13. The Clerk of Orleans

Dusk was well and truly down over the Thames as Hermione crossed London Bridge to Southwark. The sky had turned deep blue, the river to black, the buildings on its south side lit up by myriad lights, illuminating individual office compartments and their occupants. A thin breeze was floating up off the water, mingling with the fumes from the traffic surging over the bridge. She walked quickly, her bag striking her side, packed for a weekend away. A weekend in Paris, no less. She had checked out of the Cauldron, making a furtive foray into the Ministry to collect all the materials she had on memory charms, before heading over to Southwark. Caius was supposed to be waiting for her there, in the Clerk of Orleans. Paris with Caius Hanmer. What am I thinking?

He had said yes of course when she asked him. I was hoping to get an owl from you, he had said. And he was ready to leave that night. Not surprising, he has nothing to do but hang around getting drunk in pubs. Maybe it was a mistake. But Demelza couldn't come and she didn't quite like the idea of going alone. He's a sharp one, Harry had once said about him. He'd be a good person to have watching your back. Harry was a reliable source of advice surely, although she seemed to remember him being slightly drunk at the time. She slipped off Borough High Street just as it took over from London Bridge, moving swiftly down the steps to the passage that ran under the road.

Down in the underpass and out in the open street they were already spilling out of the pubs, the office boys in smart suits cradling half-drunk pint glasses, talking to office girls smiling back at them, cigarettes burning in their outstretched hands, their skirts too tight and their heels too high. Silently she left them behind, Southwark Cathedral tower rising up on her left, far above the revellers' heads and the little plumes of cigarette smoke escaping into the night air.

She stood before an empty expanse of pavement between an outlying wing of the Cathedral precincts and the black railings of a pub terrace, leading to a blind alley, its walls three or four storeys high. Glancing over her shoulder for a moment, she took a few steps down the alley then whispered an incantation. In a few moments, a narrow three-storey timber-framed building shimmered into sight, hemmed in between brick walls, nestling under the nave of the Cathedral. The Red House it was called, which was fair enough since its ancient timbers were painted blood red, for some reason lost to history. It had been a wizard's house supposedly. Oswald the Dapifer he had been called, but not much more was known of him. The oldest wizarding house in London, apparently, built in the thirteenth century. Some of the charms used to build it were still in place, so they said. So how come such a historic house had ended up with a pub in it? The sign that hung above the ground floor windows was marked with a picture of the moon, the words The Clerk of Orleans inscribed beneath it.

She found him in a first floor bar, crammed into a wood-panelled booth with a pair of strapping wizards whose faces were vaguely familiar to her from the corridors of Hogwarts, only now they were old enough to drink. And they certainly had been, judging from their silly grins, glazed eyes and rather transparent attempts at appearing serious. A chair had been saved for her on the other side of the table.

'Hermione, this is Adam … and Adam,' said Caius gleefully, gesturing at the two wizards sitting either side of him. They got to their feet and shook Hermione's hand in turn as Caius introduced them, each of them adding his surname to complete the introductions. Adam Harries was taller of the two, with auburn hair and smiling blue eyes, while Adam Talfryn blinked at her through a dark mop of side-parted hair. Hermione had a vague impression that they had also been on somebody's quidditch team. Beaters possibly. Caius promptly dispatched the two Adams to get a round of drinks.

'They're not coming too, are they?' asked Hermione once she and Caius were alone. She expected the mission to be one of stealth and subtlety and doubted it was one of the Adams' strong points.

'Don't worry,' Caius replied, his accent more prominent than when they had last met. 'Lads from home they are, just happened to be in London, so it was only natural we went out for a drink. They won't be involved. Haven't breathed a word to them.'

'Pleased to hear it,' she replied. 'But aren't they from Hogwarts? I thought I recognised them.'

'Oh yes, they were at Hogwarts all right.'

Suddenly someone started laughing raucously at a neighbouring table. Hermione glanced around to see a man with a pointed black beard howling into his beer glass while the rest of his company guffawed along with him. He even slapped the table for extra effect.

'So that's why we had to meet here, is it?' she remarked coolly. 'So you could have a drink with your friends first? I have to wonder whether you're going to take this seriously.'

'No, there's a good reason for meeting here,' he replied. 'Ilaria's flat is in Bermondsey. She and Harry will pass through here on their way to Waterloo.'

