Black News

Author's Note: This chapter is entirely based on my interpretations of the events between Book 4 and Book 5, so there was a lot more room for my creative juices to make a mess here. Anyway, I hope you like it. By the way, the bold italicized writing is Bill's, and the italicized writing is his father's. I am also sorry if you don't think very much of this chapter. Myself, I must admit that it is not one of my favorites. I feel as if I'm missing something in it, but I've no notion of what it is, so please feel free to tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: No, I didn't write Harry Potter, but I did write this whole sentence all by myself, which is even better.

Reviews: I'd love to hear from you, so don't be shy. Just click that button on the bottom of the page, and you'll go on a grand vacation to Reviewland, which is an awesome spot.

As Bill raced down the corridors, and the stairwells of Hogwarts school, his travelling cloak billowing behind him, he had to push his way through the gossiping knots of pupils headed in the opposite direction for a second time that evening. Within five minutes, he was bursting out of the heavy oaken doors onto the grounds. The instant he got out of the gates, he Apparated, and the countryside vanished, replaced by a teeming atrium that was the main level of the Ministry of Magic, a place he had not set foot in since the last time his father had taken him to work when he was eight.

Deciding that the best way to remain secret was not to conceal his presence, but to hide it in a mound of useless procedure, Bill adhered to Ministry protocol by stopping at the security desk to register his wand with the security wizard, before taking the lift to his dad's level. Putting on a delighted, arrogant expression that he imagined Percy would wear if he earned a promotion, he hurried through the Auror cubicles, until he reached the door that led into the broomcupboard that Mr. Weasley shared with the only other member of his department, Perkins. When he thrust open the door, he was relieved to discover that Perkins was not in the office at the moment.

"Dad," he exclaimed as he slammed the door behind him, "I've gotten a promotion." Seeing the other's confusion, he mouthed, "Play along with me."

"Why that's wonderful!" shouted his parent. "I know how much you wanted it."

"Yeah, I've been hoping for it for a month, ever since old what's-her-name retired," Bill went on in the same loud voice. As he offered this declaration, he plopped into the chair opposite his dad's, snatched a scrap of parchment, grabbed a quill, thought for a moment, and then scribbled simply, He's back.

What? Mr. Weasley wrote back, frowning as his brow furrowed like an irrigation field.

You-Know-Who is back. Harry and Dumbledore said so.

Mr. Weasley's quill remained motionless for a long moment, during which dawning horror climbed steadily on his features, as he struggled to absorb this new data. When he recovered a tad from his shock, he announced in a carrying tone, "I might have a bit of wine left over for a celebration." As he established as much, he scrawled, What happened?

I don't know. Dumbledore didn't have time to explain it to me, and Harry didn't want to discuss whatever occurred. However, I figured out some stuff on my own. The Triwizard Cup was a Portkey, which transported Harry and Cedric to where You-Know-Who was waiting with some of his supporters, and You-Know-Who attempted to murder Harry, but failed in this undertaking as usual, though he was able to kill poor Cedric. Anyway, Fudge is being a short-sighted, idiotic coward, and won't accept the fact that You-Know-Who is back, so he and Dumbledore had this huge row. Dumbledore wants you to recruit as many Ministry employees as possible, but you must be discreet, Dad, because, if Fudge believe that Dumbledore is interfering at the Ministry, life could get very difficult for those of us who don't live in denial. In fact, our charming Minister has already promised to check Dumbledore's running of Hogwarts, so I anticipate that the school will change for the worse soon.

When he spotted his companion's brief nod of comprehension, Bill burned the parchment, destroying any evidence of their conversation. As he did so, he added for the benefit of those outside the office that might be eavesdropping, "The promotion will allow me to move back to England to spend some time with the family at last. Oh, and, thanks for the wine. You're right, it's loads better than anything in Egypt."

Mr. Weasley's pen danced across another scroll of parchment. Why did you say that?

About the wine?

No, why did you mention being able to return to Britain? If someone checks up on your story, they'll expect to see you in the London branch soon.

Relax. If I have my way, they will.

Explain.

I'm going to request a transfer to the London branch, so I can be with my family. They'll have to honor my request, because I'm too valuable to lose, and, besides, knowing the shrewdness of goblins, they'll find work for me in England.

You want to fight him.

Of course. Did you doubt it?

The quill was silent and still for a long moment, and then it scrawled, No.

