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Chapter Four
William Arthur Weasley pushed the flap of his tent open and stepped inside. It was getting tiresome working for the goblins. No, he corrected himself, it was always tiresome working for the goblins. But when you did a two year stretch with no days off, their smarmy and grumpy attitudes were really starting to get to you. And remembering the date only exacerbated his already dark mood.
Twenty eighth of May.
On this very day, twelve years ago, they'd found the body of his little sister, raped and killed brutally, stuffed in a cupboard in an unused classroom in Hogwarts. The Aurors ran the investigation for five days before word came from their superiors that the case was being shot down because of an attack on a muggle village.
June the second, nineteen ninety four was the last time he'd set foot on British soil. He asked for a permanent transfer to Egypt and received it from the Goblin Committee of Excavation, and ever since then, he hadn't looked back. His former life was over, and he had lost himself to work, only taking an occasional vacation every other year, usually when the goblins became too grumpy for his short fused temper.
Sighing, he took off his long robe and shook the sand from it, sweat glistening on his torso, before he sat on his bed. He tossed his head this way and that, stretching the aching muscles that had supported it for the last fourteen hours. Bending down, he stuck his hand under his bed, his fingers searching for a very familiar feeling of cold steel. As soon as he felt it, he grabbed the handle firmly and pulled, dragging an old wooden trunk from underneath his bed.
He tossed the lid open almost effortlessly, his large muscles being used to hard work, and from within he pulled an old and dusty photo album. Blowing on the surface of its covers elicited a cloud of dust that hung in the air, illuminated by the sunrays of the setting sun that sneaked through the crack in the flap of the tent.
Slowly, almost reverently, he set the album on his bed and dug through the contents of the trunk, finally coming up with a half filled bottle of firewhiskey and a glass that looked like it hadn't been cleaned for a year. In fact, the last time he remembered using it was last year, when he had drunk half the bottle from it. Grumbling, he tossed it back into the trunk, satisfied with the clank it made as it struck the metallic surface of his old carving kit, and immediately closed the trunk. It didn't matter – he could drink from the bottle.
Twisting the cap open, he put it on the closed lid of the trunk and brought the bottleneck to his lips. Closing his eyes, he opened his mouth and threw back his head, lifting he bottle up like it was a shot glass. The harsh, bitter and stinging taste of the amber liquid consumed his mouth, and he took three big gulps, glad that the sight of his sister's half naked, broken and bruised body wasn't haunting his mind's eye.
After taking a breath, he threw his arm to the side and grabbed the photo album, setting it on his naked thighs. Opening it, he was greeted by a photo of his mum and dad, Molly and Arthur Weasley, during their wedding. It hadn't been a real wedding though, as they had eloped on the Dover coastline, with only a few witnesses. His dad had been orphaned during the war with Grindelwald, so he didn't have to worry about anyone stopping him. His mother's mum, his grandmother, however, had been dead against his mother's decision to marry Arthur Weasly, and so his mum had made his dad run away with her and elope. They had spent their honeymoon in a rented cottage in Dover.
Molly Prewett's decision to marry Arthur Weasley, the infamously poor wizard, had its cost. Her own mother disinherited her, leaving her, Arthur, and him, little William, inside Molly's belly to fend for themselves. It had been fortunate that his father had a lot of friends from his Hogwarts days, and so everyone he knew pitched in to create the Burrow. And apt name for a family named the Weasleys. His younger brother, Charlie had come next, as soon as the house was finished. What used to be generations after generations of single children on his father's side of the family was now a slew of little redheads running around causing mayhem.
Bill smiled through his tears and wiped his good eye with the wrist of his hand. Taking a clean handkerchief from the bedside table, he gently wiped away the tears from the glass one, careful not to press it inside his skull.
A curse had taken one of his eyes, along with the optical nerve, his eyebrow and his eyelid. It only left the tear gland behind.
In his half drunk stupor, anger rose inside him. Anger directed at Voldemort, at his family, at himself, at the world.
He closed his eyes and imagined his head was around the red eyed monster's neck, squeezing,squeezing, until-
Crack.
He didn't have to open his good eye to see what happened. The bottle of firewhiskey that used to be in his hand now laid on the sandy floor in fragments.