In the message she had sent Caius by owl, she had mentioned only that Harry had taken time off work and was leaving for Paris that evening with his girlfriend. She had deliberately not mentioned any names.

'Oh, is that who you think his girlfriend is?' she asked innocently.

Caius smirked triumphantly.

'Well, you kept mentioning her last night for one thing. And today you tell me that he's off to Paris, which is also where Henoc is living. So this afternoon I did a bit of checking myself.'

'You didn't speak to her, did you?' she exclaimed in horror.

'Oh no, don't worry about that. Subtle, you said, didn't you? No, I just asked after her through a mutual friend. And by coincidence, Ilaria is going to Paris this evening too. On the last train.'

He smiled at the look of interest she could feel spreading across her face.

Adam Harries returned with the round of drinks. He clinked the beer glasses down on the table, leaned towards Caius and muttered to him in a low voice:

'Talfryn has got a good vantage point at the window. He'll send word if he sees them go past.'

'Grand,' replied Caius, already lifting his pint to his lips. 'So,' he continued, nodding at Hermione, 'we'd best drink up quickly. They could be going by at any time. Your good health.'

'Cheers,' Hermione replied stiffly and raised her glass.

She looked around the bar. The crowd was younger than in the Cauldron, and seemed to divide itself in two: on the one hand, groups of young wizards, well dressed and vaguely bohemian, making loud conversation, seemingly rather pleased at themselves and where they were: on the other, quieter, shadowy groups, mostly older men hunched over their pints, looking outwards from time to time with surly expressions on their faces. Are they the locals, gradually being pushed out by this new crowd? Caius was part of that new crowd, however much he might not want to admit it.

The conversation quickly turned to a girl who was causing Adam Harries some degree of heartache. From what Hermione could gather, she was a student, but whether she was a witch or a Muggle girl, she couldn't tell.

'I bumped into her down Gower Street,' Adam Harries was telling Caius. 'She asked me did I want to go for a drink with her and her mates in UCL Union. I said yeah, of course. So we went in, just the two of us, had a drink. It was early, not too many in there, so we were able to have a nice sort of a chat. Then her friends got there. Couple of girls and a lad. Athletic, smartly-dressed type. Handsome fucker too. Reckoned he was from one of the public schools.'

'Dackle, was he?' asked Caius.

'He was.'

'Is she peaceful too, your girl?'

What are these expressions he comes out with? She wanted to ask but bit her tongue.

'She is, but she's not mine. Seemed rather too into that public school boy for my liking. Never mentioned any boyfriend at all, which I thought a good sign. But still, they had a real … what'd you call it … rapport. I don't fancy my chances, I'll have to be honest.'

'Well, ask yourself: is she worth it though?' commented Caius.

'I'd say she is,' replied Adam Harries, looking bashfully into his pint. 'She's lovely. She's the sort of girl I could get serious about.'

Hermione found his attitude rather touching.

'Ah, but how would you tell her?' asked Caius. 'You'd have to tell her in the end.'

Ah, tell her you're a wizard. So the girl was a muggle. She had never really asked herself that question. Well maybe once. That summer when Toby Philips and I went on those walks. The walks had come to nothing, for the best undoubtedly

'Maybe I wouldn't,' Adam Harries replied. 'She might have trouble trusting me after that. Like I was casting charms on her without her knowing'

'You'd have to tell her eventually,' Hermione put in. 'It would be dishonest not to. You wouldn't be the first muggle-wizard couple.'

'Or if you never told her, you'd pretty much have to never do magic again,' said Caius.

'Ah, for the right girl, I could do that,' replied Adam.

'Really?' asked Hermione.

'I reckon so. Or if I told her, and she didn't like it, I could promise not to do any more magic.'

'But I wonder,' remarked Caius. 'What happens if you tell her, and then you break up? I suppose the Ministry steps in and erases the poor girl's mind. Doesn't seem fair, in a way, does it?'

'When you put it like that it doesn't,' replied Adam. 'But on the other hand, what if it was a really bad break-up and the girl felt like being vindictive? She could start going around telling everyone I was a wizard.'

'And do you think many people would believe her?' asked Hermione.

'Probably they wouldn't,' replied Caius. 'But then why does the Ministry always go to the bother of wiping their memories?'

'You've got a point there,' said Hermione.

'Maybe I should try and find myself a witch after all,' said Adam, drinking the last of his pint.

