Chapter 17
Fate's Fickle Smile
"It was a black hair bow, Harry," Ron said worriedly.
"So?" Harry was only half awake.
Ron had taken a big chance by phoning the Dursleys' house via Muggle fellytone early the following morning. He had gone to the Ministry before his work hours started, telling his father that he had to contact Harry to see about a summer Astronomy assignment they were supposed to do with tonight's waxing crescent moon and that Pig might not make it back in time. Luckily, his father bought the excuse and was very generous with information on who to see at the Ministry about getting help with their three-machine Muggle phone bank. Even luckier, Harry had been the one who answered at the Dursleys', though it sounded as if it took him several minutes to realize it was really Ron who was calling and to get him to lower his voice.
"Remember the hair bows, Harry? You, of all people, should remember the hair bows..."
There was an empty pause on the other end of the line. "No, Ron--it couldn't be." Another pause, charged this time. "Could it?"
"I don't know if it is, but I'm sure as hell going to find out."
"Don't do anything stupid, Ron."
In spite of his worry, Ron smiled and wondered if Harry could see him. "Who, me? Let's just say I won't do anything you wouldn't do."
"Hmmm--now that bothers me a little..."
"I'll call back at twelve. Make sure you answer!" Ron demanded.
It was still only seven forty. Most of the Ministry offices didn't open until eight o'clock. There were lots of people in the halls, but most were on their way somewhere and paid no attention to him. It took him a few tries in different nearby corridors, but finally he found one of the rubbish workers with exactly what he needed. Asking to take one of the empty cartons from the wizard's rubbish bin and dusting it off, Ron folded the flaps in and tried to make the box look like a parcel to be delivered. Then he set off for the Hidden Floors.
Although the Security people were rather puzzled as to the timing of Renald Wissle's delivery, his fingerprints and papers were all in order, so there was no reason to deny him access. He wandered to the door of Dr. Nardstone's office and knocked. There was no immediate response.
While he waited, a very well-dressed wizard appeared in the hallway. Ron said hello and pulled out his wand to measure the parcel, all so that he wouldn't look too suspicious just hanging around the hallway. Once the wizard disappeared into an office down the way, Ron tried several unlocking spells which didn't work, finally settling on and shoving into the keyhole one of the twins' tiny creations he'd brought along: the Open Sesame Seed. He waited a moment for the tiny vine to do its work inside the lock, then snake its way out of the keyhole and reach around the knob to turn it.
Praying that he hadn't just broken in while Maudie and Dr. Nardstone were watching from the other side, Ron was relieved to find himself alone in the office. (That was too easy. Good thing these aren't the same people in charge of keeping track of Voldemort and quashing the Death Eaters, he thought. )
Seven fifty-two--he probably had only a minute or two to find what he was looking for. But as luck would have it, the pink parchment was almost precisely where it had been yesterday. Now that he could turn it right side up he could read it much more readily. Most of the note was charmed and unreadable, but the charm was wearing thin and the last line of spidery scrawl had become visible, but only just: he saw a reference to Trapperton along with the words: "...taking care of an urgent problem".
The embossed letters at the top of the parchment were gaudily detailed and difficult to read as well, but after studying them for almost a minute, there was no doubt what they read: D.J.U. A terrible chill shivered its way through him and he wanted nothing more than to stay until Maudie Stamply or Dr. Nardstone showed up to demand they tell him who this belonged to. And if it was who he thought it was...But staying would only get him in serious trouble and again deny him the chance to do something to help Hermione. It was time to get out or get caught.
Ron's work that morning went excruciatingly slowly. The more he thought about what he'd seen and what the message said, the more worried he became. It had to be her--it had to be. Was it she who was going to Trapperton, or was she just discussing Nardstone's trip? What if she went to Trapperton and then found out Hermione was there, alone and undefended? Everyone knew she would hold a grudge forever, longer if at all possible. How much danger would Hermione be in if it was her going instead of the old miser? What was the 'urgent problem (she or Nardstone) needed to take care of'?
There's no choice now, Weasley--none. You've got to get to Hermione, and you've got to do it before there's any chance that Umbridge might get there. You've already let Hermione down once this year--how many times can you get away with it before it becomes deadly? You very nearly lost her the last time.
At a few minutes past noon, he paced behind the middle-aged witch on the Muggle telephone they'd assigned him to use as she blathered on to someone about the poor quality of spongewort thistles these days. Finally, she finished her conversation--or she got tired of Ron's dirty looks coming her way-- and she left.
It was twelve ten and Ron really hoped that Harry hadn't given up on him or got distracted by something else. He didn't even need help to dial the fellytone number this time. Thankfully, Harry was still waiting.
"We've got to get her out, Harry--now--before it's too late." Ron knew he sounded panicked, but he really was trying to be calm.
"I can't just leave," Harry said. "I told you how things were with me when we went to Mrs. Figg's--and you saw. They haven't changed."
"But this is life or death, Harry," Ron reasoned. "Wouldn't they understand?"