Trying to gauge the implication of the word, Bill frowned, wishing it were possible to hear tone in written words. Then he inquired, Are you mad?

No, scared for you and the whole family—and proud.

While Bill grinned slightly at the last word, he scribbled, Mum didn't seem delighted when I volunteered to apprise you of the current situation. I don't think she wants me involved in the fight against You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. She'd probably rather that I stay safe and sound in Egypt.

She doesn't want you dead.

I don't want me dead, either. I better go, since I'm supposed to be back in Cairo in an hour, and I want to be in good graces when I ask for that transfer.

Come back home soon.

I will. Bill made this promise before he set fire to the parchment, erasing their correspondence forever. As he rose, he stated at the top of his voice, "I shall be back home soon, because of my promotion, so please have my room in order by then. Thanks for the wine and congratulations, Dad. I'd better go tell Mum. She might buy me some of Honeydukes best chocolates."

With that, he left his father's office, and hastened through the Auror Department, and down the lifts to the atrium, where he registered his departure with the security wizard, whom he had to shake out of a snooze to do so.

Barely an hour later, he was stepping out of the flames of the Gringotts in Cairo, where, as they often did, Louis, Rottentooth, and Foulbreath were lolling indolently against a wall, awaiting his arrival. "The slacker has returned," Louis jested, clapping his co-worker on the shoulder in a gruff welcome. As they started toward the exit, he demanded, "And how did our Beauxbatons champion do in the third task?"

"What?" Bill stared blankly at him as they descended the marble steps, and mounted their camels.

"One day you will find the switch that turns your brain on, and I sincerely hope that it happens sometime before you perish of old age," answered Louis with an exasperated head shake. "I asked you how the Beauxbatons girl did, numbskull."

"She didn't win, in part because she was Stunned by the Durmstrang champion," Bill educated him, realizing with a pang that the Triwizard Tournament meant nothing to him anymore.

"Those Durmstrang brats are all Dark wizards in training, and they're a lot of scumbags, I tell you," asserted his comrade bitterly.

"You needn't be so upset that she hasn't won, you know."

"What's made you come over so noble?" Louis glowered at him. "I'd expect you to be babbling on about the superiority of your puny Potter, unless he hasn't won, either."

"Harry won the Cup," sighed Bill, gazing absently off into the desert as they entered it, "but that's nothing compared to what he's lost, I imagine."

"I've conversed with grains of sands that spoke more sensibly than you," Louis snorted. When silence greeted this, he asked, "What's wrong?"

"I more accurate phrasing would be, 'What isn't wrong?'"

"Very well, then. Tell me how messed up everything is."

"The other Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory is dead, and..." Unable to acknowledge aloud that the monster of his childhood was wrecking havoc again, Bill trailed off, as though if he did not admit it aloud, it would not be true. Probably Fudge felt the same way.

"And?" Impatience laced Louis' manner.

"He's back, Lou," Bill burst out, facing his friend once more.

"Who? Who's back?"

"Must I spell everything out for you? You-Know-Who's back," snapped Bill. This was met with a horrified look on the other man's face, and he pressed on during the ensuing pause, "I shall help you and our companion goblins raid this final tomb for old times' sake, and then, when we return to Cairo, I'm requesting a transfer to the London branch so I can join the battle against You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters."

"I understand," Louis assented, and Bill breathed a sigh of relief, as he had been anticipating a snide comment about fleeing Egypt in the end from the senior Curse-Breaker. "Though it's a pity you've got to go. We were a decent team."

"A very productive one, at least," grunted Foulbreath in confirmation.

"Yes, the pair of you brought in kilograms of treasure for the bank," Rottentooth growled affirmatively.

"Well, you could always come back to England and help me defeat You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters?" Bill proposed innocently, smiling at his fellow Curse-Breaker to indicate that he was joking, although he would not mind if the man agreed to do so, because Louis would be a worthy addition to their cause, and Dumbledore did need all the assistance he could receive, even if it came in the form of cynics like Louis. "Actually, we could use all the help we can get, because our Minister, Fudge, is refusing to accept the inconvenient truth."

"I'm afraid that I must decline, as I could not stand the food, and malnutrition would soon render me useless in war," Louis snickered. More somberly, he locked eyes with Bill, and ordered, "However, if you should need an extra wand, William Weasley, during the final showdown, send me an owl, and I'll come as quickly as I can."

