Chapter Seven: Give the Boy a Hand

The shop was empty at dusk. Mr. Borgin, muttering to himself behind his musty showcase, began putting away the countertop displays and emptied the till into a double-locked, triple-hexed box beneath the counter.

The bell above the door jingled.

The silhouette in the door was one that Borgin had never seen before. On the tall side, slender, the figure carried himself with confidence. Money, Borgin thought instantly, and put on his best, biggest, greasiest smile.

"Welcome to Borgin and Burkes, sir," he said, as the figure approached the counter. "Purveyors of useful art and artifacts. Is there somethin' special I can help you find? Anything ... unusual?"

The stranger stopped at the counter. His face was completely hidden with a scarf and a hat pulled low over his brow. Under the shadow cast by the hat's brim, a pair of brown eyes took in the entire shop at once before settling coolly on Borgin's face.

"I want the Hand of Glory."

Borgin's shrewd eyes twinkled. "Ah, yes sir! A fine item, very dear -- been in my shop for many years." He hustled around the corner and led the stranger over to a display case. On the second shelf lay a shriveled human hand, palm-up, with gnarled fingers curled in slightly to hold a tea light in place.

"Gives light only to the bearer," said Borgin reverently. "The best friend of a thief or burglar. I've had some fine wizards inquire after it."

"It will never happen again," said the stranger coolly. "I'll give you fifty Galleons."

Borgin made a noise of disgust, which he hastily turned into a rather toady sort of laugh. "A fine jest," he wheezed, still chuckling unpleasantly. "Of course your eminence realizes that the Hand is worth five times that."

"Of course," said the man amiably. "But let me remind you of some additional facts, Mr. Borgin. I know whom I am dealing with. You do not. I can find you at any time. You cannot reciprocate. And while the Hand of Glory has been 'inquired after', as you say, the object has been here on your shelf for almost fifteen years."

A muscle twitched in Borgin's cheek.

"You're unlikely to sell it soon, Mr. Borgin. And is business really so good that you can turn down an offer?"

"Business is fair," said Borgin evenly, but the lie showed on his face and the tattering seams of his jacket.

"Sixty Galleons, then." The stranger reached to his belt and lifted up a heavy leather sack. "I pay immediately."

Borgin licked his lips. Sixty Galleons today? Or the chance at two hundred Galleons tomorrow? He let his eyes roam the shop while he turned over the option. You couldn't eat a chance. "The worth of the object ..." he began, a whine creeping into his voice.

"Sixty-five Galleons, Mr. Borgin, and that is my final offer. Accept or I shall have to acquire the Hand another way which will be far less profitable to you."

Threats were not uncommon in Knockturn Alley, and they were never idle. Borgin knew when to cut his losses. He forced a smile to his greasy face.

"Hard bargain, sir, but I'll accept your generosity."

The stranger nodded politely. "I had hoped you would. Thank you, Mr. Borgin." He held out the sack of gold. At the last moment he pulled it back from Borgin's reach.

"You'll count seventy Galleons," he said, lowering his voice. "The five are for your silence. Under inquiry, the Hand was purchased by a young witch from Whitehall. Am I clearly understood?"

"Quite clearly, your eminence," said Borgin. Hot dog -- another five Galleons. Now he could take that cruise to Majorca.

"Excellent." The stranger handed over the sack of gold and carefully lifted the Hand of Glory from the shelf. The papery skin crackled under his gloves, fingers twitching restlessly toward the owner. The stranger looked it over, then glanced back at Borgin.

"Do you have a box for this?"

***

Percy popped through Perkins' fireplace a few minutes later. Perkins, hunched over a large photo album on the sofa, glanced up and noted the box that the young man carried under his arm.

"How much did it cost me?"

"Seventy, all told," said Percy, placing the box on Perkins' end table. "Forty of it was yours."

"Forty!" Perkins threw up his hands. "You take my favorite boots, you eat my food, now you spend my retirement fund!"

"I need those boots," Percy pointed out. "Anyway, in return you get a city safe for Muggles."

Perkins raised his eyebrows.

"And you get to watch the Guardian sword beat the tar out of me three times a week."

"Now that's worth the money," Perkins conceded. "Well, I guess we'd better have a look at it."

He reached for the box while Percy plunked down on the sofa and pulled off the Seven-League Boots. The young man changed his mask for his glasses; the old one rolled up his sleeves and set about working his best anti-theft charms.

Percy bent over the photo album that Perkins had left behind. "The Big Book of Burglars, eh?" he said, adjusting his spectacles. "I'm surprised the Aurors let you check it out overnight."

"Told them it was for old times' sake," Perking said, peering closely at the thumbprint of the shriveled hand. "I think there's a good match on page eight forty-seven."

Percy flipped through the book until he reached the page. The face snarling out at him was younger, fuller, but unmistakably the one that he had worn under the Polyjuice potion. "I think you're right," Percy said, leaning closer.

Perkins let out a tsk. "Somebody's let these nails grow long. We'll have to trim 'em or the flame will be lax."

