Chapter Twenty-One
Fleur was wrapped in five layers of clothing: camisole, blouse, woolen jumper, sturdy coat, and finally a scarf and hat. Autumn, in her beautiful display of colors and biting winds, was in full effect. Skipping down the steps into the back garden, Fleur walked between the four raised beds already alive with vegetation under a Shield charm. That was Audrey's innovation: a modified Shield charm that was permanent and porous. Rain could pass through, and the sun's rays were captured inside its shimmering bubble to create a greenhouse effect. Fleur had added a bit of Veela magic to force the seeds to sprout, which were now strong, healthy young plants. In less than a week she would be able to take cuttings for the first of the potions.
Kneeling down beside one bed, Fleur inspected a puffapod plant. This one might be ready in just a day or two. On the first day after the attack, now weeks past, Fleur had thrown herself into her magical garden. She had come down to her kitchen with Bill's hollow eyes following her every move. Many times she had despised having a man's eyes on her, but that was the first time she hadn't wanted Bill to look at her. It was plain to Fleur that he was seeing a fragile hothouse flower, not the strong witch he had always known her to be. Fleur knew she could not return to the bank, nor the world outside the safe confines of her home or other similarly protected residences like the Burrow, but that did not mean she had to be idle. Nor did it mean she had to let her husband think she was weak.
Pushing aside the memory of her attack was no small effort, but one she was happy to make. She had no wish to dwell on it, nor to think about what could have happened had George not come along when he did. Instead, Fleur sunk her fingers in the black dirt and thought of the time before Alain, when she thought being a Veela was like being a deer in the forest running free. In those childhood remembrances, Fleur brought forth a magic that was different than the magic she created with her wand. When she cast a spell with her wand with its Veela hair core, it felt as though an electric tingle danced over her skin, but when she used her Veela magic, it was as though warm water filled her heart to be pumped through her veins and back again. The more she purposefully used the magic, the warmer it felt until she was glowing with energy and life.
By the end of that first day, with far more seedlings than she needed sitting in pots around her, Fleur felt almost giddy. She had never exhibited that kind of control over her Veela magic before—however meager that magic may be. Not that she cared about the power. Fleur had no wish to manipulate other people's emotions or attract men for her own purposes, and she certainly did not wish to turn into a bird, but for the first time since she was a young girl, Fleur had felt a part of nature. It had been just as her maman had always said: Veela were the flora and the fauna, the birds and the bees, the world all around. And Fleur had felt that deep inside of herself.
That night, Fleur had met Bill at the door with a secret smile and not much else. For a few days after that, it felt as though their lives would fall into something approaching a normal rhythm. Bill left for work while Fleur filled her days with her garden. Night came, and she oversaw the transfer of Muggle-born refugees to the Continent with a renewed vigor, as if she were thwarting the men who had attacked her by snatching their prey from their jaws. Then came the news about Ginny and the Sword of Gryffindor.
Molly had flown into a rare rage.
"What was she thinking? We live in dangerous times, what good is there in courting death!"
"At least she's doing something to fight this war," Fred said.
"All we've been doing lately is twiddling our thumbs and casting a few wards over Muggle buildings," George chimed in.
Molly narrowed her eyes on the twins, and pointing her finger like a wand, demanded, "Did you have something to do with this? Did you somehow encourage your sister to take on this-this suicide mission?"
"What?" Fred yelped.
"No!" George denied.
Meanwhile, Arthur stared at the letter in his hands as if it were in fact an obituary. It seemed rather obvious to Fleur why Ginny had done something so risky: she had done it for Harry. Ginny loved Harry, Fleur would not be the one to say the other girl was too young for such things. What woman did not do stupid things for the man she loved? That was the moment Fleur had looked at Bill, but he had not been looking at her.
No, he was looking at nothing though his eyes were wide open. Fleur's heart lurched into her throat as she looked at her husband. He was quiet, but there was no peace in his quietness. His eyes were shuttered, his damaged mouth flat. He had crawled inside himself.
