Without Question
By Tien Riu
tien_riu@yahoo.com
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters belong to J.K. Rowlings. Plot (what little there is of it ^_^) and depiction of characters are mine. Warning: slash themes (see previous chapters for detailed warning and summary of story)
C&C, R&R and any other derivation there of including flames will be appreciated.
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Chapter Five: Gits and Mudbloods
Diagon Alley was filled with bustling crowds of robed witches and wizards. Children ran underfoot, laughing, screaming and happily enjoying the warm summer day.
Fred sniffed the air and grinned broadly, "Ah - can you smell it, brother dear?" he declared as the two Weasley brothers stepped through the opening, barely noticing the wall swirl close behind them.
"No. Can't say that I can." Ron muttered, glancing around with a wary eye at the crowd of shoppers.
It was always a good idea to keep an eye out for potential places to run when in the company of the twins (even if they were currently divided by two and half a canary). One never knew when one might have need for shelter. Or somewhere safe to laugh from.
"What? Can't you smell it? The business opportunities." Fred grinned as he pulled out a small bag from a pocket in his robes, "Just imagine the combination available to us. Little children, free samples - and before you can say 'Percy is a stuck up bore' a whole new generation of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes customers are born -!"
Ron rolled his eyes, "Just give me your list, you git." He said, "That was the deal. I get the ingredients, you buy me new robes and anything else you want to do you can get in trouble for."
"Where did we go wrong?" Fred sighed theatrically as he dug inside his robes once more and produced a tightly wound scroll and a small (though hefty) bag of coins, "Our own brother - a spoil sport! The shame -!"
Ron ignored Fred who was gathering a crowd of small children with his theatrics and unwound the scroll. The parchment unrolled rapidly, bouncing lightly on the ground; he groaned. I hope Madam Tantara isn't busy.
Madam Tantara was dressed in yellow robes with flickering blue and green butterflies; a middle aged witch that seemed remarkably out of place amidst the damp, cold interior of the Emporium. Ron wordlessly handed her the parchment (now crumpled as he hadn't bothered rolling it back up) and tried to breath through his mouth. There was something about potion ingredients en masse - it always smelled. . . Well dead.
Madam Tantara gingerly took the scroll (which was admittedly stained with leftover ink from his fingers), eyes widening as it unrolled off the counter.
"Well, you aren't Fred and George. And you're too young to be Perceival, Charles or William." She said finally, "So you must be the youngest Weasley boy - Ronald."
Ron nodded, and wondered if he would spend the rest of his life being identified by a process of elimination. At least when I'm with Harry they know who I am immediately - after all, there's only two 'best friends of the Boy Who Lived'. And even in the dark there's no way I can be mistaken for Hermione.
"And this would be -?" Madam Tantara continued, tapping her wand against the scroll, "Summer potions homework?"
I knew I'd regret this. The question was not so much whether or not he wanted to be dragged down with Fred and George in this latest escapade but if new formal robes were really worth Molly Weasley's anger. Hah! Mum's the one who made me wear lace in the first place!
"Yup. Trying to get extra marks in potions." Merlin's rod strike me now.
Madam Tantara arched one eyebrow then smiled, "Tell Fred and George that Irvine enjoyed the volcano mice." She said, and tapped her wands several times on the scroll, "I should have everything ready for you by lunch time."
Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions was just around the corner from Tantara's Potions Emporium. Convenient that. Ron thought as he jingled the bag of coins and grinned. After all, payment was Fred and George's problem, not his.
And promptly slumped. Yeah - and when Mum and Dad find out, there'll be hell to pay as well.
Still, no harm in looking at the robes. No harm dreaming.
Madam Malkin's hadn't changed since Ron had followed his mother and Bill into the store seven years ago. Bill had needed new robes and as the eldest, there hadn't been any hand-me-downs to use. The rolls of cloth still gathered dust in the window and the tiny stools were still scattered in front of several wall-to-ceiling mirrors.
"Yes? Can I help you? Oh - a Weasley. Been a while since I've seen one of you in here." Madam Malkin said with a slight smile, "How can I help you -" she frowned, "You must be -"
"Ron." Ron said; I wonder if Hermione was joking when she said there were things muggles can do to hair that a finite incantum won't reverse.
"Ron Weasley." Madam Malkin waved her wand and a nearby stool hopped over, "You would be here about your formal robes." She paused at Ron's shocked expression, "Your brother popped in."