"Do you think I'm going to convince Dumbledore and the whole Order to let me go to Scotland with you over personalized stationery and a black hair bow?" Harry sounded as if he would have otherwise been anxious to help, but he also sounded resigned to his current situation. "Maybe you should talk to your dad."
"No--he'll try and stop me," Ron said. "Dad's usually cool about things, but he'd never go for this. He'd keep me here for my own good--just like Mum."
"But if you told him, then maybe they'll send someone else--someone from the Order," Harry said. "They could check it out and see if it's dangerous. It can't be smart for you to go alone. What would you tell me to do?"
Ron grumbled in resignation. "The same." Then came another round of panic. "But the Order'll wait too damned long--they'll wait until they have proof or some such thing."
Harry paused on the other end of the line. "You know, that's-- probably true. Look, I've got to go, my uncle's yelling at me. I'll try to think of something, some way to go with you--who knows how. In any case, you keep working on finding out what you can." Another pause, then Harry sounded as if he'd just thought of something. "But Ron--it has occurred to you that we have no way to get there, right?"
Ron sighed. "I know-- bloody hell, how I know."
What he didn't know was how long he'd been pacing his room; he really didn't care. He had thought fleetingly once, and with a snort, that if he'd been sure of which direction to go and had done all that pacing in a straight line, he'd likely be in Trapperton by now. But that kind of thinking wasn't helping.
It was already rather late, but the temperature belied the hour; it certainly wasn't cooling off any. Either that, or his nerves were keeping his body temperature several degrees higher than it should have been. He picked up a towel and mopped the sweat from his face for what seemed like the umpteenth time.
What had made him believe earlier that he could actually get some sleep, he didn't know either. But since he had work the next day, try to sleep he had, and after rolling around, perspiring, and tossing for over an hour, he'd simply given up-- and gone back to pacing. There were too many things on his mind.
Earlier, Ron had written to Hermione to tell her about the hair bow and the pink parchment. He told her she ought to be looking into ways to get out of Trapperton, no matter what excuse she gave them. Although he didn't really expect her to up and leave immediately on such information after the response he'd got from Harry, he wanted to make her aware that she needed to be even more careful until they found out more about her 'visiting dignitary'. What Ron didn't mention was that he and Harry were trying to plot a way to get to her and bring her home where she belonged-- with her parents if she must, but here in the Burrow where he could keep her safe for sure, if he had his choice. He would send the letter from work in the morning.
Hmmm...how to get Harry away from the Muggles and away from the Order so we can get Hermione, Ron thought, going over every angle of Harry's situation again and again. His answer there kept coming back to two of the most accomplished and famous escape artists he knew: Fred and George. It was true that their escapes had always been quite flashy and this one had to be, well, more than discreet. But he still felt that once he explained the circumstances, they'd understand and adjust Harry's exit accordingly. Above all, they could be trusted.
The twins happened to be staying in town at their premises tonight, so there was no way to contact them now. But he decided to pay them a visit by fire as soon as he could work out a little privacy tomorrow. Unless...
Oh, what the hell, those two don't need any sleep when all they do is play around all day anyway...
He felt the third-floor study fireplace would do much better than the living room hearth for his purposes, even if it was old and dusty. That way he wouldn't have to pass his parents' room to get there and if he should hear anyone coming, he could quickly snuff the fire and sneak back to his room.
Inside the study and with the door closed, Ron swore once he realized he would actually have to build the fire with wood, then light it with the lantern he'd brought along. Between work, school, and the shed, he was getting far too used to using magic for whatever he needed to still be required to deal with the 'underaged' rule.
Finally, all was lit (as if it isn't hot enough in here already, he thought) and he watched with some satisfaction as the numerous spider webs in the flue briefly glowed and burned. Pulling off the lid of the Floo pot on the mantel, he found available only a small amount of what looked like very ancient yellowish powder.
"Oh well," he mumbled to himself, "that's the best we've got tonight." On hands and knees, he scraped the powder into a tiny pile and threw a pinch into the flames, waiting until they glowed green before sticking his head in.
"Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, Hogsmeade," he said, hoping it was loud enough for the Network to send him there and quiet enough not to wake anyone else in the house.
Ron felt his head reeling as if it would spin from his shoulders and he immediately sensed the drawback to using old Floo powder. The dust was horrendous. Coughing and hacking until his eyes were teary, he finally found himself looking out into the design room/ production chamber/testing site/temporary living quarters of of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Two cots several feet away appeared to have great lumps of sheets in them even through the blur of tears, and he thought he could hear talking beyond his own coughing.
"For Godric's sake, Fred, get some water," he heard George's voice say.
"Right there, Angelina," Fred murmured sleepily, then his tone changed. "Hmmm? Whaddyou want, George?"
"Get some water, mate. Before you hack up a lung."
"I'm not hacking."
There was a pause as Ron tried desperately to get his throat working properly, but it felt more like he'd licked the inside of the Floo pot than simply stuck his head inside the fire.
"Then who is?" George asked, sounding as if curiosity was bringing him around.
"Maybe the cat--she was yacking up a furball earlier--" Fred offered.
One of the lumps of sheets sat up and looked around just as Ron managed to make a muffled, "Forghhh!"
