4
Lucas was going to bolt out of this madhouse, run away to Mexico, and change his name to Juan. Then he wouldn't have to go on being Lucas Bourbon, living his increasingly stupid life.
His father'd brought a punk home. His father, Lord Nathaniel Bourbon, a perfectly respectable wizard, had brought a punk home and called her his daughter. He'd found her in London, of all places. Like it was normal. Like they weren't French. Like British people weren't those hermetical, backward weirdoes who sulked in their corner and were completely out of touch with everything that went on in the outside real world. And as if that wasn't enough, she came from the muds.
Which sadly, sadly said it all.
A lying British muggleborn who was impersonating his dead highborn twin sister. This fiasco had barely begun and already Lucas was wishing he'd died too. He usually made it at least a week into the whole imposter-thing before the prayers for death started. There had been a few others who had tried to worm their way into his family and vaults, but his father had never let them made it past the front-door before, so Lucas had to wonder—had he gone insane?
At least Lucas's godmother was levelheaded. "I'll swing by," Ariel's one-line letter announced as if it were no big deal.
And his best friend wasn't buying it. "Your dead sister? Mate, you cannot be serious, she's a mudblood. How is your father going to introduce her without embarrassing himself?"
Some deep part of Lucas wanted to snap, "Stop being a jerk!" But the bigger part of him was dying to grab Blaise by the shoulders and give him an oh-Gods-I-know! shake, because that was only the hard truth.
So, yeah. Hermione the muggle freak. There was one single reason why Lucas hadn't throttled her yet: she looked at his father and had stars in her eyes. Blindsided. Head over heels. Worryingly, sometimes. Especially when she was following him everywhere he went, running into him whenever he stopped, always shyly, always with the big brown eyes and the adoring expression.
Lucas threw himself onto his bed. Grabbed his palette of oils and a white canvas. When the emotion in his heart and the image in his mind were perfectly aligned, he went to work. Swirls of crimson. Bold slashes of indigo. He prodded the canvas with his wand, getting the paint to move, feeling himself relax.
There was a knock, and the double doors swung open. "Good morning," the imposter said.
Lucas stared. Something about the way she tossed her head, slightly defiantly, right before she came in, gave him a flicker of déjà vu. And in that instant, he got it.
She honestly did look like him.
"I made an apple pie," Hermione brazened through the awkward silence. "Do you want some?"
"No."
She wasn't deterred. Her eyes roamed to his canvas. "Oh, you're painting. I love how it just… flickers. But how come you've made the sky red?"
"I was in a red mood."
Hermione nodded slowly. "Look, I know that must be odd, me moving in all of a sudden, and the twin thing, and Na—Dad saying you wouldn't go to prep school this year since I'm here. And I'm sorry." A pause. "I was just speaking with the butler, getting to know the chateau. He says he's very happy about the whole thing. Claire and Pauline too—the maids. I like them. And I'm getting my wand this week!"
She seemed so eager, it was creepy. Obviously Lucas had expected an impersonator of a dead baby to be creepy, just not creepy like that.
"I'll go now," Hermione said. And then she waited.
She was always doing that, announcing simple actions before she did them: I'll go now. I'm getting a sandwich. I'm taking a shower. I'm going to read a book. I'm going to sleep.
The weirdest thing, she didn't say it like she was giving them warning, like she was informing them. Instead she said it expectantly, uncertainly, like she was waiting for somebody to say no. No, you can't go. You don't need a sandwich. You don't get to shower. You don't need any of that.
For some reason, that made Lucas angry. "Yes," he retorted. "Do get out."
Hermione smiled tightly and closed the doors.
And all Lucas could think was, at least soon I'll be at Beauxbatons and away from this circus. The more he thought about running away, the more he liked the sound of it. He crossed to his wardrobe and crammed a set of robes, underwear, pyjamas and magazines into a duffel-bag and checked the time. Ten o'clock. There shouldn't be anyone near his room but still, he was careful all the way to the east wing, throwing glances over his shoulder as he tiptoed across polished marble floors through six arched doorways to the seventh, and into the red drawing-room. He put his finger to his lips and shushed the enchanted statues as he strode past them to the fireplace. Both stopped arguing long enough to see what he was up to.