Accidental magic.
Soon, he was aware of the stinging pain in his hand, partly from the glass shards imbedded in the soft flesh, partly from the fact that the dozens of little wounds they'd created were soaked with alcohol. He lifted the lacerated appendage to eye level to see blood slowly trailing to his wrist and down his forearm.
For a moment, he was mesmerised by the sight of the red web that had formed on his forearm.
"Mr. Weasley, are you there?"
He snapped out of his daze immediately, as if someone had poured freezing cold water over his head.
"Er... just a minute."
He grabbed his wand and quickly vanished the glass shards from the ground and then from his aching hand. Hoping he hadn't cut a tendon, he murmured a hasty 'ferula' and watched as conjured bandages wrapped around his left arm tightly.
"Come in," he called from his place on the bed, before remembering to stash his photo album under the pillow.
Only after the man entered did William realize that he was only wearing boxers and a pair of dirty socks. He blinked owlishly and tore his thoughts away from his lack of attire, choosing instead to examine the stranger who had walked into his tent.
A long white robe hung loosely from the tall man's shoulders, nearly touching the ground, the hem of which had turned yellow with the sand which had stuck on it. He had short black hair, with numerous grey hairs behind the temples.
"Mr. Weasley, I've travelled a long way to finally meet you," the man said, apparently not concerned at all with his host's partial nudity.
"Yes, and you are..." William asked, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Samuel Dunham. But my friends call me Sam," he said, turning around and taking a seat in a chair.
William realized that he had been living with the goblins in this desert for far too long, seeing as he had forgotten all the good manners his mother had drilled into him. Rubbing his forehead, he chased away those thoughts and focused on Sam.
"Well then, Mr. Dunham, what is it that you wanted to see me about?"
"It concerns a person you and I both know. This person wants to go by the name of Lord Voldemort," Sam said.
William's hand quickly snaked to his side for his wand, blindly groping at the bed sheets. Snapping his head to the side, he saw that his wand wasn't there.
Another, shorter man stood at the flap of the tent, dressed in a sickeningly bright green robe, holding two wands in his hands, one of which William recognised as his own. He didn't move; his face carefully set in a shadow, shrouding his features from William's curious gaze.
"So, he finally sent someone after me," William concluded, all fight leaving him as his shoulders slumped.
"Don't be foolish, William," the man at the flap said. His voice sounded young to Bill, and the man's height made him think that he was a teenager for a fleeting moment. No, he thought to himself after that moment passed, no teenager could be that silent in his approach. He got the feeling that of the two men, this one was by far the more dangerous one.
"Why would Voldemort risk loosening his relations with the goblins for a single man," Sam said, as if reading the other's thoughts, "one who had gone through great grief to remove himself from his domain."
"No," the other man confirmed, "Voldemort has forgotten about you. In his mind, you're an insignificant ant that had gotten away when he stomped the hive."
The words made William's shackles rise, partly in anger, partly in fear, but he didn't say anything about it.
"Then why are you here," he asked instead.
"The answer to that question is simple," the man in green said from his place in the shadow, "yet dangerous at the same time."
He paused for a long moment, looking at Sam.
"You want him dead, and for different reasons, we want him dead as well," the other said after Sam nodded his way. "In this endeavour, your talents would be much appreciated."
He was torn between disbelief, grief, fear and anger. He couldn't believe that something like this could fall from a clear sky, saddened at the memory of his departed – nomurdered– family, afraid that somehow word might get to Voldemort, and last but not least, he was angry.
He wasn't a fool, despite what others might say about him. The two strangers could just as well be agents of Voldemort. They could just as well be trying to get him away from the goblin camp to kill him, thus not risking any bad feelings with the goblins. But most of all, he was angry that these men had the sheer gall to use his own grief for their purposes, no matter what they were.
He took a deep breath and sighed.
"I'm listening."
Besides getting himself killed, there wasn't much more he could do now.
"Every other year, you take a month long vacation from your work, usually someplace cold," Sam said. "We thought you would do so again. This time, however, you will express a wish to visit a small town in Germany called Dusseldorf. Once you're there, you will wait for us to contact you."