"Fred," the sitting lump said matter-of-factly as the image of a face appeared above the top of the sheet, "Ron's in our fire -- hacking."
"Well, tell him to sod off," Fred said. "It's far too late for that."
"You all right, there, Ron?" George asked, ignoring Fred's suggestion, though he hadn't moved from the cot at all.
"Will be--think," Ron said, sounding strangled. "Need help--escape plan."
George's eyebrows raised. "Escape plan? Is that what you-- choked out?"
Ron nodded emphatically.
"Hey Fred, you'll never guess. Ron's got something interesting to say," George said with an air of surprise.
The still-reclined lump of sheets squirmed momentarily. "Our Ron? You're taking the mickey. It'll never happen." But the far end of the sheets lifted and a tousle-haired, squinting Fred appeared, propped on one elbow. "Even so, can't he say it in the morning? Figures-- first time the git has something that might be worth saying and it's the middle of the night."
"Well, then," George said reasonably, "maybe we'd better take it while we can get it."
Fred sighed and threw off his sheet, swinging his feet to the floor and standing to walk closer to the fire. "Oh, all right. Who's escaping? You?"
"Well, no one yet, actually," Ron said, his voice still very thin (in addition to being secretly relieved at finding that Fred had only been with dream Angelina). He went on to tell the story about the hair bow and the parchment and the dignitary on his (and/or her?) way to Trapperton. "And I haven't even figured out a way to get there yet. But if I can find a way-- I need help with getting Harry."
The twins were finally wide awake and quite entranced by now, sitting eagerly on the edge of chairs they'd dragged up near the fire.
"Harry? But isn't he being guarded by the Order?" Fred asked.
"And watched by all of Dumbledore's little pets besides?" George added.
"Exactly," Ron answered. "That's why I need you two."
Grinning heartily, Fred's and George's brows lifted as they looked at each other in anticipation before cooing, "Oooooh, espionage!"
Ron explained that he was determined to find a way to get to Scotland and Hermione, no matter what it came to. But since he had still several bits of information he needed to get from Phelix Nardstone's office, he would have to go to the Ministry later this morning and would be unable to work out a plan to spring Harry from the Dursleys without setting off alarms that would practically circle the world. So-- under the guise of working another grueling day at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes-- Fred and George were put in charge of getting Harry to him at the Burrow or some other appointed place sometime before midnight. And without arousing the Order, the Guard, the Aurors, and the entire Ministry of Magic, thank you very much.
"Less than twenty-four hours?" Fred asked soberly. "What do you think we are, miracle workers?"
He looked at his twin, both of them with brows furrowed. Then they both snorted and burst out laughing.
"Shouldn't be too much of a problem, we don't think," George said. "But for professional services such as this--we'll expect payment, you know."
"Yeah, what do we get out of this?" Fred asked.
Ron realized he should have expected as much--and also realized that the fact he hadn't made a plan for it put him at a great disadavantage with these two. He tried to remember his current financial situation in the bank under his mattress. "Erm... two galleons--" that didn't sound like enough, "--and the undying gratitude of your younger brother?"
George sniggered. "Nah. The two galleons are a start, but the undying gratitude? What can we do with that?"
Fred was looking doubtful, but then a huge sly grin broke out on his face. "Two galleons and one shot each at driving that motorbike once you get it flying!"
"But it's Harry's!" Ron protested.
" 'S okay, I'm sure he won't mind," Fred said in an overly serious tone. "We won't break it--and the bloke's like a brother to me, you know."
"Just how badly do you want him, erm, liberated?" George asked. There was a pause during which time Ron decided there was no way out.
"All right, once it's flying," Ron said in defeat. Then he looked up at the twins again. "One ride on that motorbike is better than my undying gratitude for life?"
Both of the twins sniggered as if Ron had said something as ridiculous as women ruled at Quidditch. They rolled their eyes at one another, then looked back at Ron and said in unison, "Well-- yeah."
'So are we done here now?" Fred asked. "Spies and liberators need their sleep, you know."
After making arrangements to meet for dinner at the Burrow that evening, no matter what the state of Harry's liberation by that time, they said their goodbyes and Ron backed out of the study fire. Quickly snuffing it out with water and the damper, he returned to his room, apparently as yet unnoticed.
Now, how to find Trapperton and get Harry and me there... There was the rub. Unless they found a way to get to Scotland, there really wasn't even any point in putting the twins, Harry, the Order, or the Muggles through all of that. And right now, with his Cleansweep still under lock, key, and spell in his parents' room--he hadn't a clue where to start. The only failsafe he'd given the twins was to send a message by noon if he hadn't by then found a means of transport to Scotland--now the pressure was on.
"Come on, fate, help me out here--for once," he mumbled to himself aloud.
Distracted from that thought by the loud whoosh of powerful wings, Ron quickly realized that his was probably the only room in the house with lights on. For night deliveries, post owls were trained to find a roost and rest if all lights in a wizarding home were off with the people inside presumably asleep. But if there was a light to be found, the delivery was made there.