Lucas reached out to grab some floo powder, then hesitated. Was he really going to sneak out without even leaving a note? There'd be hell to pay. His father rarely grounded him, and when it happened, Lucas was just lectured or sent to his room—which was weird because his grandfather used to punish his father by locking him in the chateau's dungeon. You'd think he would've turned stricter.
But if Lucas left home without asking for permission, he'd be in for the grounding of a lifetime, possibly in the dungeon. Angry with everything, he flung his bag down and moved around the room. He spotted the mail on a table and sifted through it. His father was on the boards of all the big charities and organizations and always had boring fundraisers to go to. These were mostly invitations, newspapers, scholarly publications…
Then there was Hermione's fan mail.
This month their family life had been the hottest story in every tabloid and gossip column. Journalists had a field day as they concocted screaming headlines like, "Long Lost Heiress Found!" or "Louise Bourbon Comes Back To Life!". French wizards had reacted in a bizarre fashion, owling congratulatory baskets of flowers and chocolates, letters of support, with the two odd howlers, one cursed letter, and a hippogriff plushie.
"Idiots," Lucas muttered as he tossed the letters aside, snagged his things from the floor and stomped to the fire.
. . .
As usual, the Delacour household was alive with activity when Lucas jumped out of the fireplace, music pouring out along the hallway. The wireless was a staple in their home, as sacred as the collection of silver-framed photos on the mantelpiece—baby pictures, a snap of the family at a park somewhere sunny, one of Mr Delacour in his Ministry robes, and Lucas's favourite, taken on the Delacours' wedding.
A brown-haired woman waved up at him from the photo and he grinned. His mother'd passed away when he was a baby, but he'd heard so many stories, saw so many pictures, that he felt he'd actually known her.
"Is it you, Fleur?" a breathy voice called over the music.
Lucas went to the living-room, where, dressed in a leotard, tights and leg-warmers, Apolline Delacour was doing aerobics to Melissande Montfaucon's Morning Workout. Following step for step right next to her was her daughter Gabrielle. She was five going on twenty-five, with hair so silvery and a vocabulary so sophisticated, it would often stop strangers in the street.
"Work those glutes, ladies!" Melissande sang out from the wireless.
"Lucas, sweetie. Spending the night, are you? Don't you have a kiss for me?"
While Lucas dutifully obliged, a yawning Camelius Delacour walked in the living-room, patting his daughter's blond bob and smiling sleepily.
"How's it going, Lucas? I see you're alone, why didn't bring that sister of yours? I'm dying to meet her, myself."
"Yes, where is Hermione, honey?" his wife chimed in. "Oooh, you must be so happy!"
Frightening how clueless old people could be. "She's busy at home. You will see her soon, anyway. Fleur's here for the holiday, isn't she?" Fleur Delacour was in her fourth year at Beauxbatons, basically an adult in Lucas's eyes, and the coolest girl he knew. She performed death-defying feats daily, like telling her parents to 'shut up' or 'calm down'.
"She's not home? Where'd she go?" said Camelius, perplexed. "Gabrielle, where's your sister?"
Not even in prep school yet, Gabrielle had already mastered the art of getting people in trouble. "She's at Lancelot's with her friends. She didn't clean her room."
"The Tesson boy? I don't trust that kid."
"You don't trust any boy who is friend with our daughter, honey," Apolline said matter-of-factly.
Camelius grumbled. "She's flying back to school tomorrow, you'd think she'd want to spend more time with us. I'm calling her." He smiled at Lucas as he walked past. "It's always great to have you over, son."
Lucas grinned back. Why did he always have such a good time when he was at the Delacours'? It wasn't like they had things he didn't have. They lived in a four-bedroom house, didn't have maids, and their idea of extravagance was a restaurant. And while his family lived in the countryside—no neighbours, no car noises, no polluted air—the Delacours lived in the city. Wizarding Paris, a maze of cobblestoned streets that jazzed up with colourful umbrellas on rainy days, trendy underground shopping alleys typically associated with wild nightlife, and tile-panelled passageways sheltered under glass roofs where people like the Delacours lived. Their passageway stretched alive with rowdy children playing, music and cigarette smoke drifting out of open windows, balconies groaning under the weight of potted plants and jars of herb mixes, and bothersome neighbours like that elderly potioneer who once turned bright orange because of an experiment gone wrong or that punk muggleborn with the mohawk and motorcycle.
