The Lewis House 75 страница

~*~

Fleur stood under the enormous dome of her bright blue umbrella and rang the third floor bell at number thirteen, Diagon Alley. When there was no immediate answer, Fleur switched the umbrella into her other hand and pulled a card out of her pocket and checked the address. Yes. This was Penelope Clearwater's building. It was a nondescript, stone rowhouse, but Fleur had long ago lost her snobbery where flats were concerned; when she had first moved to Paris she had discovered that what she could afford and what she actually liked were in two very different categories. This row house was in a nice enough area, if it was a bit cramped-looking. And the number thirteen on the building, which hung askew in spidery gothic iron, was somehow beautiful.

Fleur rang the bell again. Again there was no answer, and she began to get irritated. Moreover, she was worried. She didn't want to stand here in the middle of Diagon Alley, in the middle of the rain, where anyone might walk by. Anyone at all.

"Fleur Delacour - is that you?"

Fleur heard the quick clicking of footsteps on wet sidewalk and turned to see two faces she vaguely recognized. They must have been Penelope Clearwater and Hermione Granger, though if it hadn't been for the baby that slept against Penelope's back, Fleur never would have known who was who.

"Are we late?" Penelope asked. "I'm so sorry! We just popped down to The Write Answer for more quills and parchment -"

"Non, I am early," Fleur said.

Hermione, who was holding an umbrella over herself and Penelope, looked rather unsettled. She gave Fleur a smile that wasn't quite convincing.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Hermione Granger. I don't know if you remem-"

"I remember," Fleur lied, and held out her hand first to Hermione and then Penelope. "It is wonderful to see you both again."

"You too! Excuse me, let me just get past you there - thanks - and then we can all get out of this rain and upstairs to work. I love your umbrella, by the way."

Penelope was friendly enough, Fleur decided as they tramped up three very steep flights.

"Feel free to Apparate after this, now you know where it is, and avoid those horrible stairs," Penelope panted, and pushed open the door to her flat. "I only use them because he -" she reached over her shoulder and patted her son - "made me fat. Come in, make yourself at home."

Fleur looked around the flat. It was clean, and very simply furnished. Long white curtains hung in the windows and Penelope had polished the wooden floors to a high shine. There was a distinct lack of knick-knacks and clutter - except in a tiny room that Penelope explained was the nursery - and a sense of something quiet and peaceful hung in the air. Fleur liked it.

"Your flat is lovely," she said, as she hung her cloak and umbrella on the set of hooks near the door and took her bag to the table near the windows.

"Thanks." Penelope smiled. "I've only just moved in, so Leo hasn't had time to destroy it. I'm sorry we can't work in a proper office, but there simply isn't room there, for three."

"Oh, it is nothing, I can work anywhere." Fleur thought she saw annoyance flicker across Hermione's face. But the expression was gone so quickly that Fleur decided not to assume anything. "May I see what you are attempting to build?"

Penelope excused herself to put Leo down for a nap before they began, and it was Hermione who retrieved a rolled-up stack of massive, map-sized parchment sheets. She placed them on the table.

Fleur thanked her and unrolled the stack, but frowned at the very first page; these spell maps had been drawn one layer at a time, and she was used to seeing complex spells in overlay. It helped her to visualize what she would have to do, to put it all together. She rolled up the stack of parchment without another look. "There is a map of these together, yes?" she asked.

Hermione gave a slight cough. "You'll want to look through the layers first," she said, a little too slowly. "So you'll recognize what you're looking at when you see it in overlay. It's complicated."

Fleur knew now that she hadn't been imagining things. Hermione didn't like her. "Perhaps you will allow me to judge?" she asked, and watched as Hermione's chin went into the air. It didn't bother her. In Fleur's opinion, there were two kinds of women: those like Penelope, who were confident in themselves and had no fear of her, and those like Hermione, who were afraid.

"Why certainly." Hermione stood and raised her wand. She made several complicated movements, and muttered several spells Fleur did not recognize. A moment later, filling the room, there hung a glittering map, so deep and complex, and involving so many magical paths, that Fleur's mouth hung open.

"Mon Dieu," she said, not caring if Hermione had the upper hand. "I 'av never seen…"

"Hermione, give her a chance to look at the layers!" Penelope rebuked as she came back into the room. "Goodness. You'll overwhelm her and she won't want to work with us." She laughed. "But it's beautiful, isn't it? I still can't believe it's finally finished. In theory, anyway. We were up all night, drawing the final drafts - Hermione only just discovered the key to the design."

