DISCLAIMER: characters (except OCs) are the property of J. K. Rowling. But you knew that already.
Bill took a satisfied step towards the edge of a modest hilltop; below him, the sight of the Euphrates was welcoming.
Under the cover of the shemagh, he smiled and patted affectionately the leather cover of an old journal in his hands. Always one to trust his own notes allied to standard maps, he had blank pages and old pens as his most trusted travelling companions. While few things were as satisfying to him as the sound of quill scratching parchment, he had honed Muggle practices during the first few months of his Gringotts career; tradecraft and an inconspicuous appearance often opened doors Alohomora wouldn't.
As he approached the river, Bill checked his surroundings, discreetly casting a few spells to make sure he was alone. Spotting a rock formation that would allow him some shade, he sat nearby for some much needed rest.
While his clothes and apparel looked Muggle enough, they were only so to the unsuspecting eye; spells to make the fabric adapt to local climate and keep the wearer comfortable were a specialty of his by now (also, traversing deserts with trekking trousers that could break the teeth of any common reptile was a much calmer experience, he had to admit).
He took a long swig from a canteen and opened the journal once more, revising his own observations. With a wave of his wand, an assortment of glyphs, rough translations and directions that he could probably cite with his eyes closed were now visible.
With each consideration, each question mark, the stubbornness of youth shone like a guiding star. By now he had crossed a small portion of Iraq alone, and had still a long way to the Iranian border, when he could have been resting at The Burrow with his family. This voyage was not sanctioned by Gringotts in any way, although he doubted the goblins would mind.
Scoff at it? Likely. Discourage it? Not so much. At the end of the day, the prize was too high, should he succeed.
And where so many failed before him, Bill was certain that he wouldn't.
The young Curse-Breaker stoked the improvised fire pit, keeping an eye on his horizon: the city of Abadan.
From a very few references, Bill knew the city had suffered immensely from the Iran-Iraq War; the signs of destruction were still all around. He himself improvised accommodations near what the Muggles called a destroyed "war tank" that very night.
It saddened him; the lengths to which men, magical or not, would go to rule over each other.
Using the backpack as a pillow, he looked up at the stars. Were he home, he'd probably be outside with his family, making a mess of dinner to rattle Mum just a bit – then Fred, or George (more likely both) wouldn't know when to stop and they'd all be at risk of losing dessert.
He smiled at the thought.
Not too long now, he told himself.
AUTHOR NOTES: intended as a small (you can tell by the size of the prologue), multi-chapter story of Bill's past. Next part should be up soon.
Reviews are, as always, appreciated.