Dusseldorf. William wondered for a minute what exactly was in Dusseldorf. His first guess had been that they would try to drag him back to England, where his murder wouldn't have any repercussions for them.
Perhaps they were truly trying to kill Voldemort. How travelling to Dusseldorf could help them in that regard, he had no idea.
"I'm afraid we're going to need an answer now, William," the man in green said, casting his eyes down at his wrist, to a wristwatch that had been hidden by the long sleeves of his robe only moments previously. Light struck them at this angle, and the faintest sliver of green reflected back.
"Alright," William said after a long moment of deliberation. "I will wait for you in Dusseldorf."
"Excellent," Sam said as he stood up from the rickety chair. The man in green tossed William's wand at him, as they disappeared through the flap.
He grasped his wand and immediately jumped up from the bed and hurried outside.
Under the cloudless sky, illuminated by the full moon and countless stars, was the goblin camp. Dozens of tents were scattered all over the warm yellow sand.
He looked about, but he couldn't spot the two men. It had to be a disillusionment charm, he reasoned, seeing as the whole camp was covered with anti Apparation and Portkey wards.
Crouching down and lighting his wand with a mutteredlumos, he tried to divine the direction Sam and his friend took from any footsteps they might have left behind.
But there was nothing. Even his own footsteps from an hour ago were gone, as if a gust of wind had blown them away.
Sighing, he stood up straight again and went back into his tent, not knowing how to feel about the whole affair.
It didn't matter, ultimately. He was a curse breaker, a man that risked his life more times than he had meals daily. Dusseldorf would reveal their true intentions and the next part of the puzzle which by now had completely occupied his mind.
Galiotto Barbaro Androsciani looked down the table at his three opponents.
On his right was a middle aged man with his head shaved. He wore a black suit and a red tie, a single ring glinting on his unmoving hand. A pair of sixes were lying on the table in front of him, face down.
Next to him sat an older man, dressed in a white sweater, the collar of a black shirt peaking from the V neck. He carried the air of someone who had seen billions of cards turn. His face was impassive and stony, although his eyes betrayed his hand, an ace and a king.
And finally, on his left sat a young man with a pair of reading glasses and a New York cap, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt. He had a permanent grin plastered on his face, and rumour had it that he'd won a tournament in Atlanta with an ace and a two, the exact same cards he was drumming his fingers over at the moment.
Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes stared at him intently, Mr. Ace-And-King peeked again at his cards, and Mr. Ace-And-Two was flipping a thousand dollar chip around his fingers with fluid motions that implied it was second nature.
If there hadn't been any money on the table, he would've grunted at that arrogance.
"Call," he said, and pushed a preordained stack of chips toward the middle of the table. The man that stood observing the game pulled them toward the other chips at the centre with a long wooden stick Galiotto never bothered to learn the name of.
The dealer placed three cards on the table.
Six, five and king.
He didn't have to look up to see the cold detachment of Mr. Ace-And-King at his shaky pair of kings, nor the slight twitch of Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes' left eye at his mediocre three of a kind. Instead, he peeled off the corners of his own two cards that lay face down on the green surface.
The sight of the four and eight of clubs would have made a relatively sane man throw them away and leave while he still had a bit of face and a bit of coin left in his pocket.
As it turned out, his apparent insanity was a good thing.
Wordlessly, Mr. Ace-And-Two pushed all his chips toward the middle, even the one he had been flipping around his fingers, and stood up. Grudgingly, Galiotto had to admit to himself that at least the man could bluff. He watched Mr. Ace-And-King hesitate for a moment, before he too pushed his remaining chips into the pile. Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes didn't miss a beat, as he too tossed his worth into the pile.
Galiotto grinned and pushed his own chips down the table, before standing from his chair. Cards were flipped over, and the dealer started setting the fourth card on the table.
The Turn was an ace.
It was bad. Statistically, his chances had just dropped by half; slightly better than one in fourteen.
The final card was set on the green surface of the table, and Galiotto made sure no one noticed him exhaling. After all, if would transform his image from unemotional, crazy and idiotic to just plain crazy and idiotic. And no one liked crazies. Or idiots.
Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes growled and punched the table, before grabbing his coat and storming out of the room.
The other two opponents were more composed as they were leaving, although they too didn't honour the ending of the game with a congratulating handshake, or even final words.