That horrible quietness had lingered even as they lie in bed together that night, and had remained the next morning. After a few days, things returned to normal, but Bill's eyes were still shuttered. She could read nothing there except numbness. It left such grief in Fleur's own heart, and that feeling of helplessness returned. What good was it to force a seed to sprout when she could not heal her husband's heart?
Fleur stood up and brushed dirt from her trousers. Rain would be coming in soon. The only good thing Fleur could say about England's horrid climate was that there was little need to water her garden. She turned toward the kitchen door when she thought she saw something move around the corner of the cottage. She whipped out her wand and pointed it in the direction of the house.
"Who is zere?" she demanded in a loud, clear voice. "Show yourself!"
"Don't hex me. I need your assistance."
oOo
"Why do I feel like I'm studying for an exam all over again?" Oliver asked as he handed Butterbeers to first Percy, and then Audrey.
"Because others are dutifully revising while your mind is on the pitch?" Percy replied as he attempted to flip the egg without breaking the yolk. His mum always made it look so easy.
"There's no rhyme or reason to this list," Audrey said. She was going over the report from the Ministry for the third time, trying to figure out the mystery of Liam Williamson.
"Yes, there is," Percy said quietly. "If you know what to look for."
Just that morning, he had received the list of Muggle-borns imprisoned in Azkaban. Percy unrolled the parchment while sitting at his desk, a sickening knot forming in his stomach as he noted the length of it. Eighty-nine. That was the number of Muggle-borns imprisoned since August. Eighty-nine. The Order of Mercy had rescued half that number. For a moment, Percy stared at the list, feeling utterly lost and close to tears. He had known such triumph every time a Muggle-born was sent to safety, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. White-hot rage evaporated his tears. He stared at the Minister's office door, the thoughts in his head turning over and over again. There must be something more they could do. Recruit more members? Disrupt prison transfers? For a mad moment that idea took hold. Percy requested a review of prison transfer protocol, but he didn't need to see that report to know the idea wasn't viable. There were too few members in the Order of Mercy to pull off a job that large, and even if they could, it would leave them exposed. And so, with a heavy heart, Percy resigned himself to the fact that the Order of Mercy would only ever be able to do so much.
Percy had re-rolled the report and placed it in his desk to be smuggled out of the Ministry later. He had personally gone over the list a half dozen times himself before Audrey and Oliver turned up at Percy's flat for supper. Audrey took over the job of combing through it as Percy attempted to make eggs and bacon. A meal that Oliver had cheerfully termed "breakfast for dinner."
Audrey's brow furrowed as she looked at the list again, saying, "I recognize some of these name. Like Dirk Cresswell." She pointed at the name. "Friends of my parents."
There was a pause. Percy looked up from frying the egg to stare at Audrey who was no longer looking at the parchment, but seemed to be looking inward as she puzzled out the list. She was right, the list did seem completely random. There were not many common denominators among those called before the Commission other than they were all Muggle-born. Otherwise, there was seemingly no organizational pattern, not age or surname or even height and weight. No, the pattern was much more nebulous and insidious. A little wrinkle formed between Audrey's brows, her mouth puckered. It was fascinating, really, to watch Audrey solve a problem. She truly was brilliant, but Percy suspected that he had only caught a small glimpse of its depth.
"You're burning your egg, there," Oliver muttered close to Percy's ear, and nudged the thinner man with his elbow.
"Oh! Blast!" Percy jerked the egg out of the pan too hard, and it went flying across the galley kitchen to plop onto the floor.
Heat flooded Percy's face as he stared at the egg lying pathetically on the floor, yolk spreading out from under it. Silence filled the kitchen, stretching, it seemed to Percy, for hours. He felt frozen, cursed, by his own ineptitude, but then something magical happened: Audrey laughed.