"Willy Widdershins," Percy read, "Born 1939. Convicted of pickpocketry, fraud, petty theft, burglary, highway robbery, simple assault, aggravated assault, purse-snatching, broomstick theft, trading of regulated items, trading of regulated creatures, tampering with Muggle artifacts, and littering. Most recently booked under charges of toad theft." Percy raised an eyebrow. "Toad theft?"

"Poor thing needs a manicure," Perkins muttered, picking at a hangnail.

There was a knock on the door.

Both of them jerked upright like stoats smelling danger. The apartment burst into activity.

Percy grabbed the boots, mask and gloves and shoved them under the sofa. Perkins threw the Hand of Glory into its box, ran across the room and chucked the whole thing into the icebox. He turned a knob on one of the kitchen chairs and the whole tabletop display -- map, aerials and everything -- sank into the wood as if it were quicksand. Percy snatched the pile of photographs of Willy Widdershins from the coffee table and stuffed them into the grandfather clock. He picked up the scarlet cloak, cast about for a few moments, then shrank it to the size of a handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. The Big Book of Burglars, after a few seconds' deliberation, went under a sofa cushion.

The door creaked open.

"Chester? Are you all right?"

Eyes slightly panicky, Perkins snatched the Sneakoscope from a chair and tossed it to Percy, who deposited it in a nearby vase. "Arabella! In here ..."

Mrs. Figg's wrinkled face appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "Not meeting me at the door any more?" she accused fondly, dropping her carpet bag by the door and giving him a peck on the cheek. "I hope you're in the mood for beef pie." She whisked out a luscious-looking pie. Percy's stomach grumbled its longing.

She glanced in his direction and gave a start. Perkins darted forward and saved the pie from hitting the floor.

"Hex my bones!" she gasped. "Young Mr. Weasley! I didn't realize you had company," she said to Perkins, holding her hand over her heart.

"He's just leaving," said Perkins pointedly, but Percy strode forward and broke over his words loudly.

"Mrs. Figg, I'm delighted! I hadn't expected that when I dropped by on Ministry business I'd have the pleasure of seeing you again." He reached out gallantly and kissed her hand. Perkins rolled his eyes. "I was on my way out -- haven't had supper yet, you see, I thought I'd pick up something on the way ..."

Mrs. Figg, whose faded cheeks had turned pink with pleasure, held out both hands toward him. "You stop right there, I won't hear of it. What your mother would say if I sent you away with nothing in your stomach! You stay right here and eat with us. I insist."

"Now, Figgy, you don't want to hold up the boy," said Perkins gruffly, glaring at Percy.

Percy was already pulling out a chair for Mrs. Figg. "If you insist, Madam. I don't know which I'm looking forward to more -- the pleasure of your company or the delight of your cooking!"

He and Mrs. Figg laughed together. Perkins muttered something about freeloaders and slunk off to set the table.

***

The doorbell chimed.

"I've got it," called Mr. Clearwater, half-rising from his easy chair, pipe in hand.

"You sit right there," Penelope ordered, bustling past and fluffing her hair. "That's Percy. I'll get the door. Now don't you dare start making a fuss about -- about anything, do you understand?"

"Aye aye," her father said wryly, settling back down.

"Percy!" cried her mother from the doorway. "So good to see you again. Congratulations on that promotion!"

Her father allowed himself a smile. Penelope rolled her eyes.

Percy's voice carried through the house. "Mrs. Clearwater, it's wonderful to see you again, I've been looking forward to your cooking for weeks now! Thank you, Minister Fudge has been really splendid to me, I'm doing all I can to earn the position!"

Oh no, Penelope groaned inwardly, he's doing that pomposity thing.

"Mr. Clearwater!" Percy entered the den and shook Penelope's father's hand vigorously. "Pleasure to see you again. How's the automotive business?"

"Fine," said Mr. Clearwater blandly.

"Splendid to hear it. My!" He sniffed the air appreciatively. "Something smells fantastic."

"Hullo, Percy," said Penelope.

"Penny." He held out both arms to greet her and kissed her cheek when she came to him. "You're looking lovely."

"And you're in fine form," Penelope murmured. She cleared her throat. "Dinner's all ready, let's talk while we eat, all right?"

"Lead on," he said grandly, and they followed Mrs. Clearwater into the kitchen.

Penelope's mother had insisted on using the best china and silverware. She had even gone to the trouble of hunting down her grandmothers' old silk napkins -- Penelope regretted ever having passed on Percy's description of the Malfoys' dinner. She'd tried to explain how Percy was raised on a shoestring, how he'd learned to be grateful for anything and he'd never look down on a humble meal, but here it was, silk napkins and everything. Mrs. Clearwater was a people-pleaser.

"I know it's not much," her mother was saying airily, "but the food is going to be just scrumptious -- my best casserole, it's Roger's favorite, isn't it Roger dear?"

Mr. Clearwater grunted around his pipe.

"I can hardly wait," said Percy, seating himself at Mrs. Clearwater's gestured invitation. Penelope and her father sat down as well. Mrs. Clearwater bustled to the oven.

There came a tapping noise from the window.

"I'll get it," said Mrs. Clearwater cheerfully. She'd gotten quite used to owl post since her daughters' years at Hogwarts. She propped open the window and then reached into the stove and pulled out her casserole. Through the open window soared a handsome eagle owl that dropped a letter to Percy's empty plate and then settled on his shoulder.