A seven of hearts gleamed under the light of the dull neon light above.
Galiotto allowed himself a small smile at his straight as he gathered the six figures worth of chips on the table into a large plastic bucket before he too silently left the table. Being crazy paid off in Vegas. Being a master of Legillimency and Occlumency even more so.
Taking the thousand dollar chip Mr. Ace-And-Two had been flipping around his fingers all night, he tossed it to the dealer, who caught it before it hit the green surface of the table.
He was good. He had to be, being around that kind of money all night and having the duty to protect them from getting stolen. Even your honest average Joe who walked the straight and narrow would be liable to thoughts and urges to grab the money and run. And honest people didn't have the money to even get inside the room, which spoke mounds of his opponents' self control.
It was for that reason that when he got down to the lobby he felt his hair stand on end. People were watching him.
He didn't slow down, didn't hesitate.
Out the corner of his eye he saw two 'ladies' who were eyeing his bucket filled with black and white chips to the brim rather greedily. He knew what they were from the moment he noticed them – women whose underwear was soaking at the sight of money. If they even wore underwear to begin with.
The cashier was a young woman that looked barely in her twenties, her skin freckled just enough to look cute and innocent. She smiled at him, and even though he could tell it was forced, a cute dimple formed on her right cheek.
"Ten thousand in cash. The rest goes on my account," he said as he dropped the bucket in the drawer and pulled a sheet of paper with sixteen numbers on it, putting it on the mound of casino currency like a cherry on vanilla and chocolate ice cream. He pushed the two-way drawer forward, closing it.
The cashier took her sweet time to count all of it, and his feeling of unease grew even more.
Something was going to go down, he could feel it.
He felt hands grasp his shoulders, and for a moment fear flared inside him before he beat it down to a dark corner in his mind.
No one would try anything inside a casino.
He turned to the side and saw the two women smiling at him.
One wore a blue sheath dress that sparkled and sparkled under the lights of the casino floor. It hugged her curves provocatively, and it went well with her blue eyes. Straight blonde hair spilled from her head and down past her shoulders, lightly brushing the rigid tips that were visibly straining against the blue fabric.
Her hands started roaming, brushing against the surface of his white shirt and sneaking under his tie.
"Hello handsome."
Galiotto turned to the other woman and observed her for a second, noting the curled black hair that reached well below her shoulders, curtaining her young face. He figured she was in her early twenties. The red silk cocktail dress hung on her shoulders and pert breasts before loosely continuing down to just above the middle of her thighs. Her warm, chocolate brown eyes showed discomfort and uncertainty.
"Would-"she cut short, and a less observant man would miss the quivering of her lower lip and the uncertainty and shame that simply oozed off her.
He cast another look at her warm brown eyes that seemed to burn with an intense emotion unfamiliar he couldn't determine. But past that unrecognisable something he peered at an innocent soul.
"How about we have a littleprivateparty at your place? Hm," the blonde one quickly murmured in his ear, her tongue suddenly making him feel very uncomfortable.
Lust roared inside him like a rocket engine, spurred by the very real promise of carnal pleasure, but in reality, he recognised the sight of innocence in front of him as the real culprit.
He was perverted that way, he guessed. But then again, everyone was in one way or another.
He pushed his lust away, capturing it in a net to save for later, turned around and collected his ten thousand dollars.
"Could you call up a limo," he asked the cashier, before turning to look at the woman in the blue dress, "looks like we're going to a party."
A lecherous grin spread over her features as she draped herself over him.
After winning – no, he corrected himself,earningenough money to last him half a year with this lifestyle in one evening, he could allow himself a small indulgence.
The people he had no doubts were coming after him would be more careful if he walked out with a pair of witnesses. It wouldn't stop them, but it would certainly complicate things for them.
And if push came to shove, he was not above using the blonde as a living shield.
He grinned back.
"One is already outside, waiting for a customer, sir," the cashier said, her smile turning cold. He didn't need to employ Legillimency to read her thoughts.
"Grazie."
He turned away from her and cast his eyes over the casino. Near the middle of the hall stood one of the men he played before, Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes, looking at him with anger in his eyes, two gorillas in dark suits flanking him.