"I'll do that, although I reckon that it'll take you until the end of the battle to arrive," laughed Bill.

True to his word, Bill remained in Egypt until they had broke into and looted one more pyramid, before he requested a transfer to London to be with his family. As he had gambled, his request was granted, even if it was done half-heartedly, and with much sullen muttering about how family was devised only to squander the productive years of valuable workers by the head goblin, who snarled at him that the London Gringotts expected him to begin working at seven in the morning a day hence, and that there would be no excuses for tardiness. The head goblin in Cairo had no idea what Bill would be put to in London, but he was confident that the London branch would find a use for him, though not as profitable as the one Bill currently fulfilled in Egypt.

When he learned just how soon his transfer would be in effect, Bill sent Nekhebet to Dumbledore with a letter explaining that he would be returning to London the next morning, and that he was ready to serve the Order in whatever capacity he could. Then, he packed his bags, and prepared to leave. By the time he had finished this, he had received an owl from the headmaster, telling him that on the day of his arrival a meeting for the members of the Order of the Phoenix had been planned for seven-thirty in the evening at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in London, wherever that was.

This was why Bill was to be found at seven-thirty-five on his first night back in England, glancing, bewildered, at number ten and number fourteen Grimmauld Place. There was nothing strange about either of the houses, although they were rather run-down, and had an air of decayed grandeur. What was odd was that there wasn't a number twelve between them, and Dumbledore had specifically told him number twelve...

Abruptly, a massive, dilapidated house sprung up like a weed between number ten and number fourteen, who easily moved out of its way. Sighing in relief, Bill charged at the door. To his surprise, he saw McGonagall sprinting toward the house from the opposite direction. Well, at least he wouldn't be the only one tardy, if she was also running behind the time, and she could hardly scold him for being late, if she were late herself.

"You're back from Egypt, then," observed McGonagall, slightly breathless as she whipped out her wand, and tapped the door once. A series of metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain followed this action before the door creaked open, as though pulled by a spirit in an ancient myth. "Be sure to whisper in the hall, or you'll wake one of the portraits."

"Yes," he responded softly as they entered the almost total darkness of a damp and rotting hall. Once his eyes had adapted to the lack of light, Bill noticed that the house seemed an odd choice on the part of Dumbledore for the headquarters of the Order, for the house was decorated in a fashion most Death Eaters would endorse, as witnessed in the troll leg umbrella stand and the house elf heads gracing the walls. Obviously, this was another one of Dumbledore's paradoxical ideas about decreasing the power of the dark by increasing it, just like his idea of using You-Know-Who's name. "I just got back, in fact, today was my first day, and I still had to work a full day, because goblins never stop working, and they don't think anyone else should as well."

"I'm surmising that's your excuse for being late," she hissed as she led the way down the hall, filing past numerous malignant, but haughty looking portraits.

"I had to work overtime settling in, because they don't want you to use working hours to do that." Bill felt like he had to defend himself for some reason, despite the fact that she was as late as him. No doubt it was born in the fact that she had been his mentor once. "And I couldn't refuse overtime, because then it would arise awkward questions about where in the world I was hurrying off to."

"The goblins don't support the war against He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named, in that case?" McGonagall inquired under her breath as they finally neared the end of the painting outlined corridor.

"They don't advocate war, in general, as it's unproductive, and mostly unprofitable, wasting valuable gold and laborers," answered Bill dryly, as the pair of them commenced descending a flight of narrow stone steps into what must be the basement.

"After all those goblin rebellions?"

"Well, their rebellions are fine, naturally, but ours are always nonsense." Determining that it was her turn to answer some questions, he added, "So, there's my excuse. What's yours?"

"My excuse is that Dumbledore is incapable of organizing a meeting at a time where one of the beings in attendance will not be occupied with another task that he has set her." McGonagall's voice was sardonic. Seeing his arched eyebrows because they had just walked by a sconce, she clarified, "I was on duty. I had to watch over Potter, upon Dumbledore's orders. Soon you'll have to do it, too."

Bill frowned. "We're spying on Harry?"

"Guarding, Weasley, guarding," she corrected in a clipped tone.

"Harry's okay with this?" Bill demanded skeptically.