Caius suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand. The tip of it was glowing a pale yellow.

'Talfryn,' he said. He stood up in a hurry, reaching for his pint and downing the rest of it. 'We should be going,' he said to Hermione, who nodded in reply.

'You going to finish that?' he asked, pointing to her drink.

'No,' she replied.

When they got outside, the revellers in the street were even louder and more numerous. Hermione scanned the crowd, looking for Harry and Ilaria.

'There they are,' she said, pointing to a couple further down the street and walking away from them.

'How are we doing for time?' said Ilaria.

James looked down at his watch.

'Plenty of time,' he replied, trying to push his hair out of his face. The wind was starting to blow in off the river, but Bankside was packed with people. It is Friday night after all.

'Shall we stop for a quick drink?' she said, pointing at the brick-built pub just across from the waterside.

'Sure.'

Inside there were not quite as many people as they expected. After weaving through the crowd for a minute or two they found an empty, rather forlorn table pushed nearly against the window, with just two chairs left around it. They pushed their rucksacks under the table and James went to get drinks.

'So what do you want to do in Paris?' he asked once he had returned.

'Oh, not so much. Just walk the streets, feel the atmosphere. It's hard to go wrong in the centre of Paris, almost everywhere has it … Well, maybe some of the streets in the Latin Quarter have had the atmosphere choked out of them by too much tourism, but we can easily avoid those parts. It's going to be so nice to walk the back streets, just you and me.'

She smiled and reached her hand across the table, slipping it into his.

'Won't we be hanging out with your friend Henoc?' he asked. She frowned for an instant then smiled again. I sounded jealous. Which was fair enough: she'd shown him a photograph. Handsome looking bastard.

'Only a little bit,' she replied softly. 'For a drink or something, maybe go to a restaurant. He is lending us a flat, after all.'

'That's true.'

'But you don't have to worry. It's you I want to spend time with.' She wriggled her hand free of his grasp then slid her fingers a little way up his sleeve. For a moment she closed her eyes as she caressed his arm.

'Anyway,' she continued. 'This holiday is about you getting some rest. I don't want you getting ill again. Have you had any more blackouts? Or headaches?'

He smiled, a little ruefully he thought.

'I had a bit of a headache this afternoon, but I took a tablet and it went away.'

She listened intently to him, stroking his hand again.

'That's good, but you should have told me. I would have given you a head massage. That's the best remedy.'

He smiled again.

'You were on the phone.'

At that point she got up abruptly.

'I'll be back in a minute,' she said as she moved out from behind the table. As she passed him she stopped, reached in and kissed him on the top of his head. The heels she was wearing made her a few inches taller than usual.

He watched her disappear into the crowd then leaned back in his seat and gazed out of the window. He looked past the crowd thronging on the riverside, over the river that lay out of sight, black and chill below the embankment. He looked at the distant lights on the other bank and the motionless cranes above them, then along the line of streetlamps running across the bridge, the pale dome of St Pauls beyond them. Finally his eyes drifted back to his side of the river, his gaze coming to rest at the level of the countless and very diverse heads, some passing to the left or to the right, others fixed in little groups, little contingents of the masses out in London on a mild Friday night, out for a drink in the night air before the evenings got too cold. He didn't quite feel a part of them. Nothing specific; he just didn't.

Among the myriad heads through the glass, suddenly one stood out: it was the head of a girl walking quickly across his vision from left to right, seemingly alone, her long straight red hair streaming behind her. He caught a glimpse of a slim, pale face in profile against the dark of the evening, a small mouth set in a serious, determined expression. I know her was the first thought. What's her name was the second. Before the third thought had even formed itself in words in his head he was looking down at his hands as they lay propped against the side of the table. These hands harmed her was how the third thought came to him. He scrutinised them, as if any trace of the violence he had done was still on them. What were you expecting to see? Blood? You washed it off months ago.

He looked up and out through the glass. The girl was gone, as if she had never even been there. He was up and out of his seat already, pushing through the crowd and out through the door of the pub and onto Bankside. He turned his gaze along the riverside and up at Southwark Bridge, cursing it as if it was hiding the girl with its massive stone bulk. He started walking, passing close to the metal railings where the crowds were thinner. If he couldn't see her it was because she hadn't really been there. It had been a ghost that he had seen, come to puncture his conscience and his opaque memory, make him remember the deed he had done. If she's a ghost it means I killed her. He had put his hands around her neck; of that he was sure.