"I think you've killed it, Gryffindor," she said, and her laugh rang out loudly, louder than it should for such a small witch. Hands on her hips, she bent over the egg as if examining a crime scene. When she looked up again, her wide smile speared Percy in the chest. "Death by floor, I'd say."
Percy snorted. Even more color flooded into his face, and he clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Elegant," Oliver laughed, and gave Percy a little shove.
Audrey nearly fell into Percy's arms, she was laughing so hard. That bubble of happiness formed in Percy's chest as he gazed into her smiling face. A tentative smile formed on his own mouth, it felt fragile and undergrown, but nice. Like the beginning of something. And then his own quiet, unsure laugh joined in with Audrey's loud, joyous guffaw and Oliver's deep chuckle, and it was like a new spell had been cast in the kitchen.
The bubble grew in Percy's chest, and he laughed louder, wrapping his arms around Audrey. She snuggled into him, her body vibrating with laughter. Kissing the top of her head, the smile refusing to leave his face, Percy reminded himself that Audrey wasn't his girlfriend, but he hoped he was getting under her skin as thoroughly as she was under his. He wasn't sure he had ever desired anything as much as he wanted to hear Audrey's laugh whenever he wanted.
With a swish of his wand, Oliver vanished the egg. "Alright, you two, out of the kitchen before all this lovey dovey-ness kills my appetite. I'll handle dinner since flipping an egg seems to be more than you can manage."
"I can flip an egg," Percy argued.
"I've Vanished the evidence otherwise," Oliver replied. "You two go be brilliant somewhere else, and figure out what to do about this Auror… Although, Fergus always liked Williamson. I don't think he's a bad guy."
"Being somebody's drinking buddy doesn't qualify a person for the job of spy within the government," Percy argued. This was not the first time he and Oliver had discussed Liam Williamson. Oliver knew the Auror through his brother Fergus, and while Percy trusted Oliver's judgment, he was hesitant to place his faith in somebody merely on Oliver's gut feeling. Although, Percy wished he could believe in his instincts as readily as Oliver did, but the ginger wizard was simply not built that way.
Oliver shrugged and waved them out of the kitchen. In the sitting room, Audrey flopped onto the sofa. It was currently blue and white stripes. She placed a new Color Changing charm on the normally brown cushions every time she visited. Apparently, she couldn't decide what looked best in Percy's otherwise drab flat.
Percy walked to Audrey and sat very carefully next to her on the sofa. "Have you figured it out yet?"
She held the parchment up, her brow furrowed. "Well, take Mr. Cresswell, for instance, he holds a very important position at the Ministry, doesn't he? And yes, my arsehole brother-in-law sold—"
"Wait! Runcorn is…." Percy looked at Audrey's stricken expression, and couldn't continue. He cleared his throat. "Well, our great-auntie Muriel is a horrible dragon. We all have nasty relatives, don't we?"
A small smile touched the corner of Audrey's mouth. "Well, regardless of Albert being a loathsome toadstool, the Commission was still eager to get their hands on Mr. Cresswell, weren't they? And look here, Samantha Eddington—"
"Is Head of the Committee of Experimental Charms," Percy finished.
"Right. My brother, Brian, works under her. And this is Carol March, a friend of my mothers. I didn't even know Mrs. March was Muggle-born, and the Marchs are not one of the pureblood families, but her son is Edmund March…."
"Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
"So…so, many of these people are in prestigious or powerful positions." Audrey bowed her head, and Percy knew that she had worked it out.
"Or are related to a half-blood that is," he added.
If it hadn't been for Catriona Wood, maybe Percy wouldn't have seen it either. After all, they'd always assumed that Catriona was being dragged before the Commission as a warning to the Woods. Others were being called before the Commission because he or she was a standout in their own right. By stripping the powerful or exceptional of their influence, the Ministry had the double benefit of erasing the idea of Muggle-born excellence and eliminating potentially potent enemies all the while sending out a message to the general public that no one was safe. That meant that somewhere amongst those eight-nine names was a link to Liam Williamson, a way to hold him under the thumb of the Ministry.