"He doesn't know about it," McGonagall informed him tersely, "and you won't reveal yourself to him, either." Before Bill could reply, they had reached the bottom of the stairwell, and McGonagall had flung open the door into a kitchen, and he had glimpsed that man...the man that bore an uncanny resemblance to the wizard that had escaped from Azkaban, where he had been locked up for murdering a street full of Muggles and betraying the Potters...wait a minute, the man who was Sirius Black.

All this flitted across his mind in the space of a few seconds. Before he could even be conscious of his movements, he had tugged his wand reflexively out of his pocket, and was pointing at the man, ready to hex him into oblivion. However, he was foiled by Dumbledore, who had glanced up from a scroll when the two magicians entered, and who had spotted Bill's threatening movement, and had Disarmed him. Stunned, Bill stared at his wand, not sure whether he should attempt to retrieve it or not. In the end he settled for pointing an incriminating finger at the dark-haired man. "That's Sirius Black, you know!"

"Yes, we all aware of what my name is, thanks," growled the wizard, starting to rise out of his chair.

"Relax, Sirius." Dumbledore gestured for Sirius to return to his seat, and he complied reluctantly, still glaring at Bill. Facing Bill once more, Dumbledore stated placidly, "You can relax as well. Sirius has been greatly wronged by our justice system, I'm afraid, for he did not murder those thirteen Muggles, nor did he betray Lily and James..."

"That was the work of that slimy rat Pettigrew," mumbled Sirius, as Bill plopped, dazed into a vacant chair. Sirius Black...innocent of all charges? On top of You-Know-Who's resurrection, this was too much for his small mind to handle. Most likely, his brain would be exploding in a few seconds, unless his heart, which was beating at seven times its normal rate decided to kill him first. It was common knowledge that Black was as guilty and as evil as, well, as any of You-Know-Who's convicted Death Eaters, and "doing a Black" was sometimes even utilized as a slang term for any random slaughter of wizards and Muggles.

"Sirius is, in fact, one of us, and he always has been," Dumbledore resumed placidly, as though he were remarking upon the position of the sun in the heavens. "He's even been generous to give his ancestral house to us as headquarters."

"Yeah, it's been the first and last useful thing I've done," Sirius grumbled, wearing a bitter expression.

Dumbledore elected to ignore this, and Bill followed his example. Now he was feeling like an idiot, since he was willing to accept that the Ministry had made yet another mistake, and he probably should not have been so quick to believe them in the first place. Still, it wasn't his fault that nobody had bothered to explain the truth to him once it was obvious that he wasn't a Ministry lackey.

"Sorry about that, er, misunderstanding," Bill said to Sirius once he had recovered enough to control his jaw muscles, rather than just have them hang open in a stupefied gape. Glaring at McGonagall, he complained, "You couldn't have mentioned the fact that I was about to come face-to-face with an innocent man that everyone thinks slaughtered thirteen Muggles and all, during our lengthy conversation in the corridor?"

McGonagall lost her chance to respond to this challenge, when Dumbledore established, "Excellent, now that we are all better acquainted with one another, let's get down to business, shall we? Kingsley," he addressed a black man who radiated a sense of composed prowess, and who wore a single golden hoop earring of which Bill personally approved, "how is the hunt for Sirius coming along?"

"Not very well," Kingsley updated Dumbledore in a deep rumble. "Arthur's been holding up the search for almost a week now, since he's taking so long with his report on Muggle firelegs..."

"The proper term is actually firearms, as I've informed you on countless occasions," Bill's dad interjected.

"However, I must tell you, Arthur," went on Kingsley the Auror, ignoring Mr. Weasley's comment, "that I'll require that report soon, so that I can carry on with the quest to lock Sirius behind Azkaban's bars again, because Scrimgeour has been asking me all sorts of prying questions."

"I'll have it to you tomorrow, or the following day at latest," Mr. Weasley promised.

"Great, because once Scrimgeour gets off Kingsley's back, he can start climbing all over mine," observed a magenta-haired, heart-shaped witch...a witch who resembled Tonks, although Charlie had neglected to mention that she had become an Auror after departing Hogwarts. Catching sight of his eyes upon her, she waved enthusiastically, accidentally upending a fortunately unlit candle in the process. As she righted it cheerily, she greeted him, "Wotcher, Bill. Yeah, it's me again—my mentor Mad-Eye Moody managed to convince me that You-Know-Who has decided to grace us with his presence once more. Anyway, send my regards to Charlie next time you write to him, because it appears that we're allies once more, since he claimed that he would be more than happy to recruit foreign wizards for the Order on his days off. In fact, I'm starting to think that I was a tad, just a tad, mind you, harsh with him when I screamed at him in the Transfiguration corridor in our seventh year."