"It was Ron," Hermione protested. "Don't give me credit."

Penelope waved her wand, and the glittering map vanished. "What do you think, Miss Delacour?"

"I think… I will need some hours to study these," said Fleur, touching the rolls of parchment. "And please, call me Fleur."

For the next three hours, they pored over maps and spells, paths and theories, Arithmancy and Thinking. Fleur could not help being impressed by Hermione's apprenticeship, and when she told her as much it seemed to soften her attitude. When lunch rolled around, it was announced by a stomach rumble - no one could work out whose - and a cry from the nursery.

"Everyone's hungry, apparently," Penelope said. "I'll be right back - Hermione, do you and Fleur want to grab lunch and bring it back here? I don't have much in the way of food, and I'm starving - grab money from my coat if you go, would you, and just get me something big."

Hermione fished money out of Penelope's cloak. "No, you're fine," she said to Fleur, holding out a hand to stop her from getting up. "Really, I'll get it. Have a look at those last two paths while I'm gone and then we can look at the overlay again and you can see how it all fits together. What do you want? I'm going to the Lighthouse, they've got sandwiches and pies and soup and things."

"Vegetable soup and a baguette - a roll - it does not matter." Fleur opened her purse, but Hermione waved her off again.

"My treat, it's fine. Thanks for helping with this, I'm - glad you could come." And she was gone, looking a bit red and rather contrite. Fleur sat back in surprise. Perhaps she had misjudged Hermione, who seemed very pleasant after all.

After going over the last two maps, Fleur stood in the empty room to stretch her legs. She looked out of the windows and her eyes strayed to the small, framed pictures on the walls. There were very few. One was a copy of a very pretty painting Fleur did not recognize - she leaned close to the painted lilies to see the name scrawled beneath them. Monet. He had to be a Muggle; she would have recognized the name of any French wizarding painter who was this good. On the far wall hung a photograph of Penelope, asleep with an unbelievably tiny Leo. And beside that hung a picture of a freckled young man in horn-rimmed glasses, who looked very serious, but very happy.

Percy.

Fleur recognized him instantly and her breath caught in her throat. Percy. Percy who had been killed, Percy whose death had brought Bill to Charlie in the middle of a trench, in the middle of a war. Percy who belonged in this flat, with his wife and his son. He smiled quietly out at her and, every so often, he pushed up his glasses. Bill missed him so much - Fleur knew that. And Bill hadn't meant to be awful; Fleur knew that, too. This year had been strange and difficult for everyone, and just when things should have been getting easier they had become stupidly complicated. It had been so uncomplicated, that first night, and so honest. Fleur traced a finger down the frame of Percy's photo and sighed.

"Did you know him?"

Fleur whirled. She hadn't heard Hermione come back - perhaps she had Apparated. "I…" she began. "I remember 'im from the tournament. I know what happened to 'im."

"Did Penny -"

"Non, I found out last year, when it 'appened. I was… putting Diversion Enchantments around the dragon camp, for Sharlie Weasley, when his brother came to tell 'im. I overheard them. I was so sorry."

It seemed to be enough of the truth to satisfy Hermione. She nodded, and glanced down the little corridor toward the nursery. "Here's lunch," she said, and set a bag on the hall table. "Let me get Penny, and we'll get back to it."

They returned to work, but, to Fleur's chagrin, the afternoon was a long series of frustrating failures. Hermione had brought a large beetle, which they were using as the "prisoner", and so far, the prisoner had escaped from every attempt Fleur had made.

She stopped and tied back her hair, determined to conquer the spell. She hoped they could not see how worried she was - it should have been nothing at all to erect a palm-sized miniature of a spell, and that was all she wanted to create. A little model should have taken minutes, at most. Fleur had always managed to put up fully functional spells within a few hours of first seeing them drawn, and she had a knack for mastering the most difficult charms, like Diversion Enchantments, in a few days' time. No miniature of any kind had ever given her trouble. But the Imprisonment Enchantment was so complicated that Fleur could hardly keep all its layers in her mind together at once. It was imperative that she do so, or nothing could be built, but bits of it kept slipping out of her grasp. No magic had ever been so difficult for her, but she continued to build, narrowing her focus, unwilling to admit defeat.