Percy scanned the letter quickly and his brow furrowed. He looked up at Penelope, who was watching him expectantly.

"I'm sorry. I'm needed right away."

He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, and stood up with Hermes on his shoulder.

Penelope stared at him for a moment before she too got to her feet. "You're ... needed? Right now?"

Percy looked over at her, but she could see in his eyes that his mind was already elsewhere. "I'm afraid this can't wait. Mrs. Clearwater, I'm so sorry ..." He turned to Penelope's mother, who still held the casserole dish in her gloved hands. "It smells wonderful. Mr. Clearwater, I was really looking forward to chatting with you." Mr. Clearwater, puffing his pipe, did not look impressed. "I hope to see you all soon." He started for the door.

Penelope caught him as his hand grasped the knob.

"Percy, you can't just leave. My parents --"

He looked down at the doorknob instead of at her face.

"Penny, I wish I could stay, but there's simply nothing I can do. Now please let go of my arm. I'm wasting time."

Penelope's stomach seemed to shrink and grow cold. Slowly she took away her hand.

"I'll see you soon. I promise." Percy leaned over and kissed her forehead. Then he strode onto the porch, took out his wand, and vanished.

Penelope closed the door. She turned back to her parents.

For long moments they looked at one another. Then her mother set down the casserole and put on her best, brightest smile.

"So. Who's hungry?"

***

Percy reappeared on a rooftop in Kensington, in full Raven attire. He had Hermes on one shoulder.

"Stay quite close," he muttered to Hermes, and the owl fluttered obediently into the night.

He crouched on the edge of the roof. From there he could see up and down the street. The road was packed with buildings, but not a public toilet in sight ... A flash of light, no more than a flicker, caught his eyes. Across the street, a steep set of stairs led beneath the sidewalk into a London Underground station. There must be a toilet down there somewhere. Percy took out his wand and leapt from the roof.

The boots carried him across the street and down to the opposite sidewalk. He crouched by the rail for a moment, to be sure the coast was clear; then he slipped onto the stairs and crept down into the Underground.

The place was pitch-black -- the fellow must have shorted all the security lights as a precaution. There should be tighter regulations on the possession of a Put-Outer, Percy sniffed inwardly. He'd have to see if a committee could be formed --

But that was for another time. Right now, he needed light. Carefully, he pulled a small candle from his pocket and settled it into the palm of the Hand of Glory. He tapped it with his wand.

Light streamed from the withered fingers. A small room would have been nearly filled with light -- in the wide underground station, with the deep tracks leading into a tunnel, the light was just strong enough to bring out the shapes of benches and turnstiles. Two recessed doorways stood side by side along the wall. Percy raised the Hand over his head like a torch. Ladies and Gentlemen -- bingo.

Deftly, he leapt the turnstile and crept to the door. A slight scuttling noise came from the ladies' lavatory. This man had no shame. And he was -- yes -- Percy leaned closer. He was humming to himself, a cheery little tune that echoed against the empty toilet stalls. It made a weird soundtrack in the silent cement station.

Percy weighed his options. He could burst in and interrupt the fellow right now; he was sure he hadn't made a sound, and no one could see the light from the Hand of Glory but him. He could wait and collar him after he came out. Or --

The lavatory door swung open.

Or he could get surprised. Again.

Percy wasted no time. He whipped out his wand, pointed it straight at the emerging criminal, and bellowed, "Catalepsia!"

Willy Widdershins had just enough time to widen his eyes before the stream of silver wandlight smacked him in the chest.

He was lifted from his feet and flew backward six feet before landing on his back in the middle of the linoleum. He mustered a groan and went completely limp.

Percy thrust his wand back in his pocket. "That was easy."

He looked down at the man, out cold on the floor, and gave a sharp whistle. Hermes came soaring down the stairs and lighted on a sink. Percy scribbled out a note and held it out for Hermes to take with his beak. "Kingsley Shacklebolt," he instructed. "And quickly, please."

Hermes ruffled his feathers cockily and took off.

Percy leaned against the wall for a while, looking over the criminal. He thought about the man's buttock scar and winced. If only they hadn't had to take that measure. The Polyjuice was a good idea, but frankly he didn't want to repeat the tactic.

His eyes strayed to the toilets. The criminal was captured, but the damage had been done ...

A slow smile crossed his face.

Percy went to the nearest toilet, flushed, and ran.

The geyser was stunning. Percy, having made it outside of the bathroom just in time, watched in satisfaction as murky water rained down on Willy Widdershins. The man stirred and moaned but did not awaken. Percy smiled. Poetic justice was the most rewarding kind.

A loud cracking sound came from up on the sidewalk. The cavalry had arrived. Percy dropped the criminal's wand in the middle of the floor and Disapparated.

He reappeared back on the rooftop. From there, he could see the lights of the underground station come back on, and eventually all fell silent. Hermes fluttered up and lighted on his shoulder proudly.

"Good night's work," Percy said, tickling the owl behind the neck.

Hermes hooted bashfully and hid his head under his wing.