"Have you found anyone you think might be related to Williamson?" Percy asked.
Audrey pointed at a name on the list. "Eleanor Masters-Williamson."
Percy paled. His eyes must have passed over that name so many times without it registering. "His-his wife?"
"I don't think so," Audrey said and shook her head. "Liam Williamson was Fergus Wood's drinking buddy, remember? They would chat up witches together, so I think he must be single…. Well, I suppose he could be a dick."
Percy smiled faintly, but sobered when the truth dawned on him. "Eleanor Williamson is his mother, isn't she?"
"That's my guess," Audrey said quietly and hung her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.
A heavy, quiet sadness settled into Percy's chest. He thought of Williamson's anger when Percy had pushed for his reasons for helping the Order of Mercy, but it hadn't been anger at all. It was sorrow with a good dose of pride as a shield against other people's pity. Percy understood those emotions quite well. Growing up, his parents had rarely spoken of their blood status, but when they did, it had been to dismiss it as inconsequential. Being a pureblood was just another characteristic to ascribe to a person, the same as being ginger. Now, however, Percy was very glad that his family were purebloods, glad that his best mate and Audrey were as well. It was a relief—an awful, unworthy relief—to know that the people he loved couldn't be used against him the way Liam Williamson's mum was being used against him.
"Supper is served!" Oliver announced as he Levitated three plates to the newly-cleared-off dinner table.
"You are very domesticated, Ollie," Percy said, glad for the break in the mood.
"If you took better care of yourself, you'd know how to properly fry an egg," Oliver retorted.
"You two are disturbingly like an old married couple," Audrey said. She stood and offered her hand to Percy with a smile. "C'mon, let's eat and worry about the war on full stomachs."
That heavy sadness eased in Percy's chest as he placed his hand in Audrey's. Instead, there was a lightness, like a bird taking wing.
oOo
Bill stumbled through the backdoor, exhaustion and worry hanging heavily off of him. It was late, well after the sun had sunk into the horizon. The sliver of moonlight had been obscured by clouds on his walk from the Apparition point, blustery winds tugging at his robes and hair. The cottage with its warm, glowing lights looked like a safe haven sitting on the rise of the cliff. Finding the kitchen empty gave him a twinge of disappointment, but Bill could hear the clatter of footsteps coming from the stairs, then Fleur rounded the corner coming to a halt in the doorway.
"Love, I'm sorry for the cryptic message," Bill said before Fleur could talk. He had sent a Patronus at the end of the day saying he was going to the Burrow, knowing she would understand he meant he was going to an Order meeting. "It's been a hell of a day. Kingsley's gone missing, attacked by Snatchers. We don't—"
"I know," Fleur said in a rush.
Bill stopped and looked at her more closely. Every line of her body was stiff from her mouth to her shoulders to her knees. There wasn't anything rigid about Fleur's body. She was slim, but her curves, the way she walked, flowed like waves onto the beach. Bill felt his own body tighten, ready to absorb whatever would come next.
"But how…" he managed to say, the words felt as though they were wrestled from his throat.
"Come."
Setting his satchel on the table, Bill followed Fleur up the stairs in silence. At the spare bedroom, Fleur opened the door to reveal a shirtless Kingsley Shacklebolt sitting on the bed, bandaged and haggard. Despite this, Kingsley kept his usual demeanor of calm assurance, and Bill was glad for that. It acted as a counterbalance to the raw emotions twisting inside of his own chest. The bald black man looked at the married couple with placid green eyes, despite the serious expression he wore on his face.
"Kingsley?" Bill gasped. He looked at Fleur, questions and worry warring in his eyes.
"I could not send you a Patronus," Fleur blurted, reaching out to touch his arm.