"Who would be sending post at this time of night, erm...morning?" Ron said to no one, pushing his curtains farther apart so that the large gray owl landing on the sill wouldn't get himself entangled. He looked at the owl's envelope and found that, oddly enough, it was addressed to him.
Pulling off the rattling envelope, he pointed the owl toward the tying post shelter just outside the kitchen door several floors below where there was water, food, and a place to rest. The owl wasted no time in getting there.
Ron ripped off the top of the envelope and peered in to see what all the jangling was about. Inside were a handful of keys, some broken, some bent, all old and grubby. He poured the keys out onto his bed and shook the envelope until a piece of parchment fluttered out behind them.
"Dear Ron," he read aloud from the parchment, "These were all the spares I could find in the house. I reckon it'll be rather like playing the wizard lottery, eh? But with any luck, the one that counts is here. Let me know how things turn out. Sincerely, Remus Lupin."
In spite of everything else he was going through at this instant, Ron smiled. Had this come yesterday, he'd have been jumping for joy--and he certainly was eager to try those keys--once he and Harry got Hermione to safety.
But, he thought with a sigh, I haven't time for that now. Scooping the keys back into the envelope, he threw the whole thing onto his desk. Harry'll just have to wait for his motorbike until we get back. First things first. He started to walk away from the desk, heading back to his pacing track when the thought hit him; he stopped dead.
Wait a minute...fate knocks on the door and you tell it to come back tomorrow? Weasley--are you mental?
Whipping around, Ron crossed the room in two steps and grabbed up the envelope of keys and his wand; he shoved his bare feet into his trainers and was down a flight and a half of stairs before he realized it was the middle of the night. He stopped but a moment, thoughtWho cares? , then continued on his way, now completely focused if also a bit quieter. As he rushed swiftly but silently through the darkness of the living room, he heard the clock chime four a.m.
By the time he reached the motorbike the anticipation was making him breathless. He was fairly certain the thing should run, what with all of the parts and systems he'd replaced and restored, but now, if the right key was here, there might actually be a real chance.
After first throwing all of the broken keys into a pile on one of the tables and straightening the bent keys as best he could, he was ready to start in. He'd laid the eight remaining keys in a row so as not to keep trying the same wrong key, since some of them looked very much alike.
Ron took a deep breath and let it out. "Okay, here goes-- the moment of truth."
Swinging one leg over the motorbike, he gingerly set his right foot on the kick-starter. Other than having watched several people start up motorbikes, he had no experience with it himself. But he knew there needed to be a combination of turning the ignition key along with a great full-body push down on the kick-starter. He reached to the nearby table for the first key.
Keys one to four either wouldn't go into the ignition or wouldn't turn once inserted. Key five went in easily and turned, but though his heart was pounding, it wouldn't turn past a certain point. Key six was too bent to go in the ignition at all and Ron fervently hoped that wasn't the key he'd been waiting for. Two keys left.
Ron picked up key seven and tried to fit it into the ignition. It didn't seem to want to go, but after wiggling it a bit, it slid right in. He tried to turn it; it moved easily to the point where key five had given up.
"Come on," he pleaded, "for Hermione." Closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see it if it didn't move, he firmly twisted his wrist.
First he felt the click. His foot sensed the resistance fading and in his eagerness he jumped up to push down with all his might on the kick-starter.
The powerful roar and the deafening bang behind him nearly knocked him from the motorbike, but he held on tight. A huge black cloud of exhaust belched from the shiny chrome tail pipes and hung in the air.
"Yes!" Ron shouted, feeling the strong vibrations beneath him and raising his fist in victory. "Yes, yes!"Though his celebration was cut short by the putrid fumes invading his lungs and making him cough, he didn't care. Somehow he'd never imagined that the burning of erl and petrol could ever smell so sweet.
His excitement was running so high on no sleep that he felt dizzy and settled on the seat for a moment. It took a few minutes for him to calm himself, during which time the fumes in the shed were getting positively beastly. He was going to have to take the motorbike outside if he wanted to to let it run and in the quiet of the night, there was no doubt that at this volume it would wake everyone in the neighborhood.
But since it started, since it ran...could it--? Would it--? He had to know. He had to find out tonight. This motorbike might be the only answer...
Almost sadly, and fearful that it might never start again, Ron reached for the key once more and turned the great machine off. Holding the handlebars, he swung his right leg back over the seat and flipped up the kickstand with his foot. He grabbed his wand from the table and stuck it in the back of the old and stretched-out waistband of his pyjamas, then began to move slowly and carefully through the narrow walking aisles.
Even though it was a horribly warm night, he realized that he might not want to be wandering down the road in his current state of undress. As he passed the 'M' section of his father's shed collection, Ron remembered that some of the Muggle clothes the Weasleys used for certain occasions were stashed there--and he remembered seeing just the thing for an early morning motorbike jaunt. Leaning the motorbike momentarily against a table, he sidestepped through the narrow space to a cardboard box where he thought he'd seen it last... Ah, yes! Perfect, if perhaps a bit warm for the weather... Ron pulled from the box the old black leather bomber jacket that his father had worn the day of Harry's Ministry trial last summer; he slipped it on. Somewhat amazed that his shoulders actually filled out the width of the jacket, he sidestepped back to the motorbike and continued on his way through the shed.
