment. “There are twenty-six vaults, each protected by a different type of charm. Some are low security – standard Gringotts spells for those who can’t afford more custom enhancements – and some are highly complex. There are some that you would be expected to be able to enter with little effort, however, there is not much worth stealing in those vaults, so it is of little consequence.”

“I know,” said Bill, “My family’s vault is 687.”

Fleur looked at him. He’d been writing as he spoke and she couldn’t see his face, but the tips of his ears were quite pink. She’d always assumed that since his father was the Minister of Magic that his family must be quite well off.

Barknap consulted his own notes. “That is the vault of the Minister of Magic – I assure you that special charms are in place there.”

Bill pushed his chair back from the table and walked up to the map. He squinted and leaned in close, so as to get a better look. Fleur took a step back, because as he neared, her heart had begun to race, just as it had done at Halloween. This only made her angry. Taking a deep breath, Fleur asked, “Do you have a problem with seeing, Mr. Weasley?”

He looked at her and shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Why are you not wearing glasses?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but after a moment, muttered, “I used to – in school.” He turned and walked back down to his seat.

Barknap nodded and Fleur also sat down. She was grateful, for she suddenly felt lightheaded. Bill Weasley always seemed to have that effect on her, despite her attempts to fight it.

On Halloween, she’d wandered down to the lake, feeling a need to see it again. It looked quite different from the way it had the day of the second task. Voldemort’s attack on the school the year after the Triwizard Tournament had turned the banks of the Hogwarts lake into a sort of muddy wasteland. Though she’d only seen it surface once during her time at Hogwarts, the absence of the giant squid seemed to fill the lake with an emptiness that was almost overwhelming. Now, a new Mer-community was forming at the far end, and Fleur had caught a hint of their shrill voices as they’d floated to the surface, looking for building materials. She’d shivered at the sound, but had still knelt down by the water, peering in, as though trying to see to the bottom in the night. She wondered if any Grindylows had made their way into the lake. She hadn’t thought that anything could be worse than thinking that Gabrielle might have died because of her own stupidity. But she’d been wrong. Nothing could fill the emptiness of not knowing what had become of her sister.

Fleur gave her head a hard, quick shake. She wouldn’t cry. She’d done enough of that already. She was strong, and capable, and sure of herself. She’d just decided to ask Professor McGonagall if she could start spending her off hours from Gringotts researching Water Charms in the Hogwarts library, when she’d heard footsteps behind her.

“Fleur?”

“Oui? I mean, yes? Who is it?” she’d asked, though she’d already recognized the voice. She turned around, and could see a familiar tall figure with a pale face in front of her.

His face had broken into a half-hearted smile. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to be alone out here,” he’d said.

She’d stood taller and tossed her head. “I am very good alone,” she’d said, wondering if he’d catch her double-meaning. Instead, he took a step closer.

“Look,” he’d said, digging into the muddy ground with his foot, “I know you’re upset with me. I’m sorry that I …” he seemed to be grasping for words, “accused you.”

“I am not upset with you, Monsieur Weasley. I do not think of you,” she had replied, holding her chin up high. He’d looked upset, and she was glad. At least he had believed her lie. He was silent for a moment, and then said, “I haven’t seen you around Gringotts much.”

“No, there is quite a lot of work, and you are not the only curse breaker employed 'ere.” She’d known he wasn’t talking about work, but she refused to show any indication. It seemed to irritate him.

“I meant, I haven’t seen you in general, except for that time in Madam Malkin’s with my brother.” His eyes had narrowed. “He’s got a girlfriend, by the way.”

This had made Fleur laugh until she was almost hysterical. Bill had stared at her with a mixture of confusion and worry, but she’d continued to laugh, eventually holding onto her side as she gasped for air. “But he is just a boy!” she’d said. “A grown man like you, jealous of a little boy? I am sorry, it is too funny.”

The skin along his jawline had gone ruddy and the muscles in his face went tight. “I’m just telling you that you’d better direct your charms elsewhere.”

She still shivered, thinking how cold his voice had been. She’d stopped laughing and studied him, feeling suddenly desperate, wanting a glimpse of the person she had met in the dragon trenches - the one who had made her feel so immediately safe, and had known everything about her without even having to ask. But that Bill seemed to have disappeared along with the war. Or perhaps he had only been a dream to begin with.

“You do not know me at all,” she’d said quietly, and brushed past him back to the castle.

He’d hurt her feelings more than he’d ever know. But, Fleur reflected, pulling her plait from behind her back and inspecting the ends as Barknap continued to drone on, at least he’d taught her a valuable lesson. She had always wondered if she’d ever be able to have a normal relationship with a man, and now she knew the answer. Her mother had been extraordinarily lucky to find her father.

“If there are no further questions,” Barknap’s voice interrupted her thoughts, “you may begin working on the vaults this afternoon. Miss Delacour,” he turned to address Fleur, “if the charms on these last vaults are in order, then your employment at Gringotts is finished.”

Fleur heard Bill draw a sharp, soft breath. “What?”

She drew herself up straight.