The stool was yellow, with painted feathers. Oh bugger.
"Ah - what did Fred do?"
"Before or after giving a free sample of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' canary creams to little Kyrie Krystal?" Madam Malkin chuckled, and waved her wand and the stool hopped up to Ron's foot, "He paid for a pair of new formal robes - Hogwarts approved of course - and Kyrie Krystal left hastily to feed some canary creams to her older brother. Stand up straight, Mister Weasley and we'll see if we can find some formal styles to suit that tall frame of yours."
*
Dear Harry Potter -
I know that this letter might not reach you - but I'm hoping it will because I wanted to tell you that I don't care what my sister said about you and that boy at Hogwarts. I probably won't ever meet you because my parents want me to go to Beauxbatons next year (when I turn eleven). So I want you to know how I feel now. In case You-Know-Who does something.
I love you. And I don't care what anybody says about you killing that boy either. You should just tell them that you're the Boy Who Lived and you'd never do things like that.
Anyway, I just thought you should know that I love you.
Debra Cox
The words had been written in red and gold ink. It flashed in the sun-strewed room, alternating colours. He wasn't sure how to react; finally, he folded the letter back up and placed it on the desk, reaching into the bowl for a howler.
He understood hate, anger and rage. Love, affection and adoration remained mysteries that mystified and unnerved him.
*
"That should do it." Madam Malkin said, waving her wand to complete the last binding charm, "What do you think?"
Ron stared at his reflection in the mirror; his reflection grinned back and smoothed an unseen wrinkle in the robes, "It's good." No lace! No lace! A voice was clamouring in the back of his mind.
The bell over the door rang briefly as a wizard in black robes entered the store.
"Be right over!" Madam Malkin called as she gestured Ron off the stool with an authorative: "Get back into your robes, Mr. Weasley - and remember to close the change room door fully this time." Ron flushed red and the lady chuckled, "I'll be right there to wrap everything up for you."
No lace! No lace! Ron pushed open the door leading to the small change room. His robes lay, a puddle of faded grey and black, on the floor. No lace! There was a yellow canary feather clinging to the hem. Wonder if George changed back yet.
He could hear Madam Malkin talking to the wizard outside the change room.
" - do today for you? We just got a new shipment of spell-bound blue. Guaranteed to retain colour through several thousand finite incantums."
The wizard had a low soft voice, Ron strained, automatically eavesdropping. Well every other time somebody holds a conversation nearby these past few years, there's been a secret of some sort involving You-Know-Who. He mused; eavesdropping on unsuspecting adults had become a habit since he had met Harry.
" - serving certain customers." The wizard said.
There was a brief pause, "I beg your pardon?" Madam Malkin asked, her voice - previously light and flattering was stilted and flat.
A cold shiver ran down Ron's back and his hands stilled at their task.
"You heard me." The wizard said in a louder voice, "You are not to continue selling robes to mudbloods. Especially school robes."
What the -?
Alienation of the unknown and new was a fact of life in the wizarding world. Reform came slowly, occasionally by passing certain segments of society completely. It was, Hermione had started lecturing once, an expected by-product of the close knit and secular wizarding world. There were, after all, only a million wizards and witches in the United Kingdom - less when you didn't include squibs and children. Not that Ron really thought about any of this - other than when the git, Malfoy, started mouthing obscenities at Hermione of course.
What made Ron pause in shock at the hatred emanating from the barely audible conversation was its very oddity. Bigotry was known - but rarely heard. Outright exclamations of greater lineage were considered 'in bad taste' - and as the main culprits of prejudice were the intensely secluded pure-blooded families, 'bad taste', and its anthesis, 'good taste' were truly powerful phrases.
"And why, sir, should I even consider cutting off the majority of my business?" Madam Malkin demanded crisply, "Especially from a man who is not a regular customer to my establishment?"
There was another pause, producing a silence that frankly, made the skin on Ron's neck crawl. There was a rustle of cloth, and a sharp intake of breath.
"Do you understand now?" the wizard's voice was harsh and low; there was a strange hissing sound - almost like a snake except oddly echoing.
The formal robes flapped open over his chest as Ron dropped to his knees and gently pushed the door of the change room open. His right hand scrabbled behind him, searching through the pile his faded robes made, finding the length of his wand tangled deep within one of the pockets. He could see Madam Malkin reflected in the floor to ceiling mirrors lining the walls. She looked scared.