Why would anyone live in such a noisy place? Still, every time Lucas spent the night, even if all he did was eat macaroons in the kitchen with Apolline or play loser games, he had such a great time. As expected today was fun. Mr Delacour's nephew came over. Lucas tackled him when he stepped out of the fireplace and together they rolled around, laughing.
Baptiste Delacour had been his friend since he ended up having the extraordinarily good luck to sit next to Lucas when they started prep school. He'd been such a loser—still was, really. Chubby with a bowl cut and a lisp. Lucas couldn't help harassing him in every way, and apparently Baptiste liked the harassment since he was always following him around. They spent the afternoon flipping through latest issues of Seeker Weekly in the Delacours' living-room. Camelius plopped down on the sofa with a glass of Perrier.
"What do you kids do these days besides reading books?"
"Magazines, Mr Delacour," Lucas corrected. Big difference. "We've been busy following the World Cup. Final game next week!"
"When I was growing up we didn't stay home, we'd be ice-skating outside all winter. The Lutetia Park downtown would be jam-packed with people, the music loud. When's the last time you played outside?"
"This summer at mine, Mr Delacour."
"Maybe you boys should be playing outside a bit more."
Baptiste whined, "It's bad enough we've got prep school on Mondays and Thursdays. It's too cold to be out, Uncle."
"Too cold? If it was up to me I'd make you fly your brooms to the park. Too cold… I'll give you too cold."
Camelius Delacour was always "giving" his nephew Baptiste things. I'll give you sorry. I'll give you not hungry. How can you give him 'not hungry'? Lucas once asked him. He was not amused.
"It's fresh air out there!" he continued. "Your dad would say the same thing, Baptiste. Lucas, yours too. You children don't know what you're missing."
As the two boys mimicked exaggerated shivers, Fleur came in, annoyed. She said Lucas's father had called the fireplace, and he'd been trying to get through for hours, only she was talking to her friend so he kept getting a busy signal. "Didn't you tell him you were sleeping over? He's angry and says he wants you to floo home immediately. What did you do again?"
Lucas must have looked like he was going to throw up, because Fleur smoothly added, "Bah, don't worry about it. I'll call him back to say you already went to bed."
"What's all this about?" Camelius cut in. "You really did get permission from your father to stay over, didn't you?"
Lucas was saved from answering by Gabrielle bursting into the living-room. She had decided that "pyjamas on" was a game, and her mother chased her around for ages before she could get hold of her.
While Camelius lectured his daughter about listening to the grownups, Lucas worried about what his father would do to him when he went home.
. . .
Bourges was the best thing to happen to Hermione since magic.
That was saying a lot, since magic was the best thing to ever happen to Hermione. But Bourges had this kitchen.
Glass cabinets above black granite countertops. Black cauldrons hung from an iron rack over a marble-topped island. Massive stainless sinks, shining butcher block counters, steel restaurant stoves. Everything was sleek. Everything was first-class. The walk-in pantry was a mystery, rows of glass shelves overflowing with food and labeled mason jars filled with all sorts of oddities—powdered spices, dried herbs, essential oils, quartz pebbles in all shades, leaves soaking in liquids, giant eggs and dried insects and bloody animal organs and small bones...
Hermione steered clear of those. She was so busy poking into a medieval-looking ice-box that she barely noticed somebody coming in. Until she almost bumped into the chef, who'd walked out of the pantry. A small man decked out in white slacks, white apron, chief's hat and red scarf around his neck—and on the verge of tears.
"Mademoiselle," he said tragically, holding onto an empty bag of Self-Charmed Flour. "Zere is no more bread."
"That's all right," said Hermione, showing him the waffles she'd found on the center island. "Don't mind me, I'm just making myself a little breakfast." She returned to inspecting the magical fridge. Grabbed some cold cuts, pickle slices, two waffles which she smushed into a sandwich.