When the beetle finally crashed into thin air and splinched, Fleur let out an undignified shout of victory and slumped back in her chair.

"It works!" Hermione squeaked and, to Fleur's astonishment, Penelope burst into tears. "Oh, Penny, Penny, what's the matter -"

"It's just that P-Percy and I w-wanted to do this and we worked so h-hard… and now it's r-real -" Penelope put her hands over her face, and Hermione hugged her.

Fleur watched them, feeling very tired and more than a little out of place. But she put a hand on Penelope's elbow, knowing from her own experience that even the smallest comforts were always worth giving. Even if Penelope was still a relative stranger, she had been Percy's wife. And Percy was Bill's brother. And that connected them.

"He'd be so happy," Penelope sobbed. "I hope he can s-see this."

"He can," Hermione assured her.

"Of course 'e can," Fleur chimed in.

"Oh, Fleur, I'm sorry - let me pull myself together -" Penelope wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.

Fleur Summoned the tissues. "Non, take your time. But I will give you privacy. And I will come back to try this again tomorrow, yes?"

"Yes," said Penelope and Hermione together, at once, as the free half of the beetle scuttled to the edge of the table and fell onto the floor.

"And… if I may suggest something?"

Hermione glanced at her. "Go on."

"The spell can be built, and it works - it is wonderful." Fleur smiled at Penelope. "But per'aps it would be wise to make certain it cannot be broken down, before it is put into effect? I am not an expert at breaking charms, only at building them…" She trailed off, wondering just how obvious she was being, but neither Penelope nor Hermione seemed to have any clue what her motives were.

"She's right," Hermione said, and let go of Penny to chew on her fingernail. "You know, Bill's done with all his work at Gringotts, and he's got loads of experience. If anyone could break this, he could. I'm sure he'd love to help."

"Of course, Bill! " Penelope wiped her eyes again and gave Fleur a watery smile. "Bill Weasley is my brother-in-law. He's a Curse Breaker for Gring- "

"Wait, didn't you work together at Gringotts?" Hermione cut in, and suddenly her eyes were very keen. "You already know him, don't you?"

Fleur searched for words, but found none, and Hermione was still talking.

"I remember Ron saying something in a letter, something about Bill and…" Hermione stopped. Her eyes widened, and her mouth twitched.

Fleur wondered if the room had suddenly overheated or if she'd gone crimson.

"Yes, let's do ask Bill to help us," Hermione said, after she'd regained her composure. "I'm going over to the Weasleys' tonight for supper, and all the boys are supposed to be there, so I'll ask him tonight. Will you be there, Penelope?"

"No, I had lunch with Molly yesterday and I'm a little worn out right now, to be honest."

Hermione nodded, and looked up at Fleur. "Well then, would you like to come along? I'm sure no one would mind." She grinned. "Mrs. Weasley's always up for more company."

Fleur wanted to say yes, but she didn't know how, and the idea of walking into Bill's house uninvited and unexpected terrified her. So she shook her head.

"You're sure?"

Fleur nodded.

"Well all right." Hermione stood and patted Penelope's shoulder. "Perhaps next time. I'm going to go and find Ron and head down to the Burrow. I'll see you both tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow," Fleur echoed, and Disapparated from Penelope's flat so distracted about what tomorrow might hold that she forgot both her umbrella and her cloak.

~*~

"Put that down, dear." Molly hid a triumphant smile as Max instantly laid down the wand he'd picked up from the kitchen table. "You'll have a wand of your own soon enough."

Late sunlight pierced the kitchen windows and filled the Burrow; it was Molly's favorite kind of light and tonight she felt strangely content. She had expected Penelope's move to Diagon Alley to distress her, but it hadn't. Not much. Perhaps it was because, when Penelope had brought Leo to visit yesterday, she had looked happier than she had in months. Perhaps it was the fact that the Weasley children were coming together for dinner tonight, for the first time since Christmas.

Or perhaps Max was keeping her young. She hadn't expected to like him quite so much.

"I want my old wand," he said. "It chose me."

"Of course you want your old wand." Molly patted his shoulder. "Ebony, thirteen inches, dragon heartstring?"

Max's jaw dropped. "How did you -"

"St. Mungo's confiscated it, dear, they didn't burn it up. I have it."

"WHERE?"

Molly laughed. "It isn't in the house, so there's no point in tearing the place apart."