Cautiously scanning the entire area outside the shed and seeing no one, Ron pushed the motorbike out into the open. He was thankful for the waxing crescent moon that he'd supposedly called Harry about because it shed precious little light on him and on what he was about to do.
Ron walked the motorbike down the path toward the woods, cringing with each twig that snapped and glancing worriedly toward the east for any sign of a lightening sky. He knew it had to be getting close to dawn. Finally he reached the edge of the woods. It was as far as he dared travel in case daybreak forced him to run and stash the motorbike back in the shed before the morning light showed the world (and especially his mum) his intentions.
Now to wait. Fate had taken good care of him so far tonight-- with any luck, his good fortune might last just a little longer.
And a short ten minutes later, damned if fate didn't come through again.
He heard the noise he'd been listening for begin far in the distance. Perking his ears to attention to make certain which direction it was flying, the low droning of the Muggle airplane became louder as it moved closer.
Lifting himself from the seat to prepare, he set his foot on the kick-starter once more and his hand on the key. Once the airplane overhead was loud enough to sufficiently muffle the sound of a starting motorbike, he made his move.
And start again, it did. Grinning widely again at the sound and the feel of the motorbike purring beneath him, Ron looked to the east once more and saw the faintest hint of lightening in the deep blue sky just above the hills there. He didn't have much time.
Ron first arranged and balanced himself properly on the motorbike, then he grabbed his wand. Unsure what to expect in the event that the spell actually worked right, he held tightly to the handlebars with his left hand.
Pointing his wand at the petrol tank in front and below him, he said loudly, "Mobilithingus!" and he waited. There was a very long, anxious pause and for a minute, Ron thought that it had all been for nothing. But halfway through his sigh of despair, he felt his heels come off the ground and the seat beneath him pushing skyward.
All right! Ron thought, smiling and almost breathless from the realization that what he'd been waiting for and working toward for so long was finally happening. Yet somehow the thought of what to do once he'd reached this point had never crossed his mind. It can't be much different than a broomstick. You just hold on, balance and lean, right?
It turned out that wasn't exactly all that needed to be done to maneuver the motorbike, but after a good amount of trial and error (and one very near-miss with a huge oak tree), Ron seemed to have the basics of flying it. With one last DescendoHoggus, he let the motorbike drift to the ground and sat astride it in thought.
Damn, this just might work! I'll bet I could remember the way to Harry's from when we took the Anglia. Then I could sneak him out... we could find our way to Scotland and then ask around for directions to Trapperton. But maybe he'd just be hacked off if he found I'd fixed up Sirius's motorbike for him then ended up flying it myself... Maybe not, if he knew it was the only way...Let's see, it must be--what time...?
He'd really lost track of how long he'd been out here. Looking over his shoulder to the east, it suddenly became abundantly clear. Streaks of blush-colored clouds painted the light blue sky in the east and though the sun hadn't yet crested the hills, it was obvious the first peek would appear any moment now.
"Argh! Bloody hell!"Quickly grabbing the ignition key and switching the motorbike off, he dismounted it and began jogging alongside, pushing it as fast as he could in the direction of the shed. Once the beautiful machine was inside and covered, the key clenched firmly in his hand, it was time to try and sneak into the house before anyone noticed he was missing.
Nearly halfway to the porch, Ron was beginning to think that he might actually get away with it all when his mum appeared with a treat for Errol and the owl that had brought his keys. It was now light enough to see her walk out of the Burrow in her dressing gown, speak kindly to the birds at the roost and examine the gray owl's leg, then turn and walk inside once more.
Ron had ducked behind some brush so as not to be seen, but it also gave him a moment to think. He'd certainly need some excuse for wandering into the house at this time of the morning dressed as he was... good thing he'd left the jacket with the motorbike...
"Ron!" his mother scolded a short time later, staring him up and down and scowling at him as he stood in the kitchen. "Ever thought of using a towel?"
"I musta forgot it," Ron said, shrugging and trying to sound innocent as he dripped water into a growing puddle of the muddy stuff at his feet. "It was just so hot all night and I thought a dip in the pond might be nice before I got ready for work.Reckon I left the towel upstairs..."
"Well, you're certainly making more work for me right now, you know. Stay put," Molly fretted. She rushed through the kitchen door and was back in a minute with a great fluffy towel that she shoved at him. "Wipe off and leave your shoes--then upstairs with you. I'll have your breakfast ready and your shoes cleaned by the time you change and get down."
"Thanks, Mum," Ron mumbled.
"Oh--you haven't any idea whose owl that is outside, have you?" she asked.
'Oh, yes--that was for me," Ron replied, trying not to give any specifics in his answer. "Remus Lupin had been looking for something for me for the motorbike--he didn't find much. Better run--don't want to be late." Quickly he pulled off his shoes and tossed them to the floor, immediately dashing through the kitchen door as his mum gave a bewildered, "oh".