"I asked her not to, Bill," Kingsley said, his deep voice rolling through the room. "I was afraid it would be seen or overheard by the wrong people. I didn't want any of you in unnecessary danger."
Bill took a deep breath, then he looked at Fleur, taking her hand that was clenched into a fist. At his touch, her fingers unfurled and slid between his own. "I've just come from the Burrow—"
"Who met there?" Kingsley asked. "Not the whole Order, I hope?"
"Just Dad, Remus, and me," Bill replied. His voice took on a precise tone, at attention. "We reckoned there was a good chance we were being followed, and didn't want too many Order members in one place. Meanwhile, the rest of us have been out scouring every corner of England and Scotland for you."
"Excellent. I suspect, from now on, we should limit our meetings to small gatherings. If you think that the Burrow is secure, feel free to send Arthur a Patronus telling him to call off the search."
Bill nodded his head once, but he didn't move from his spot by the door. "Forgive me, Kingsley, I'm chuffed to see you alive, but what happened and how did you end up here?"
"Well, that took longer than expected," Kingsley said, and his lips spread into a wide grin that lit up his face like whiz-bangs on New Year's Eve. "You Weasleys are always full of questions. How have none of you ended up in the Aurors' office?"
"Yet," Bill said. The corner of his mouth turned up. "Ron and Ginny seem adept at chasing Dark Wizards."
"Mores the pity," Kingsley agreed. "Perhaps we could have some tea, and I will tell you a story."
The older man inclined his head to Fleur who blinked, then excused herself. After she was gone, Kingsley picked up a white shirt from the bed. One of his arms was heavily bandaged and bound to his chest to keep it immobile, but he struggled to get his free arm into the sleeve. Then he stood there and stared at the strip of skin that was still exposed.
"She's quite something, your wife. She did this to me," Kingsley said and motioned to his bandaged arm. "Then she fixed me up."
Bill laughed. "You must have scared her."
"Managed to escape Snatchers, but I get brought down by a nineteen-year-old girl. It's been a humbling day, I must say."
"She's twenty," Bill said absently and rubbed his chin. "What happened to you?"
Just then, a tea tray floated into the room followed by Fleur. Besides the tea service, Fleur had stacked a half dozen sandwiches and a bowl of grapes onto the tray. There were a few moments where they all made plates and poured tea, arranging themselves about the small room. When everyone had a few satisfying bites of food, Bill looked at Kingsley expectantly.
"Ah, story time," the Auror said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He sobered, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. "I was meeting with a regular informant of mine—he'd cornered Mundungus in some corner of Abernathy…"
Bill growled. Mundungus Fletcher, the wretch, had been lying low since the Battle of the Seven Potters. The two-faced thief was still Bill's main suspect as double agent. Somebody must have tipped off the Death Eaters about the plan to move Harry from his aunt and uncle's home in July, and Mad-Eye had died as a result.
Kingsley nodded. "Yes, I would like to have a word or two with Dung myself, but, alas, it's not to be. Before my man could pass on his information, three Snatchers Apparated into the alley declaring they were there to arrest me. I had to battle my way out, and my informant was killed."
They all sat in silence at this news, but then Bill asked, "How did the Snatchers know you were there? And what was your crime?"
"As quick as ever, Bill, I was hoping you would catch that. I'm not sure, in all honesty. However, in the moments before the Snatchers appeared, we had been talking about…about You-Know-Who. I'd said the name—his name…and then, they appeared."
"Odd," Bill murmured. "You obviously think that the two events are connected."
"I do, but I'm not sure how."
"I have a few ideas. Some obscure magic, most often used in the Middle Ages when people were full of superstitions. Let me do a bit of research and get back with you."
"Excellent." Kingsley nodded. "That is one of the reasons I decided to come here. That, and Shell Cottage seems to be the least watched house in the Order. But never fear, I won't be staying long."
"Now you are a fugitive," Fleur said softly.
