Chapter 9
Hermione Granger
"Miss Granger?"
I force myself not look forward, square my shoulders, and continue walking. My shoes make sharp noises on the wet sidewalk.
"Miss Granger?"
My pace grows brisker. I feel the temperature seem to drop as I continue, the rain and moisture running down my back. I pull my cloak tighter and don't look back. Don't look. Don't look.
"Miss Granger!" The voice is shrill and belongs to a child. Against my better judgement, I slow. I stop. I wait for the child to catch up. I hear panting and feet slamming against the concrete, and a boy of maybe eight runs in front of me and turns around, grinning a crooked smile.
"Yes?" I say nervously. A boy this young could not be capable of magic. He cannot harm me.
"I have a letter for you, Miss Granger."
"Why didn't you send it by owl?" I ask politely, trying very hard not to look at my watch.
"I can't afford an owl, Miss Granger, and besides, this is from someone else. They paid me a whole Sickle to come and bring you this." He reaches into his pocket and removes a crumpled envelope. For the first time I notice he is shoeless and there is a hole in his cloak. He smooths the envelope and hands it to me. I stare at the words. The letters are scrawled in different fonts and sizes, a mismatched combination of insults to the English language.
mR. GeoRGe WeAsLey AnD MisS HerMiOne GrAngeR
"What is this?" I ask sternly, looking down at the boy.
"I don't know," he responds, shrugging. "The man gave me a Sickle to bring it, and a Sickle can buy me lunch if I go to the Red Elf Inn, or maybe even a sandwich from the Leaky Cauldron. So I brought you the letter for the man."
I pocket the letter, trying to get my hands to stop shaking. I knew this would happen. Stop shaking. "Thank you," I say, trying to swallow the bile rising in my throat. "Thank you." I give him a Galleon. His eyes widen and he flips it over in his tiny palms before stuffing it in his cloak. It's probably the most money he's ever held in his life.
"Thank you, Miss Granger," he says, beaming. "I didn't know you were so generous!" He continues on his way, this time skipping, his bare feet flying over the sidewalks of Diagon Alley. I swallow and push through the crowd of reporters waiting in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. I hear cameras flash, but I don't stop until I am safe inside.
For the past two days the store has been forced to remain closed. Reporters are not good for business. We haven't opened, because it's futile to sell things when photographers are constantly hovering. So for two days we have remained closed. Ron and Oliver still come every day, to see if there is any security needs.
Ron raises an eyebrow. "What's up?"
I hold up the envelope. "This is what's up."
"We've already gotten at least fifteen today," Oliver says with a sigh. "That one looks odd though. It's handwritten?"
"And hand delivered," I mutter. "A little boy brought it to me."
"Open it," Ron says eagerly. "We might be able to-what's the word-deduce something from the handwriting."
Because we're definitely detectives, I think sarcastically. I tear open the wax seal of the envelope and open the letter inside. The words this time are typed.
You deserve to die. You tried to kill Draco Malfoy.
This will not go unnoticed.
The Death Eaters are watching. They will come.
"Straight to the point, aren't they?" Oliver asks cheerfully. "No idea who it is, then?"
"No."
"I got a nasty letter yesterday because some old hag saw the picture of me flipping off the cameras," Ron replies seriously. "No death threats, mind you, but very nasty. We had a Howler earlier today. Woke George up."
"Where is George?"
"He's off doing something with Percy," Oliver says in an offhand sort of way. "Research, I'd gander. The Wizengamot hasn't decided about a trial yet, so Percy's probably confiding in the person his vote concerns."
I take off my wet cloak. "I'm going to go out to eat. Maybe find that boy and see who gave him the letter."
"What good's that going to do?" asks Ron.
"He can tell me who gave it to him," I say, rolling my eyes. "And then we can turn them over to the Aurors, and then the world will be free of one more Death Eater."
"Good plan. I'm going to stay here and try to chase off the reporters."
I go out the back way and head around to the main part of Diagon Alley. I head down towards the Leaky Cauldron, where I see a huddle of impoverished homeless in front of the inn. I stare at them for a moment. One girl, maybe fifteen, has a patch over her eye. An old man clutched a bottle of butterbeer. One woman holds a sign that reads MADE HOMELESS BY YOU-KNOW-WHO. HALF-BLOODS WHO HAVE NO MONEY OR MEALS. MONEY APPRECIATED.
I stop and hand her a Galleon. Her face seems to brighten. I scan the small huddle again, and without recognizing the boy, I push into the Leaky Cauldron and sit down at my usual spot at a table in the corner. I'd never come in here by myself before, and it was a bit unnerving now. The Gringotts goblins cast looks in my directions, muttering. A witch with long black hair scowls at me. I lower my eyes. Anyone in here could have sent one of the death threats.
A few reporters push inside, along with three photographers. Dammit. They'll see me. They don't right off. They gravitate towards the bar. I release the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Tom the bartender hurries over to take my order.
"The usual," I mutter. "But could you bring me a copy of today's Daily Prophet?"
"Yes, of course," he grunts. "It ain't pretty, though." After about ten minutes he lumbers back out with a butterbeer, a roast beef sandwich, and a copy of the newspaper. I thank him, still looking closely at the journalists no more than twenty feet away. Then, resignedly, I open the newspaper.