Ron could hear her cleaning up the mess behind him. As soon as he was certain there was no chance she could see him, the cocky grin broke out on his face. Made it, he thought, still squeezing the key in his fist.
Amazed that he had the energy to bound up the stairs three at a time after a sleepless night, he threw himself on his bed and shook his fist in the air in victory again, still grinning. Now we have a way to get there, mate, he thought. He'd have to tell Harry--but how to not ruin the surprise after he'd worked so hard to get him something so special...
Let's see...we could go tonight.. but we have to plan this right. Last time I tried to go off half-cocked, nothing worked except to get me grounded. This time I'm going to know what I'm doing. With any luck, Fred and George'll get Harry to the Burrow by tonight--or at least somewhere I can meet him nearby. Then we can head on to southern Scotland before morning. Sure, that ought to do it.
Hermione had told him in her last note that Trapperton wasn't expecting their dignitary for another two days yet. Once he and Harry got to Scotland the three of them could figure a way out before that person--whoever it turned out to be (and hopefully not who he thought it was)-- even arrived. Yeah, they had time enough--but they'd have to go tonight.
Standing to get ready for work and a long day of planning ahead, Ron looked down at the wet material that reached just below his knees. It was certainly a good thing he hadn't decided to take off and head for Harry's and Scotland an hour ago, in spite of how tempting it seemed. He laughed at what his own panic was trying to do to the opportunity fate had finally given him. None of the great heroes he'd ever heard of saved the damsel in distress while wearing the flimsy and outgrown pajama bottoms they'd had since they were twelve.
The worst of having to help prepare one of the large buildings for the visiting dignitary to stay in was that it was located next to where the handlers roomed. Now that Hermione was more aware of the men's 'job descriptions', it made her almost nauseous every time she saw one of them--and of course they were no more anxious to fraternize with her than they had ever been. Even more irritating, she still had no 'hard evidence' aside from something she'd overheard while eavesdropping herself, probably not a testimony that the Ministry would take as proof.
And now, she was stuck playing housekeeping supervisor. Surprisingly, Pamela Voyde had been very helpful in advising her on the preparations; the zoolowitch's congenial attitude toward her had at first shocked, then confused Hermione when she had first spoken to her civilly. Her instructions regarding the flats, though, did make Hermione wonder at the woman's ability to count.
Hermione was told to make certain the house-elves prepared no less than three of the largest and nicest flats in the building. It made sense that one of them would be set aside for Nardstone's house-elf brigade (some of which had been sent ahead already to help prepare) and one would be for Nardstone himself. But the third? That many house-elves?
She was also amazed at the amount of effort being put into making everything at the camp seem wonderful when in reality, it was all perfectly awful. Half of the time she wondered how the handlers were going to make the Yeti behave while Dr. Nardstone was here, and the other half of the time she didn't want to even think about what methods they'd use to get the Yeti to comply. If they were to comply...
This morning Ron had sent a letter in the supply shipment and she had decided she would have to read it again more carefully later. Though she was still pleased at being able to finally communicate with him and had even received a letter or two from Harry via the same means, this morning's parchment had been full of some confusing drivel regarding a black hairbow and pink parchment. Of course, she was aware of who Ron believed the bow and the parchment belonged to, but she saw little connection to his concern about Trapperton when it was Phelix Nardstone that was coming, not Dolores Umbridge. Besides, the Prophet reports had it that Umbridge was taking an extended leave of absence from any Ministry work for medical (as in mental, Hermione thought with satisfaction) reasons. Somehow Ron must have got his ideas crossed up somewhere, but she'd take another look at the letter again later to give him the benefit of the doubt.
For now, there were house-elves and Dr. Null's reports to deal with-- Ron's letter would simply have to wait until tonight.
Work at the Ministry that day moved at a snail's pace. Ron's adrenalin had dwindled in the face of the repetitive work. Yawning and tired, Ron had told Leo he was going to take a nap in the back corner of the Shipping Department instead of eating lunch on his break. After enduring some pretty brutal ribbing about him starting to act like Piddle, he even took his break early when he thought he couldn't work even one moment longer.
But he was hoping for another payoff on the early break besides. Ron knew he needed to make one more run at the desk in Phelix Nardstone's office, and he was hoping his early lunch break might mean another payoff in finding Maudie Stamply gone once he was making his afternoon deliveries on the Hidden Floors. Ordinarily, he wouldn't expect to run across this much luck all put together in a month, but for some reason fate had been smiling upon him over the past few days...
...Until now. Maudie Stamply and Phelix Nardstone were not only in their office, but another five or ten other well-dressed wizards and witches seemed to be having a lunch meeting there with them when Ron walked in to make his delivery. He recognized a few of the people from the pages of the Daily Prophet, but he couldn't immediately remember their names--except perhaps one.
Seated immediately to the right of Nardstone himself was that man who Leo had had a run-in with--the one who seemed to manage most of the interns and was in charge of shipping items for the dignitaries' visits to the outpost sites. What was his name? Ron tried to think of some of the names he regularly delivered to, hoping that one would eventually fit. Mr. Stabbs? Mr. Blade? Mr. Sharpe? That was it! Sharpe! Thaddeus Sharpe!