He raised the stack of money to eye level before he slowly pocketed it. It was a clear message, one that portrayed he wasn't stupid enough to cash out all his winnings and take them out of the relative safety of the casino.
Then he circled a thin arm around each woman's slender waist and calmly walked out.
The casino must have spent a fortune on its power bills, because the difference between the pine scented cool air from inside and heat of the shimmering desert air hit him with an almost physical force. Strong discomfort washed all over him, and for a moment he felt a desire to crawl back inside the casino.
The power bills must have paid off. He reckoned half the guests would have turned back by now to escape the heat, and while they'd be in the casino, they might as well play a hand or two, or throw some craps, or spin the roulette, or pull a lever on a slot machine. As long as they played, the house would win.
Besides his obvious affinity to cheating, he played poker because he wasn't playing against the house. They'd take a fair share of what he'd win, sure, but his chances of winning were much increased against the guests that the ones against the house. He saw the house for what it really was, a vicious money slurping machine that offered addictive excitement.
It was smart, smarter than everyone that went in. Except for him, of course.
He looked up at the clear blue sky. The sun had risen a long time ago, and it hung directly above him. He'd learned a lot about western muggle culture, along with it the fact that cowboy showdowns usually happened at noon.
He could only hope that Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes wasn't a cowboy.
"Where's that limo?" he asked the doorman.
"I'll call it for you right away sir."
The parking lot next to the casino was large, and dozens of cars were on it, baking in the Nevada sun. A black limo rolled out from between them, navigating slowly due to its size. The driver got out after it stopped right before them, and hurried around the car to open the door.
The two women immediately got in, he following and closing the door. Through the tinted window he could see Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes getting out of the casino, his two bodyguards following like faithful dogs.
Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes turned and started walking towards the parking lot of the casino as soon as his limo started rolling away. Galiotto sighed as two hands found their way to his nether region. It would be a long and uncomfortable drive. A lock of black hair whirled in front of his face before a pair of warm and trembling lips met his.
He wasn't into it, seeing as Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes and his two goons we're probably following his limo, but he returned the kiss as energetically as he could.
Suddenly, something hard joined the soft massaging hands on his crotch. The kiss ended, and he spotted a man in a black suit in the seat across as soon as the brunette's face left his sight.
And the hard thing against his crotch was a forty five calibre gun, capable of leaving him childless forever.
The man wasn't tall, and Galiotto could tell, despite the fact they were sitting down. His arms were thin and long enough that he could hold his reproductive organs hostage at point blank range. His face was thin and on the pale side, and his cheekbones jutted out from under a pair of dark sunglasses. A pair of sunglasses that prevented him from using his talents
Galiotto sighed.
"You wouldn't do anything with two witnesses around, would you," he asked the man that had him pinned down.
"Accomplices, Mr. Androsciani. Without them, you wouldn't have ordered a limo. Without ordering a limo, mine couldn't have picked you up," the man said. His hand was as still as a cobra that was about to strike, which didn't bode well for Galiotto's progeny.
He had to stop himself from grimacing at his own stupidity. The women worked for money, he knew that. Why had he assumed that someone else hadn't paid them to target him?
The bucket of chips worth more than half a million was one good reason. Another was his own arrogance.
"Look," Galiotto said, his voice remaining calm only through sheer willpower, "I don't know in what way I've wronged you, but I have a bank account with twelve million dollars in it. If you let me go, you can have it."
The man grinned. With his free hand, he took off his sunglasses, revealing a set of cold green eyes. Galiotto immediately took the chance to peek at his mind, but he found his effort thwarted.
This was no muggle.
This was a wizard he was dealing with, and in the past, he had angered a lot of wizards.
A small grimace escaped his control. The situation was getting from bad to worse.
"A good try, Mr. Androsciani," the man said, a small insincere smile on his face. It only made his eyes look colder. "However, money is not the reason I'm in this car with you today. If you remember, several years ago, you singlehandedly tore down a government."
The Italian Ministry of Magic. Or rather, most of its former members.
He had used his considerable talent in Legillimency to dig up dirt that had been long ago buried by the politicians, and used it to knock them off their high horses. Every dirty little secret had made the papers in one day, and soon enough, resignations were passed, before the witches and wizards of Italy could organise themselves to tear them a new one.