And turned around to find the cook struck dumb in horror. "You… you cannot eat zat," he whispered, obviously appalled.
"You're right, I need cheese." She stuck her head back in the fridge before turning back to her sandwich—only to find that it wasn't there anymore.
Maybe because it had been stolen.
"It's mine!" Hermione told the chef, who was holding it firmly against his chest with a determined look. "If you want one just ask!"
"What is zat?" he demanded, pointing at her hands.
Hermione held up the square of little slices and pointed at the bold-faced label, 'American Processed Cheese'.
The chef was baffled. Then angered. "Oh la la, Master Lucas again. I say to him I will make him real cheese but he does not listen. He buys zis… thing from the city." He was emphatic. "Lord Bourbon, 'ee would never forgive me—you cannot eat zees filth! C'est une aberration!"
"You haven't even tried it! Anyway, there's nothing else—"
"Nossing?" The chef gestured around at the rows of black cabinets and the pantry and the icebox. "Zere is everything! You will not eat that!"
"Pâté. Frog legs. Bloody caviar."
The little chef drew himself up. "You lived with the crazy in England," he accused. "Caviar is food. But zat ees not food. Zat ees not even—"
Hermione snatched the sandwich back. It was smushed, but it was okay. She took a defiant bite.
"Please." He looked desperate. "I beg of you, Mademoiselle. Do not eat zat. I weel make you something better."
"Oh, honestly. What?"
"Anything! Do you like les oeufs? I weel make une omelette! Such an omelet I weel make for you!" He waved the hand with the despised cheese in it. "As has nevair been seen. It shall be an omelet of the gods!"
Ten minutes later, Hermione sat down and took a bite of omelet. Her eyes bugged out.
"It is good, no?" The chef said loftily. "Olive oil, tabasco, chives, onions, pepper—zust a touch, you understand… Next time, you ask me for food."
Hermione patted her omelet-full belly as she stepped out of the kitchen in the hallway. The stretchy waistband came in handy. Her new wardrobe was a marvel—a whole new fancy wardrobe, thanks to her father. She swayed back and forth, the circle skirt swooshing through the air as she walked up the curved blue-carpeted staircase leading to the hall.
Once up, Hermione tiptoed to the center and glanced around. The floors were beige marble streaked with bronze veins and matched the furniture siding the sweeping staircase—a tan brocade sofa paired with wingback chairs and a low walnut table. To the sides of the foyer were archways supported by marble columns that opened to a bloody ballroom on the left and a cushy library on the right. A library. Which was ridiculous, much like the rest of the house. All warm mahogany wood and velvet, squishy chairs and soft light and books on books. There was even a ladder going up to a sort of second floor—second tier? Whatever, it was amazing.
A maid appeared, noticed Hermione standing there, but didn't react except to dip a curtsy and hurry away.
Training, Hermione thought. Expensive training. Her new home was the kind of place that came with trained help, a three-storey mansion of beige-and-peach stone with two wings jutting forth in an u-shape and a courtyard nestled between them. The east wing was used for meals and socializing, with its seven living-rooms. But the west wing was domestic—bedrooms with their own dressing-rooms, bathrooms and balconies, and the master's suite at the far end. And all of this was on the first floor. Hermione hadn't been to the upper floors yet, but the butler'd told her there were other rooms. And others.
She made her way up to her own bedroom. It was terribly fancy, all decorated in off-whites and deep reds, with a four-poster bed and a red velvet canopy above it, a thick beige rug, cream walls setting off the polished cherry-red floor and matching cherry doors leading to the dressing-room and bathroom. Everything looked so expensive it made you nervous to touch it.
Hermione went to sit on the comfy red-and-cream striped armchair. Outside, rays of sun slanted across the green gardens and illuminated the temple in the middle of the lake. Hazy clouds sailed across the sky, and abruptly they parted to reveal wings beating the air in powerful strokes as an abraxan horse flew over to hover just outside the glass. Behind him, two more winged horses zipped free in the sky, tossing their heads and neighing in the distance.
Hermione didn't know if it was the same in every wizarding household, but everything was insane in Bourges. Wizard-bred animals outdoors. Fine art works that were alive, cheeky goddesses statues and talking mirrors and paintings of ancestors that kept everyone in the loop of their feelings on things.