In the few minutes that Ron could manage to be inside the office without arousing suspicion, there was no doubt that Thaddeus Sharpe had Phelix Nardstone's ear--almost exclusively. Although it could be a perfectly harmless conversation, Ron didn't like the looks of someone like Sharpe who could have had so much to do with Hermione, speaking so demandingly with Phelix Nardstone, who would be on his way to Trapperton in a day or two.
Ron reluctantly let himself out into the corridor, knowing there was nothing more he could do to extend his stay. "Bloody hell!" he said quietly to himself. How was he going to get directions and the other things he needed now, with all of those people inside the office? And if he tried again after work hours, it would make him late for his meeting with the twins and Harry--all of which could blow up in his face should the three of them run into Mr. and Mrs. Weasley because he was running late.
Think--think! Ron told himself, leaning against the wall in the corridor and scowling. Determined to go on and make his deliveries, he had finished all but two offices on the Hidden Floors when it occurred to him... If Thaddeus Sharpe is in there with Nardstone, that means he's not in his own office. Maybe, just maybe, he'd have information on Trapperton, even if there might not be anything as incriminating as pink parchment. If only his secretary were gone... He headed for the lifts.
Sure enough, fate was still smiling on him, just on a different corridor that day. Ron had used the second-to-last of his Open Sesame Seeds to break into Sharpe's office when no one had answered his knock, only to find himself completely alone inside. He searched first the desktop of Louise, then the desk of Sharpe himself. Frustrated, he was about to leave when he spied a file with several others on the credenza behind the desk, labelled with the name "Trapperton".
Inside the file was a wealth of information. Ron folded and pocketed a map of Trapperton and the surrounding areas that had been Spell-o-Taped inside the front cover of the folder itself. Several other parchments detailed the arrangements for other interns that had been assigned to Trapperton at one point or another in the past. Finally, Ron found a parchment labelled Summer, 1995--this one must be about Hermione. But the intern on the page for this summer was listed as Dexter Orion, not Hermione Granger.
Ron was distracted by a loud noise in the corridor. People were beginning to return from lunch now and the hallway outside the closed door to Sharpe's office was becoming much busier. He knew he didn't have much more time, but he had to figure out what had happened here.
Following the page with Dexter Orion's name on it, listing him as the intern for Dr. Christopher Null for this very summer, were several other pages listing Orion's qualifications and his handwritten letter of acceptance for the position. Attached to the back of those was another parchment copy showing that his internship had been cancelled by--none other than Phelix Nardstone himself. A third parchment, dated the same day as the cancellation letter, showed that the replacement intern for Dexter Orion would be one Hermione Granger.
Why would one intern be chosen for Trapperton, then cancelled, then replaced almost immediately with Hermione? Ron was hard-pressed to understand the procedure for interns and the inner workings of the Ministry offices, but this did seem a bit strange. Could it be that someone wanted to make sure that Hermione was at Trapperton this summer--someone who wanted her there for more than her brilliant mind and exemplary study habits?
Talking and laughing could be heard just outside the office door now. It was definitely time to go. Ron replaced and re-stacked the folders just as they were when he found them, went into the outer office, and scrabbled around in his bin for two boxes he knew were supposed to go to all Ministry offices for general delivery. He set them on Louise's desk before rolling his bin to the door. Taking a deep breath and releasing it, he opened the door ahead of him and pushed the bin through.
The witch he'd seen here just the other day was standing and talking with another witch and a wizard just outside the door. They all turned to look at him when he emerged from the office and the one he remembered as Louise knitted her brow.
"Hey--what were you doing in there--Renald?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing his silver badge.
"Just making a delivery, ma'am--left the boxes on your desk," Ron replied. "Oh--" He looked both directions before whispering to her while he twisted the doorknob freely from side to side to show it was unlocked. "And next time, don't forget to lock your door. Can never tell who might be interested in getting in there these days, you know."
"I could have sworn I--" Louise looked perplexed, but pushed past Ron to take a quick look around the office. All must have appeared in order because she blushed then and said an embarrassed, "Thank you."
It was getting later in the afternoon and Ron wondered how the twins were doing with Harry. Then, on his walk back to the Shipping Department lifts, Ron was deciding just how to go about telling Leo that if all went well, he wouldn't be here after today. The man had done so much for him, he wished he could have given him more notice. They did make a pretty damned good work team, Ron thought, and he was definitely going to miss the gruff shipping supervisor. But at least while he was here, he had nearly caught him up on getting all of those stacks of parcels out of the department and on their way. There was only a row and a half left stacked near the back of the room now. Piddle didn't even have anywhere to hide and sleep these days and made his displeasure known to Ron by sending him an evil sneer each and every time he passed him. (The sneer looked so familiar that Ron had even had the audacity to ask Piddle if he was in some way related to the Malfoys.)
Ron began his talk with Leo by telling him how fine the motorbike seemed to be running because he knew that would please him. He told him that he had tried it out, that it purred like an enormous Kneazle, and that riding it was just as wonderful as Leo had described. Then he proceeded to tell him that there was somewhere he needed to go, that it was urgent and he had to leave tonight--and that he wasn't certain just when he would be back.