But people owed people favours, and soon he found himself exiled from his home country. It was at this point that he had decided to travel to America. The land of opportunities. The land of casinos. The land without a Ministry of Magic.
He had doubted that his exile was as far as they would go.
It took them a pair of decades, but they found him.
"The bastards are still angry," he muttered darkly, the control of his emotions slipping away. With and effort of will, he reigned the depression and the anger in.
"I've no doubt they are. If anything, corrupt politicians are known to hold a grudge," the green eyed man said. "Your presumptions, however, are incorrect. I'm not here to punish you for tearing down a government. I'm here for your help in doing so again."
Galiotto sighed. He wasn't going to die – the man needed him. His wand slipped from his sleeve, and he brought it up.
The green eyed man plucked his wand from Galiotto's fingers and twirled it between the fingers of his left hand. A loud crack sounded, and it took almost a second for Galiotto to realize that the gun had gone off. He felt tiny droplets of warm liquid splatter on his left cheek. A flash of grey light blinded him for a moment, and it took a few more seconds for him to realize that the man had cast a spell with his own wand.
His hands immediately went to his crotch, and pure relief washed over him after he realised that all his bits were in the proper place.
Turning his head to the left, he saw where the blood on his face had come from.
The blond woman had had a pretty face. The man ruined it by blowing a half an inch hole through her forehead. Blood, brain matter, skin, blonde hair and skull fragments coated the window next to her and the one behind. The sight made his empty stomach lurch.
Turning to his left, he saw another grisly sight. The brunette's head had been roughly cleaved off, showing a ring of white bone, blood squirting up to the ceiling of the car from the severed neck, before dripping back down, leaving blotches of darker red on her red silk dress. A dizzy spell came over him.
It all felt surreal to him as he turned ahead to look at the man that committed two murders in front of him in a blink of an eye. The same cold eyes stared back at him, as if nothing had happened.
He faintly registered the small lurch as the car came to a stop.
"Mio Dio! Che..." The words left his mouth on reflex, before he could think them over or realize he was speaking his native language.
The stranger said nothing. Instead, he pushed the sagging headless body of the brunette upright again with a foot. With the tip of the wand, he pressed a button on the door and pointed the gun at the opening window.
It rolled down, revealing the scowling face of Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes.
His face turned through a number of emotions, including disgust, anger and uncertainty. But in the end, fear won, and a soft whimper escaped his lips.
"Give the man his money," said the stranger.
As if in a dream, Galiotto pulled a pen and a pad from one of his inner pockets, wrote down his account and pin number and passed it on to Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes.
"H- how do I know this is the real deal," Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes asked.
The pistol in his hand shook.
"You don't," the stranger said, pushing his own gun in Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes' face until the trembling man backed off. "Now leave while you still have a brain."
Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes stammered for a minute, before shoving the piece of paper in one of his pockets and walking away, never once leaving the barrel of the gun from out of his sight.
They sat together for a minute between the two corpses, Galiotto and the stranger, only the shrilling of tires and the rush of Mr. Pair-Of-Sixes' engine breaking the silence.
"Here," the stranger said finally, as if he'd just made a decision, "take this." He tossed a cheap mobile phone to Galiotto. He didn't move his hands to catch it, just stared at the stranger's impassionate green eyes.
"When I call you, you'd better pick up. Don't make me come find you again."
With a loudpop, he vanished.
It took Galiotto another five minutes to come over the shock. He took the wand that the stranger left on the seat he had occupied. It was only after getting out of the car that he noticed the small, slender pistols in each of the women's hands.
The stranger had killed them brutally, but not without reason. They'd wanted that twelve million he mentioned before, enough to pull a gun on an obviously dangerous man.
He had no delusions that the man wouldn't find him and kill him if he got rid of the phone, so he placed it in his jacket pocket, along with his wand, and quickly and started walking away from the morbid scene. The driver's seat was empty, and the door was left open.
He said he wanted to topple a government, and that he needed his talents to do that. He wasn't sure he wanted to work for a man like that. But then again, what other choice did he have.
He felt the mobile phone through his jacket pocket slap against his upper thigh, and he prayed it would never ring. Yet he doubted his prayers would be answered.