"Well, when can I have it?" he demanded.

"In September, when Hogwarts opens again." She licked her thumb and rubbed out a spot of dirt on Max's temple before he could dart away.

"Hey - that's disgusting!" Max rubbed at his forehead, scowling. "What makes you think I'll still be here in September?"

"Instinct." Molly smiled at him, and Max looked like he wanted very much to smile back, but he only tossed his head.

"Well I'm not going back to that stupid school, you can forget it."

"Then there won't be any need to give back your wand." Molly held out a wooden spoon, covered in sauce. "Taste?"

Max gingerly sipped from the spoon. "More salt."

Molly turned to the table for the salt shaker, and was pleased to see Arthur in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

"I see I'm obsolete," he said. "You have a new taster."

"He's much more decisive than you are," Molly said, and handed Max the salt. "And a better cook."

Max half-smiled, and gave the salt several confident shakes over the pot.

"Run along and wash your hands, dear," Molly said, when he'd finished. "We'll eat in an hour, when everyone's here."

Max's sandy eyebrows came together. "Everyone? That girl isn't coming, is she?"

"What, Hermione?"

"No, that stupid Healer."

Molly pursed her lips. "My daughter's name is Ginny," she said tightly, "and though you won't give us your proper name, I'll thank you to respect other people's."

"If she's coming, I'm not eating."

"Then I'm afraid you're going to be very hungry."

Max pulled a horrible face; he pushed past Arthur, stomped out of the room and ran up the stairs. Molly rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger.

"Just when I think I've got him sorted out," she said, and sighed.

Arthur smiled a little. "We've got him more sorted than you think," he said. "He's -"

"He's impossible. He won't tell us anything, not even what House he was in, and he's the best liar I've ever met. He never slips up, I don't know how we're going to -"

"Molly," Arthur said patiently. "I think I have his name."

Molly felt excited and cold all at once. To know Max better - to really help him - she would have to know his identity and his past. But the chances that his parents were dead, or in prison, were very high, and the chances that he didn't know what had happened to his parents were even higher. How would she break the news to him, whatever it was? It was a question that had bothered her ever since she and Arthur had decided to hold onto him.

"Well?" she said.

"Adam Mercury Hopewell, Junior," Arthur said. "I'm almost positive. I sent pictures to McGonagall, and she identified him and sent back copies of all his papers." Arthur placed a thick file on the table. "She isn't positive, but several of the teachers concur and I contacted several of the families in his year, to see if any of them recognized him. Only one woman - Margaret Pucey - wrote that her youngest son, Damian, was a friend of Adam's. No one else answered, but that's probably because the rest of the families in his old circle aren't keen on giving me information of any kind."

Molly's heart sank. "Then - his parents?"

"In Culparrat. Tried and convicted."

Tears came fast, and Molly was unprepared. "Poor thing," she mumbled, and Arthur came around the table to hug her. She hugged back, brokenhearted for Adam - if he was Adam. "Does he know?"

"No. He wasn't lying when he said that he was informed that they'd been killed. Under Fudge's direction, many children of arrested Death Eaters were given false information on their parents' whereabouts when they were taken to the children's home. It was decided that they were too young to know the truth."

Molly pulled away. "How do we tell him?"

"I have no idea." Arthur took the file from the table and handed it to Molly; she opened it and paged through Adam Hopewell's identification, report cards, selected assignments, and Head of House reports.

"Slytherin," she said quietly. "Well, it's not exactly shocking."

"The Hopewells are related to the Malfoys, actually. Adam's father is Lucius's second cousin, once removed. It's distant, but the connection is there."

"Then… if he's Adam… then he has living relatives."

"Yes."

"Who might want him."

"It's possible."

"Arthur, they'll ruin him."

Arthur gently moved Molly's hair away from her face. "Your sauce is boiling." He went to stir it as Molly continued to sift through Adam's file.

"Look at these marks. These are like Percy's old marks - or Bill's. He must have been top of his year."

"I know it."

Molly put down the file. "Arthur, he's doing so well here. He's doing well with us, and with his lessons, and with - with behaving like a child ought to behave. And his relatives, whoever they are - if they're the kind of people who won't even give you information, then they'd adopt him just for spite, even if they didn't want him - and he can't be asked to adjust again, it isn't fair to him -"

"I know." Arthur gave her a long look. "But let's wait until we're sure of who he is, and then speak with him about what he wants, before we get the world involved."