WIZENGAMOT TO MAKE DECISION ON MALFOY-WEASLEY TRIAL TODAY
I scan the article.
Junior Minister of Magic, Percy Weasley, has announced that the Wizengamot will announce its decision on the matter of the Malfoy-Weasley case today. Speculation regarding the trial has arose, and investigators are currently wondering if it is fair to have a member of the Weasley family in the Court of the Wizengamot, or several close friends, for that matter, such as Pomona Sprout, recently instated member; or the Minister of Magic himself, who was well-acquainted with the Weasley family during the War. Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt has answered these doubts and accusations with, "I am a fair leader. I have no doubts that Professor Sprout, Mr. Weasley, and I will put away biases and prejudices for the time being to bring forth the most reasonable and welcome outcome."
I glance up to see the reporters begin to stand. I lower my eyes and try to pretend I am invisible. They stroll right past my table. I sigh. When the door opens and they leave, I slouch. Then the little boy who gave me the letter bursts in, Galleon in hand. He sits down at at table by himself, unaware that I am present. Tom grumbles and walks over to him.
"I'll take lamb stew," the boy says in a shrill voice.
"That'll be five Sickles."
The boy hands Tom the golden Galleon, who shambles to collect his change. I stare at the boy for a moment before returning to reading the article.
However, Kingsley Shacklebolt was notorious for torturing and often killing suspects during interrogations while he was an Auror, and many were later found innocent. Can the Minister of Magic be trusted to carry out his lawful duties?
They must be getting Kingsley and Mad-Eye mixed up, because he doesn't strike me as one that would kill without reason. I see Tom give the shoeless boy his money. I chew my sandwich, scarcely registering the taste. The boy begins to eat his stew like he'd been starving. But then again, he probably had been.
The Weasley-Malfoy case has already been named the trial of the century by many onlookers, even if it has not been taken on by the Wizengamot. If it is, the names of tens, possibly hundreds, of Death Eaters could be released.
That would be nice. We could sleep at night without having to worry if we'll be killed in the night.
"The guilty will always remain guilty," claims Percy Weasley. "It's only my job to expose the accused."
The door of the Leaky Cauldron opens again, and one of the photographers comes back in, looking rushed. "I forgot my camera," she says hurriedly, pushing back to the bar. In doing so, she knocks into the boy's table, spilling his stew on the floor. She doesn't stop to apologize, but grabs her camera. I see his face crumple. I look down again as she walks past me, and I shiver as I hear the boy cry. When the door closes behind the woman, I stand and move to sit in the seat across from him. He sniffles and wipes his eyes.
"Are you okay?" I ask gently.
He shakes his head.
"Are you hungry?"
He nods immediately, then looks a little ashamed. I turn to look at Tom. "Lamb stew, Tom."
He gives a noncommittal grunt and begins to move around behind the bar. The boy sniffles again. "Who are you?"
"You gave me the letter," I say. "Don't you know?"
He shakes his head. "I can't read."
"How old are you?"
"Seven."
"My name's Hermione." I smile at him.
He returns it nervously. "I'm Lazarus."
"Nice to meet you, Lazarus."
Tom brings the bowl of stew and Lazarus begins to eat it hungrily and quickly, not stopping to savor it. He glances at me several times while he eats, but doesn't say anything, just keeps eating. I don't interrupt. When he's finished the bowl he looks longingly at its emptiness. I nod to Tom, who begins to look annoyed, but brings out another bowl.
"Thank you, Hermione," he says before gorging on the bowl. He's a pitiful sight. His face is covered in soot, his fingernails rimmed with dirt. If he stood up I could probably count his ribs through his shirt. He finishes his second bowl and burps.
"Can you tell me who gave you that envelope, Lazarus?"
He looks directly into my eyes. His are sunken in his thin face and he shakes his head. "I don't know the name. I know what he looked like. I see him a lot. He talks in Knockturn with the others a lot."
"About what? With who?"
"About everything, really, with some of the witches and wizards who go down there. I saw them go in Borgin and Burke's once. The man who works there gives me lunch sometimes if I dust the stuff there." Lazarus seems unconcerned. "You're nice, Hermione."
"Do you have anywhere to stay, Lazarus?"
He looks down. "I live in Diagon Alley, if that's what you mean."
That's not what I meant. "All right. Do you have shoes, Lazarus? Maybe a jacket?"
He frowns and shakes his head, still avoiding looking at me.
"How 'bout we fix that?"
He looks up at me and instantly averts his eyes, but I see the hope gleaming in them before he looks away. "I can't pay you back, Miss Hermione," he says uncertainly.
"That's no problem, Lazarus." George has enough more than enough to spare.
He frowns again and then nods. We head to Florish and Blott's, where I pay for a pair of trainers and new cloak. When we head outside, he turns to me and beams. He has a gap in the front of his smile where one of his teeth has fallen out. "Thank you, Hermione. I owe you."
"Nonsense," I say. "But one day soon, could you take me down to see the man who gave you the letter?"
He nods eagerly and skips down the street to several of his bedraggled friends. I envy his innocence.