Ron didn't expect Leo to be pleased and he wasn't. But he did seem to act as if he understood.
"I don't reckon this wouldn't have anything to do with that H. Granger, would it?" Leo asked.
His gaze snapping around to stare into Leo's face, Ron was almost speechless. "What?"
"H. Granger?" Leo repeated, looking at him expectantly.
"How--how did you know?"
Leo snorted. "You think the people in Space Dislocation haven't been wondering why that same little box keeps being returned and sent back to Trapperton by and for H. Granger time and again for a week now? And that no one had better get in your path when you're on your way to pick it up because you'll mow them down?" Leo laughed a full belly laugh now. "They've been asking me if everything is okay with that--it is my job to know these things."
Ron could feel his ears going hot; he looked down sheepishly. "Sorry."
"Hey, no problem," Leo said. "I was sixteen once, too, you know."
"Actually, it does have to do with her," Ron admitted, feeling his entire face burning now. "In fact, we have to go tonight. It'll be better in the dark because then, if anyone hears us, they'll think that maybe it's just a Muggle airplane."
Leo's eyebrows lifted and he looked at Ron quizzically. "A Muggle airplane?"
Realizing his mistake from the tone of Leo's voice, Ron tried desperately to think of some way to cover himself. "Erm, I meant a train. Told you I was really tired. A train, of course-- well, they do sound a bit different. I mean, if an airplane was going by, then maybe they wouldn't --"
"Wissle!" Leo interrupted. "You're not by any chance going to fly that motorbike to Scotland, are you?"
Sputtering, Ron could think of nothing else to say. "Erm, actually--"
Ron was rather famous for his ability to bluff his opponents at chess, partly because he'd trained himself not to let them read his thoughts in his expression. But apparently that ability wasn't quite as strong when he was this tired and frantic.
Leo read him like a book. "Well, I'll be damned--you lucky son-of-a-- that flying motorbike really does exist! And everyone I ever knew always thought it was legend! Are you like--some secret government agent or something?" Leo stopped and spoke in a very affected, deep voice. "Wissle--Renald Wissle--double-o-sixteen." The huge man laughed hard at his own joke.
Ron was too stunned to say anything. He just shook his head and smiled lamely.
"You have my word, Ron --if something led that motorbike to you, there was a purpose--and likely a damned important one, too. They'll never get it out of me where you are-- erm, I take it your parents are in full support of this, right? So if your dad comes down here asking questions, I should assume he knows everything?" Leo's eyes twinkled as he watched for the look of panic on Ron's face this time.
"No--erm, actually, they don't really know--"
Leo smiled at him warmly. "Then I just forgot everything you just told me. Memory like a sieve, I tell ya."
Ron returned his smile. "Thanks."
"Oh--" Leo said, reaching into his pocket. "Here." He held out four Galleons, several Sickles, and some Knuts, dropping them into Ron's hand when he held it out in confusion.
"What's this for?" Ron asked.
Leo shrugged. "Doesn't matter--call it back pay."
"But I still owe you for parts."
Leo pursed his lips and frowned. "All right, then. Which of those parts that I brought you make that baby fly?"
Ron was surprised by the question. "I don't know for sure--it's, you know, not in any of the manuals--but probably parts of the accelerator and the suspension."
"Then some of those parts are on me," Leo stated. "This is just me being selfish, you know, so don't you think nothin' of it. When will I ever get the chance again to claim I contributed to something as famous as that motorbike? That, technically, I bought some of those parts to keep it running? It's like being a bloody celebrity or somethin'. It would be an honor just to know for the rest of my life that I helped put that motorbike back together for Harry Potter. An investment, of sorts-- and braggin' rights, if nothing else."
Ron shrugged this time. "Just don't go bragging until we get Hermione back, okay?"
"Ay, yes," Leo said. "The fair maiden--waiting to be rescued by her knight on shining armor."
Ron coughed at the absurdity of the joke. "Er... yeah."
"Wait a minute," Leo said, "You're going to be flying into Trapperton, right?"
"Yeah."
"You're not leaving until I make one last delivery," Leo said. "Otherwise, you can kiss those letters of recommendation from me goodbye. You're gonna stay put, right?"
Ron looked at the clock. Technically, he still had thirty minutes of work left; it probably wouldn't do for him to get home any earlier than normal--or do anything any differently than normal if he was going to do this without being caught.
"I'll be here," Ron said.
It took Leo nearly twenty minutes to make his 'final delivery'. But he returned with a bit of parchment on which a somewhat complicated combination of spells and charms was written. He handed the parchment bit to Ron. "A farewell present for you."
Ron shook his head in disbelief. "This couldn't be what I think it is."
"Okay, whatever you say. But it is," Leo said.
Written on the bit of parchment were the means to reverse the security spells on the main camp at Trapperton.
"How in the hell did you get this?" Ron asked.
Leo simply smiled. "Haven't I told you a hundred times before? I--"
"Know someone," the two of them said together in unison, laughing.