Molly nodded. She looked down at the table and dragged her fingers across the top of the file. "I suppose I've grown rather attached, is the thing."

"So have I."

"Well, I knew you were going to like him the minute he took an interest in your ridiculous plugs." Molly let out a wistful breath. "I'm sure I should be tired of raising children, but I'm so glad that Ron brought him here - as much trouble as he is, if there were six more of him I don't think I'd mind. Am I mad?"

Arthur laughed. "Molly," he said affectionately. He laid the long spoon across the top of the pot and took her by the shoulders. Molly tilted up her chin and marveled that she could still feel like a fifth year, when they stood together like this. Glasses and lines and thinning hair had done nothing to diminish her husband's charms.

"Oh, Arthur -"

A catcall from the front room distracted them both; Molly turned and squinted through the open kitchen door to see Bill throwing his things onto the sofa and grinning.

"No, don't let me interrupt," he called. "Smells great in here, Mum. When's dinner?"

"Whenever your brothers and sister get here - " Molly stood on tiptoe and quickly kissed her husband; he squeezed her shoulders and let go. "And Bill, dear," she called, "would you please go upstairs and see if you can get Adam - that is, Max - to come down and eat?"

Bill strode to the kitchen, frowning. "What'd you just call him?"

Molly shushed him. "I didn't mean to shout. Your father's had a letter from Minerva McGonagall."

Bill lowered his voice. "Really? Have we got Max's identity, Dad?"

Arthur handed Bill the file and explained the situation; Bill paged through Adam Hopewell's papers, pulled out a report card and whistled again. "Quite a brain on that one. All right then - what if I try to slip his name into conversation tonight and see if he answers to it?"

"He'll never fall for that," Molly said, but Bill waved a careless hand.

"HHHh e likes me, he'll answer me." He gave an easy smile and went about lighting the lamps; the sun had finished setting, and the house was growing dark. "He's got good taste, if he's got a bad temper."

"Well, he certainly doesn't like your sister," Molly said, feeling very huffy about it. "That's why he won't come down to dinner. And I can't see why -"

"It's just because she practiced on him in front of everyone, at Christmas. He didn't want to be called out like that about his parents. He didn't think it was fair. He's scared she'll try it again."

Molly blinked. "Did he tell you all that?"

"Not in so many words." Bill shrugged. "But he mentioned something the last time I was here, and I can't say I blame him. That was quite an audience for something so personal - say, can I taste that for you?"

Molly shared a guilty look with Arthur while Bill helped himself to the sauce. "I tried to talk to Max - that is, to Adam - on Christmas night," she said quietly. "But he wouldn't answer me. I didn't know it still bothered him so much."

Arthur pushed up his glasses. "Well. The only one who can set it right is Ginny, and once she knows there's a breach to heal, I'm sure she'll want to try."

"She's been on the warpath about Healing everything lately, hasn't she?" Bill shook his head and opened another simmering pot. "Charlie keeps me up to date on how she's handling Azkaban - all those dragons - not to mention she brewed the Wolfsbane Potion twice last month. Someone needs to slow her down, or she'll get sick. She's an amateur. I've been doing some reading - want me to have a chat with her?"

"According to Sirius, Remus already lectured her this morning." Arthur clapped Bill on the shoulder. "So go ahead and see if you can get Adam to answer to his name, and leave Ginny to us for now."

"Lectured her?" Molly slapped Bill's hand away from sausage pan and clapped a lid onto it. "Is she falling behind on her schoolwork?"

"Not yet," Arthur said, "but it seems she's determined to take on another project. She spent the morning at St. Mungo's."

"Well, that's a natural place for a Healer to take up work," said Bill, thunking into a chair and attempting to break a bit of crust off the massive apple pie that sat beside Adam's file. Molly slapped his hand again. "Ow! Mum -"

"Have a glass of water." Molly set one before him. "Don't spoil your appetite."

"She spent the morning at St. Mungo's," Arthur repeated, "because she's taken it into her head that she can wake Hermione's parents."

Molly gasped. "Arthur!" She stared at him. "Is that possible?"

"According to Ron it's not impossible, and he's certainly done his research - do you know, it was Ron who researched the Hopewells for me, today? It took him no time at all, and his notes! Painstaking, I mean it. I'll have to show them to you."

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04