He got as far as the bridge, but there was no sign of the girl. He stood very still, the side of the bridge looming up over him. He started to head for the underpass, but out of the corner of his eye he seemed to see her up on the bridge, moving away from him as she headed for the north side of the river. He went numbly up the steps, heart pounding and feet echoing on the stone stairs, his head empty with dread.

The bridge was surprisingly quiet: scarcely anyone up there walking, just the occasional car passing. Far away, close to the north bank, a figure was disappearing into the darkness. Suddenly a name presented itself and he was shouting it out into the night before he had time to think about what he was doing.

'Ginny!'

The figure paused for a moment but didn't turn back. Then she disappeared off the end of the bridge and headed up the road on the other side. He started forward again but stopped short as his legs nearly buckled under him. His head was hurting again. He took a few steps then slumped down into one of the little alcoves built at intervals into the parapet of the bridge. A vision sent to prick his conscience wouldn't hear his actual voice shouting in the night. He felt sure that she was real and no apparition, that the name he had shouted was the right one. Surely she had heard him. If it was her, she would have recognised his voice. But probably his voice was the last voice she wanted to hear, especially on a lonely bridge in the dark.

He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there, hunched against the stone parapet. The only sensations were the cold of the river and the night and the throbbing inside his skull. He reached his hand to his head, what for he didn't know. His hand was numb as it touched his forehead. He looked down at it to check it was still there. You choked her came the words, out of nowhere, or out of the waters of the river. He stumbled to his feet and put his numb hands on the parapet. Don't I even get to remember my real name? Am I really just going to go down as a nameless killer? He started to lunge forward. No, there is only guilt. Guilt and justice. He wanted to fall, imagining that it wasn't cold water down below him but nothingness.

Suddenly hands were pulling him away as he swayed on the wall, pulling him back down into the alcove, where he landed rather untidily.

'You stupid idiot!' A girl was shouting at him. Not Ginny. But a voice that was familiar from somewhere. He looked round. She was on her knees by his side, her face sheet white and her hair blowing in the breeze. He did know her: the girl in the churchyard. He didn't have to grope around for her name, he knew it: Hermione.

She shoved him hard in the chest, nearly pushing him onto his back. Her fists were clenched and a look of withering intensity was on her face. He stared at her in surprise, the blood rushing back to his cheeks, his hands no longer numb.

'Harry how could you?!'

Harry?

'What do you have to say for yourself?' she shouted, still livid.

'I … uhh … I'm sorry?'

'So you should be,' she said, breathing quickly and wiping her eye. She looked at him again, her eyes flashing in the darkness. 'My God, you were actually going to jump over the side …'

She reached out and put her hand against his temple, gripping it tightly with the tips of her fingers. He looked at her curiously, wondering what on earth it was she was trying to do. She seemed to look for something in his eyes. The anger was fading quickly from her face, sadness replacing it.

'You don't know who I am,' she said after a moment, her voice almost inaudible.

'Yes I do' he replied. 'We met just the other day.'

She shook her head firmly and put both arms around his head, cradling him against her chest. Why does she care?

'Don't say that, Harry,' she replied. Her voice was soft and even, but she seemed to be speaking to someone who wasn't there. He felt a little awkward, as if he was overhearing her speaking with someone else.

'How can I make you better?' she whispered.

She can't said a voice in his head, his voice or the voice that had accused him before. Then the guilt was back with him.

'You can't,' he said as he broke out of the embrace. 'I've done something terrible. There's no coming back from it.'

She listened in silence, her eyes glazed and glistening.

Suddenly a new sound pierced the darkness.

'James!'

Ilaria. Her voice was distant, seemingly coming from somewhere down below. He scrambled to his feet again. He could make her out, standing on the riverside walk, leaning against the railings, calling out for him, as if to reclaim him from the river itself.

'Don't answer her,' said Hermione, who was standing a little way away from him on the pavement. He turned round and looked at her oddly.

'What do you mean?' he asked, genuinely mystified.

He looked back at the riverside. Ilaria was making for the bridge.

'She's on her way,' he said in a matter-of-fact voice. Hermione didn't answer him. He could still hear her voice, speaking indistinctly under her breath, seemingly far away from him.

'I'm sorry, Harry,' he heard her say. Then a great, calming emptiness descended on him.