"What - what do you want?" Madam Malkin sounded scared, "I -"
The wizard was close to the counter, only the edge of his robe visible around the corner.
"You will refuse to do business with mudbloods. We do not care what excuses you use - only that you not help camouflage their lineage with traditional garb."
'Traditional garb'?
The wizard was holding something in his hand; Ron strained to make it out - it glinted in the dull sunlight streaming through the dust-streaked windows of Madam Malkin's store.
The world shifted as he realised it was a mask. A plain, steal mask meant to be fitted over a face. Blimey -! That's a Death Eater!
*
It had come to Hermione's attention that Crookshanks had fully immersed himself in the muggle lifestyle. For a witch's familiar and one suspected of being at least half kneazle, Crookshank could weasel snacks as adeptly as any much loved tom.
"Who's a sweetie then?" she murmured, rubbing his head as she dropped a slice of ham into his bowl - and promptly felt extremely silly.
Crookshanks gave what she had come to recognise as the cat (Catty? Oh that's just going too far with a pun Hermione.) version of a grin and dug into the sandwich meat.
She leaned against the kitchen counter, staring out into the garden. The neighbour's son had come home from university for the vacation and had taken up gardening. Across the street, a group of children - no older then ten at her best guess - were playing what looked like hockey. Early afternoon sunlight lit the kitchen with a warmth unimitatable with central heating.
Looking out there, it's hard to believe that You-Know-Who is alive and Harry's life - all of our lives really - are in danger. One of the children whooped and the neighbour's son started watering the hedge. Hard to imagine there's a whole other world where children play games on flying brooms and little sticks can do more damage in less time than a badly driven car.
After the hectic school year - filled with life-or-death situations, heart-wrenching adventures and the usual mudblood taunts from Draco - it was moments like this that made Hermione question her sanity. Hard to believe in magic when I can hear old American re-runs on the set, and the next doors keep playing the latest pop tunes on the radio.
Times like these when she needed to go through her school notes to remind her that yes, she hadn't somehow lost her sanity and imagined the past four years.
Hermione jerked out of her thoughts as a large black barn owl swooped into the kitchen via an open window. And then things like these happen.
She recognised the black owl from Hogwarts. Though she would have come to the conclusion that it was part of the fleet of mail owls Hogwarts kept as soon as it dropped the letter emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest into her hands.
Dear Miss Granger,
I would like to request you and your parents' immediate attendance to a private meeting two days hence. Please tender your ability to attend by attaching your reply to the waiting owl.
Should you accept, you will be met by one of the staff members from Hogwarts recognisable and trusted by you at precisely 7 am of the day. After two hours - to ensure polyjuice transformations are an impossibility, you and your parents will be transported to the meeting place.
I would request that you not mention this meeting to any friends (including Mister Potter and Mister Weasley), colleagues or relatives other than your parents as security is of the utmost importance.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonnagal
Deputy Headmistress
Head of Gryffindor House
Hermione stared at the letter. Beneath her fingers, the parchment felt thick and rich. There was a charm on the Hogwarts crest, the creatures entwined on the shield moved as if they were alive; as she watched the lion yawned and snarled soundlessly at the Slytherin serpent.
Then something like this happens. . .
Idly, she wondered what Ron and Harry would have said.
*
Oh shit. What the hell do I do?
The wizard's Death Eater mask glistened in the dusty beams of sunlight like a taunting smirk. Coward, those sightless, black eyes seemed to whisper.
Here was a situation in need of a take-no-prisoners-and-save-the-day Gryffindor. Here was a maiden (or at least madam) in distress in need of some reckless action. And I'm cowering in the change room with no idea what to do.
His wand was slick in the palm of his hands - a reassuring presence were it not for the underage use of magic rule that kept thundering in his head. The tempo was matched only by the thudding of his heart and fear in his throat. This was nothing like playing wizard's chess with real players in first year. Or facing down Sirius Black in third year. Or watching Harry fly around the dragon like so many buzzing bees at a picnic in fourth year. A Death Eater!
A Death Eater threatening Madam Malkin, the robes maker. What the hell do I do? He wished Harry and Hermione were here with him. At least Hermione would have an idea of what to do. Good old Hermione - she always knows what to do. Like back in first year with Fluffy, and that basilisk in second year, and Sirius Black in third and -
Ron Weasley - you're an absolute git!
Funny how the voice in his head sounded an awful lot like Hermione all of a sudden.
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A/N: Review? Please? If only to point out plot holes? Or out-of-characterisation?