Before Bill could answer, McGonagall inserted herself sharply, "Now that we have attended to that very critical detail, perhaps we could return to the actual meeting, or we could all disintegrate into our own side-conversations, which I'm confident would be far more constructive."

"Remus," Dumbledore continued into the now quiet kitchen, looking at a thin man with hair and eyes the sheen of dying leaves in autumn, who was decked out in tattered robes, "how is it going with the werewolves?"

This prompted Bill to stare at the rather frail-looking wizard. He had contact with werewolves? Everyone who had the sense God bequeathed a goose knew that werewolves were ferocious beasts that would sooner eat a person than look at them, and this slight man hardly seemed the type to have dealings with them on regular basis.

"Not well," Remus responded, shaking his head. "My kind don't care if You-Know-Who has returned or not, although Greyback, the head werewolf, has been generous enough to inform me that they'll be happy to support him, if he comes calling upon them, because Dumbledore doesn't let them bite the enemy and the enemy children."

"Of course I don't." Dumbledore's eyes sizzled at the notion. "However, you will keep trying, won't you?"

"Absolutely," Remus swore, as Bill stared at him, attempting to accept the fact that this mild-mannered man was a monster, a werewolf. He was not having much success reconciling the two contradictory images, though he was lecturing himself for being an arrogant bigot. Discriminating against this man, because he happened to become a werewolf at the full moon was as unjust as being prejudiced against Muggle-Borns like his school-friend Mike. As Dumbledore reasoned, it mattered not what a person is born but what they grew up to be, who they chose to become. Besides, who was he to judge? Wasn't he himself a filthy blood traitor? No, he would not treat this man differently just because he was a werewolf, because hatred was a slow poison that killed everything it touched, eventually turning inward and destroying even the one who harbored it, and once you started separating the pure from the impure, pretty soon everyone was impure. Anyway, you couldn't keep someone in a ditch, without getting down in the ditch, and getting dirty with them. Speaking of not wanting to treat Remus differently, it probably would be a good idea to cease staring at the other wizard. As this thought occurred to him, Bill refocused his gaze on Dumbledore, praying that Remus had not noticed his scrutiny.

It transpired that Bill had redirected his attention to Dumbledore not a moment to early, for the head of Hogwarts spoke directly to him now. "Bill, you've worked at Gringotts since you've left Hogwarts. It is my hope that you can report back to me if you see any indication that the goblins have been swayed by the Death Eaters, and have decided to join Voldemort." Ignoring the grimaces of all the chamber's other occupants, Dumbledore resumed, "Additionally, I request that you endeavor to persuade the goblins that he is back, and that they should, therefore, be on their guard..."

"That second one won't be too challenging," Bill remarked, "as goblins are constantly on their guard, though they'll probably be miffed it I ask them to do that, because they'll resent the implication that they can't do so, or that they typically don't do so."

"Then skip over that one, if it will compromise your diplomatic position, because the main task I have for you is to convince them that they should get involved in this war, and on our side."

"I still believe that the goblins would not side with You-Know-Who, Dumbledore," frowned Mr. Weasley. "I mean, they had their loses last time he decided that he wanted to rule all of Britain and the rest of the world once he got around to it."

"I don't know," the man named Remus argued, his voice mild, but firm. "Personally, I'm inclined to place them in a similar category as the werewolves. If we want their support, we may have to concede liberties to them that we've been denying them for centuries, because I'll bet these handsome thirty-five year-old robes that You-Know-Who will be promising them all sorts of things, though I doubt he'll keep them if he gains power."

"Remus is closer," Bill stated, looking at Dumbledore, "though I rather think that he paints a too optimistic picture of the goblins. If you want to get somewhere quickly with the species, I suggest you employ this." As he established as much, he rubbed his fingers together in the universal symbol for gold. "In fact, I would suggest that you utilize similar tactics at the Ministry with people like Fudge."

"That would entail outbidding individuals like Lucius Malfoy," noted McGonagall crisply, her lips thin.

"Scratch that plan, then, as we probably wouldn't even have the cash to do that if we all pooled our money." Bill shrugged, and the meeting continued.