Though the most unusual about Bourges was definitely the people. The help fussed over Hermione, straightened her robes and smoothed her hair; the chef sent up nutritious meals, and her father—he doted on her. He spoiled her, listened to her, entertained her, and routinely surprised her by kissing her head or buying her books—which was just as well, since she had nothing but free time on her hands now.
Hermione tried to remember the last time she had nothing to do in her nan's house. She wasn't sure she could. She'd never had nothing to do. She stared at the clouds marring the cornflower sky, relishing her situation. No one had any hold over her. No one could call her up and demand her presence.
This was her home.
Smiling hugely, she stood, picked two books from her desk—Hogwarts: A History and 999 French Verbs—and went to check if her father was back from his morning ride.
As she walked past Lucas's bedroom, she heard a loud thumping sound. She frowned, remembering she hadn't seen her surly brother at lunch or dinner yesterday.
The pounding came again.
Hermione knocked. "Lucas? Alright?"
No answer came, and she opened the doors to snoop. The room was empty. She listened. The thumping was coming from one of the two white doors.
Hermione pushed it open and walked in—or tried to, before finding herself on the floor. She got up, only to have the same thing happen, this time a heavy body latching on top of her. A scream escaped as she punched and struggled against the attacker. Finally she landed a well-aimed kick that sent the black shadow flying.
Hermione jumped to her feet, gasping, eyes wide.
Two things registered. First, she was in a dressing-room. Second, her attacker was a cloak. A black cloak trimmed with fur, lying horizontally, hovering a few inches off the ground where she'd kicked it.
She blinked as the cloak stood back up and shook itself, then marched toward her. Angrily. "You—stop it! Leave me alone!"
The cloak froze in place, then drooped in a heap on the floor.
Hermione threw it a last suspicious glance before walking deeper in the dressing-room—what a room it was. There was a black leather couch with a tufted ottoman, and where there weren't clothes, there were mirrors. The shelves facing her lined with rows of boots, loafers, moccasins, styles she'd never seen before. The walls were dedicated to hanging racks with different clothing styles. Everything was colour coordinated and Lucas owned more coats, more robes, more shirts than she'd ever seen. Ties and bowties, scarves, gloves, and hats. Cloaks. Long, short, heavy and fur-trimmed, made of starched cotton or shiny silk, subdued dark tones or bright colours, plain or patterned with moving creatures…
Hermione was stunned. A loud, echoing crack broke the silence like a gunshot and she held up her fists, ready for Round Two with the cloak. And indeed something had materialized out of thin air behind her—but it wasn't an item of clothing this time.
Hermione didn't know what it was. Blue-skinned, the creature resembled an elf, and was naked except for a large white apron. Its head was covered by a little maid cap under which protruded bat-like ears.
"You—who are you?"
Big violet eyes looked up with adoration.
"What's with all the ruckus?" said an exasperated voice. "Some of us are trying to paint."
Lucas glowered at them both from the doorway.
Hermione opened her mouth to explain but the creature started jabbering away in high-pitched, excited French.
Lucas listened boredly, nodded, replied something, then there was another cracking noise as the elf disappeared. "Did you need anything?" he asked Hermione.
She told him about the cloak, and he gave this long sigh before walking over to the wardrobe.
"This… little person," Hermione said, following suit. "Was that one of your friends?"
Lucas looked at her as if she were insane. "Lolly is a house-elf," he said plainly, and returned to what he was doing, trying to fold the fur cloak which was wriggling under his hands. "It was made from a flying carpet," he explained, seeing the direction of Hermione's stare, "and tends to get temperamental when I don't wear it in a long time—stop moving!"
The cloak shook furiously and spurted out of his hands, but he jumped on top of it.
"Do you need help?"
"No," Lucas snapped, as the bucking-bronco ride he was being treated to careened him into the leather couch.
"Fine," said Hermione dubiously. "So, what's a house-elf?"
"Melusine, you've been living here for two weeks. How can you be so ignorant?"