“You have worked very hard here,” Barknap went on, “and we thank you. Please report to the main office before you leave to turn in your badge and sign your paperwork.” With as close to a smile as a goblin could muster, he nodded and wobbled out of the room, his assistants following him. Fleur waited until the door shut, then dared a glance at Bill.

He was staring at her with his mouth open.

~*~

“Well.” Fleur lowered her wand and took a deep breath. “I believe that's finished.” She put a hand on her hip and struck a very self-satisfied pose.

Bill stood behind her with his arms crossed, his eyes trained on the back of her silvery head, which managed to produce its own light even in the very dim glow of one lamp. But her hair wasn't as perfect as usual; she had it tied up tightly so it wouldn't trouble her while she worked, and fine, gently-curling wisps had escaped at the nape of her neck and at her temples. She was practically a mess; wandering around the depths of Gringotts in plain work robes and sturdy shoes, breathing hard from the exertion of difficult charm work, rolling up her sleeves just like everyone else. Even her accent was greatly diminished - the “z”s that had made her sound exotic were lately under careful control, and she had adopted a deceptively British turn of phrase. Her face was, of course, remarkable, but there was little else about her to demand Bill's total attention.

And yet she had it. He couldn't take his eyes off her. It was nearly too frustrating to bear. He wrenched his gaze to the spot she'd just enchanted and glanced over it; a nest of small corridor-openings had been visible to the naked eye, just hours before, and now the openings were nowhere to be seen. Bill raised his wand and muttered a few words to break the enchantment apart, but he was unable to destroy it - and that was a good thing, he reminded himself. Every one of her charms had been watertight, and that was the only point in having her here. He stuck his wand back in his belt.

“It's done,” he agreed, and studied the wall for as long as he could. But without anything further to occupy him, he couldn't help it - his eyes strayed back to her and lingered. There was one long lock of hair that had escaped entirely - it grazed Fleur's collar and continued all the way down to the small of her back. Bill's fingers itched to put it back in place, and he sent a silent curse in her direction.

Fleur was apparently oblivious to his troubles. “What's next?” she muttered to herself, pulling a scroll out of her robes and unrolling it to reveal a very complicated map, which she tapped with her wand. “Assignment eighteen is complete,” she said clearly, and touched her wand to the map, exactly where they stood. “This is my location, and I am facing south. Directions to the next task, please.”

“Walk west, and turn left at the fourth corridor, which is located just past the medium-security vaults,” said the thin, papery voice of the map. “Continue to the end. On the left is a curse shield, which prohibits entry to all but our goblins. It is invisible. Take heed not to touch that shield under any circumstances. On the right is a wide door in the wall, which was once a hidden entrance. Please hide the door again, allowing it to appear only to Chief of Security Magda Crustus. Thank you.”

Fleur tapped the map again and put it away. Without turning around - indeed, as if she had forgot Bill's presence altogether - she walked quickly in the direction the map had indicated. In seconds, she had been swallowed by the enormous darkness of Gringotts' underground tunnels.

“Lumos Splendidus,” Bill said quickly, and several lamps came to life in the corridor where Fleur stood. The light was so much brighter than before that both of them winced and stood still for a moment.

“Zat was unnecessary,” Fleur snapped under her breath.

Bill wasn't sure why, but the sudden resurgence of her accent pleased him. “Well, you won't find the right-turn in the dark,” he pointed out.

“I will light ze lamps. I 'ave told you I don't want 'elp.”

He sighed. “Fine.” It had been like this ever since the first day she'd arrived - since he'd somehow angered her by speaking the truth. “Nox Totalus.” He’d tried to apologize to her at Halloween, but it hadn’t worked.

The lights went out, leaving them in total blackness, and Fleur made a sound of annoyance. “Lumos Splendidus,” she said, through obviously gritted teeth, and the lights came on again. She continued forward, much more quickly, and took a sharp left after the vaults.

Bill followed, irritated, yet glad that Gringotts had assigned him to look after the strength of Fleur’s enchantments. For weeks he’d been breaking down the last of the curses in Gringotts' underbelly, and he had been unable to find any legitimate excuse to see Fleur or talk to her. And now, just as they were finally paired up together, she was leaving. He wondered if she was returning to France, or some other exotic location, and he felt a stab of jealousy. Of course, she hadn’t said anything to him – it wasn’t like her to actually tell him anything, was it? He threw a disgusted look at her back as she disappeared into darkness again, down the next hallway.

“Planning to do these lamps,” Bill asked loudly, “or shall I -”

“Lumos Splendidus,” Fleur interrupted haughtily, and the corridor was flooded with lamplight.

Bill bristled at her tone - it wasn't fair. She was part veela. She had no business getting so upset over his knowing it. Her continuing defensiveness only convinced Bill further that her charms had been responsible for his inability to control himself on that long ago night in the dragon camp. He had tried to get a further explanation out of her after their confrontation in his office - he'd even tried to apologize for the way in which he'd brought it all up - but she had barely been civil to him since her arrival. And that stunt she'd pulled in Madam Malkin's, pretending that they didn't even know each other... Bill glared silently at her, and reminded himself that Ron still deserved a punch in the mouth for being an insufferable arse.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04