Kingsley nodded with a tired sigh. "That is unfortunately true."
"You cannot return to your flat, you will have to be on zee run. I can send you to stay wiz my parents."
"I thank you for your kindness, Fleur, but I must decline." Kingsley clutched his hand into a tight fist, the lines of his face took on harsh edges. He was no longer the affable, unflappable leader of the Order of the Phoenix, he was a fierce and immovable warrior. "My place is here as long as there is someone fighting against V-him."
Bill sat forward, his forearms braced on his thighs. "You will need a place to lay low, and Fleur is, as usual, correct, you cannot return to your flat. Stay here, at least for a few days."
"It is with reservations that I accept your offer." Kingsley looked thoughtful, stroking his chin for a moment. "There are things I'll need from my flat to survive my time on the run."
"I imagine the Snatchers will give your place a good tossing."
"Indeed, they've probably already done it. Perhaps in a few days Remus can go by, pick up a few things for me. He seems to have a talent for slipping in and out of a place unnoticed." Kingsley grew quiet for a long moment, his eyes downcast. "There are some mementos there that I'll be sad to lose."
Fleur leaned forward. "Remus, he can retrieve zose as well."
"No." Kingsley shook his head, a sad smile on his face. "The price of war, I reckon, but I still have the memories."
Crossing the room, Fleur bent before the Auror and kissed each cheek. "You will stay here until your arm is mended, I will accept no argument."
"Which will be tomorrow," Kingsley replied with a genuine smile.
"Which will be when I say so."
The deep bass of Kingsley's chuckle filled the room as Fleur excused herself. "Bill Weasley, you are a lucky bastard."
Bill watched his wife disappear around the corner. Didn't he know it.
oOo
"Any word on Shacklebolt's whereabouts?"
Liam Williamson shook his head. "No, but he's made it onto the Top Ten Most Wanted Wizards list."
Meeting in the same ante-chamber in the bowels of the Ministry as they had before, Percy crossed his arms, making no move toward his wand. If he were honest, he still had reservations about Williamson, but he decided to take a chance on him. He'd called for this little meeting, though he didn't really care about Shacklebolt's whereabouts, at least not in any capacity to do with the Order of Mercy. Percy was certain that the Order knew where Shacklebolt was and were keeping him safe, that was enough for Percy. No, this meeting was meant as a signal to Williamson that Percy was willing to work with him.
"How will an arrangement between the two of us work?" Percy asked.
Williamson arched an eyebrow, but made no comment. "No more face-to-face meetings. I'll send you information as I see fit, just as I have in the past."
"And if I need to contact you?"
"I'd prefer that doesn't happen, but if you must, send an Owl addressed to 'Willie' asking to meet at the Bull and Cock with a specific time signed by 'Nancy.' I'll know it means to meet you here."
Percy rolled his eyes at the Nancy bit. It would seem, under better circumstances, that Liam Williamson was a bit of a smartarse. Always a joy.
"'Willie?'" Percy asked.
"It's what Fergus called me," Williamson replied, and rolled his eyes. "Because he was a regular prick, wasn't he?"
Percy actually laughed. "Merlin, he was. Complete bastard."
"So, are we concluded here?"
"I think we are."
Williamson nodded, but then the two wizards stood there staring at each other for a moment. How did one end a clandestine meeting? It was all very awkward.
"Eleanor Masters-Williamson," Percy blurted. "She's your mother?"
The other young man opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Then, simply, one word: "Yes."
"I-I'm sorry."
"Second day of trials. We didn't even know what we were walking into."
Percy nodded. "Do you know how she is?"
"I know she's alive, that's about it." He focused on a spot beyond Percy's shoulder. "I'm not the only one. A great number of Aurors have either been summoned or had a loved one summoned. It's their way of keeping us under their boot. We all know that one false move will land us in Azkaban or the grave—just look at Shacklebolt. Many of my colleagues feel as though their hands are tied."