Hermione said nothing, watching as Lucas pulled open a drawer of overflowing hair accessories and dug around until he found an elastic band. He tried to strap the cloak down, but somehow the thing seemed to know that, and went skittering out the door in the bedroom, jouncing Lucas as savagely as it could manage in the process.
"What's a house-elf?" Hermione persisted. "That creature came out of nowhere."
"House-elves serve wizards, like maids if you want, they clean, cook, run errands... That one's named Lolly."
"I see," she said slowly. "By the way, where were you yesterday?"
"At the Delacours'."
Hermione sat in an armchair, reassured that Lucas wasn't going to bite her head off for anything. He seemed in a much more agreeable mood today than on any of the other occasions they had talked. Maybe because he was still struggling to get the hairband looped around the wild cloak, which was trying to throw him off its back.
"Are they wizards too?"
"Of course they are. Old family, though Apolline Delacour is half-veela. Her husband works at the Ministry. Their nephew's my friend—Baptiste."
"D'you have lots of friends?" Hermione asked as she looked around, imagining what it must have been like growing up here. Seemed lonely to her.
"There's Yazid Beaumont. I know him because Lord Beaumont went to school with Father, and now they're business associates. We go to prep school together, along with Baptiste. But I don't see them that much. I've got this other friend, Blaise—him, I see all the time."
The cloak rode by the desk and Lucas snagged several volumes, and sure enough, the cloak's antics slowed down. He shoved the books underneath him and grabbed two more. The cloak slowly started to settle toward the floor and Hermione thought he had it, but then it gave a huge heave and threw both the books and Lucas off.
The cloak flounced away, fur swinging smugly.
"Let me help you," Hermione offered, starting to rise, but Lucas waved her off.
"No, really. I'm fine." He stalked toward the cloak, honey-brown eyes flashing. "We were saying?"
The cloak suddenly swept through his legs, knocking him to the floor again. Lucas rubbed the back of his head, muttering to himself in French.
Hermione smothered a laugh. "You were talking about your friends… Is that all?"
"All? I can't be friends with just anybody." Lucas made an abrupt leap and threw himself on top of the cloak. Turning the thing upside down, he lashed it to the bedpost. By the time he was done, it was trussed up in four hair ties, the sheet and several items from his wardrobe. "There! Now try to move, you freak."
One of the cloak's sleeves waved about, giving the distinct impression that it was flipping him off.
"You can stay like that until you rot," Lucas told it. He dropped into the other wingback chair, and looked at Hermione. "Did you need anything else?"
Before she could answer, footsteps echoed down the corridor and a minute later their father towered in the doorway, blond hair sweaty, black breeches tucked in polished boots, a helmet under his arm. He noticed Lucas and his expression darkened. "Lucas! What in heaven's name were you thinking? Taking off like that without even a note, do you have any idea how worried I was?"
Lucas's eyes darted about like a cornered animal.
"Well, what do you have to say for yourself? And it had better be good, son. Please explain what would make you go off, without any warning or planning. Have I not drilled into your head all the things that could happen to you?"
"I... Err, that is to say—"
"It's my fault," Hermione blurted out before she could think twice about it. "He told me he'll be sleeping over at the, uh, the Delacours' but I completely forgot to tell you. Sorry."
Lucas had a what-the-hell expression on his face but her father's eyes softened fractionally. He pushed a sweaty lock of hair off his forehead, sighing. "You're lucky this time," he said, clapping a hand on Lucas's shoulder and pulling him into a one-armed hug. "But don't do that again."
"You smell like horses," Lucas muttered, but he hugged him back.
"Hazards of horse-riding," their father replied dryly. He glanced over at Hermione. "Do you want to get your wand this afternoon, dear? We could go up to town for a few days. And buy you some new books, if you would like them."
"That would be great. I'd really, really love to! Thank you!"
"Why don't you think about what you'd like to read and come up with a list? And clothes, too. We'll need to have you fitted for riding gear. There is no life in the countryside if you cannot ride. We shall leave after lunch, then."
"About lunch," Lucas jumped in, "Yazid's invited me over, so I'll—"
"No, I think not," his father answered coldly. "But if you don't care about spending time with your family, Lucas Virotutis, you can go and have lunch at McDonald's with the rest of the commoners."
And on that note, he strode out.
