The bustle of Hogsmeade Station felt nostalgic and faintly unsettling from the other side of the platform. Students poured out from the carriages, and for the first time, Bill could see the thestrals that drew them. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to think about the reason for that. The memory roiled in his stomach. With a shake of his head, he tucked it firmly away. Hogwarts might be unchanged, but he was not the same person who had boarded the train to London one last time three years ago.
He glanced impatiently at his wristwatch. Chances were the twins' incomprehensible letter was a prank, but he missed the two little terrors and their antics. Besides, Mum had floo-called earlier, anxious about yesterday's murder, so keeping an eye on the station would assuage her worries.
A glitter bomb went off, and the commotion intensified tenfold. So, a prank, after all. Bill hid a smile at Percy's murderous expression as he shook confetti out of his hair. The twins had been keeping Percy on his toes since they had started at Hogwarts, and Bill had got many a missive detailing his many complaints this year. Bill squinted against the sun to find the culprits in the crowd. Instead of feigning innocence, as he expected, Fred and George were trying to catch his eye and mimed, pointing to a tiny child drowning in his robe.
Bill's raised hand paused mid-wave when he noticed the figure hulking over the child. All the warning bells he had come to rely on in the field went off in his head. At first glance, this was an older student who could pass for a seventh year, but someone—or rather two certain someones—had done a haphazard job to disguise him. The familiar-looking knit Gryffindor scarf was arranged, bizarrely, over a torn shirt that might have been white in its previous life. His skin was approximately the same shade as the shirt, and the cheerful red and gold of the scarf emphasised its waxiness. A Ravenclaw girl collided with him, and his body twitched, but his face remained utterly blank. Bill's mind raced to all the pranks his brothers had ever played, and how maybe he should have paid more attention to Percy's owls—
"Boarding schools," a man next to Bill huffed. He vaguely recognised him as the father of Charlie's she's-just-a-friend from Hufflepuff. "Kids get completely feral by the end of the year."
The man left to meet his daughter just as Bill got his wand out. Bill watched, nerves taut, as the child gripped the anaemic wrist and drew the younger man away from the crowd. Vacant eyes snapped to him, and suddenly Bill found himself on the other side of a predator's stare.
Shit. Shit. An Inferius, really? He had come across some in the tombs outside Cairo a year ago but never in a million years expected to find one in the middle of Hogsmeade. He scanned the crowd for Aurors, but yesterday's murder apparently was not reason enough for the Ministry to station them. A group of giggling students moved between Bill and the Inferius, obstructing the view for a moment. He caught sight of red hair. His brothers.
Squashing the horrific thought of the harm an Inferius could do in no time at all, he cast a non-verbal Notice Me Not charm around the part of the street, followed by a quick Incarcerous. He prayed the kids would board the train without distraction as ropes bound and gagged the thing. Thoroughly trussed up, the Inferius overbalanced and fell over, thrashing like a feral beast. Somehow he almost managed to get back up, and Bill sent a jet of flames in his direction. The Inferius recoiled.
"No, wait, don't hurt him!" the child yelped, distraught. He leapt in front of the Inferius, arms stretched wide.
The boy was thin and small, his eyes impossibly big behind his round glasses. Angry handprints marked his neck over the collar of the too-big Gryffindor robe, and his forehead was bandaged under his Weasley-worthy hair. Bill wished his brothers had been more specific in their letter. Had this Inferius hurt the child? The child clearly knew it. Had he been family? Hot fury rose inside him. That had been a common tactic during the First War.
"Dudley, right?" That was the name Fred and George had mentioned in their letter. Bill held his hand out. "Come over to me slowly," he said, using the gentle voice he usually reserved for Ginny and Ronny these days. "You don't want to be near him. He might be the one who killed a man here yesterday."
Dudley jutted his chin. "The man tried to kill me first," he said defiantly, and wasn't that quite a statement. "You're Bill Weasley, right?"
"Yes, I am." Bill eyed the struggling Inferius. It hadn't started feeding on the students the moment it appeared, but that didn't necessarily mean anything if it was under a spell to obey. He scanned the street again, but his expectations were low; any dark wizard adept enough to create an Inferius would be able to conceal themselves.
"Fred and George said that I can trust you, that you will listen and help me sort out this mess," the boy babbled. "And believe me, I know that Black is dangerous and a zombie. I'm not stupid and don't have any Seoul Syndrome, whatever the twins meant by that. But he's sort of getting better, and—"
"Hey, slow down, buddy. Listen, let's find a place where we can talk before somebody notices us, and you'll tell me everything, alright? I promise I'll do my best to help you."
The boy looked between him and the Inferius with distrust. "Why don't people notice us?"
"A spell, but it won't hold much longer." A Notice Me Not worked best when applied to something static and already unassuming, like a building or a door, and not a captured, flailing undead.
Not waiting for the kid to agree, he levitated the Inferius several houses down, to a cluttered backyard where a couple of goats chewed on a cabbage patch. Dudley followed close behind. While in the air, the Inferius managed to tear through half of the ropes that had successfully held a crocodile animagus. Bill conjured a flaming cage around him. The goats looked at it phlegmatically before returning to their goat business.
"Can you turn off the fire?" The boy stared, wide-eyed and worried, at the Inferius cowering in the middle, on the patch of unburnt grass.
"Fire is the only thing that can deter Inferi—creatures like him," Bill said. In the dancing flames, the Inferius' eyes looked terrified and almost human, irises blown wide. Just a trick of light, Bill told himself as he shivered, but made the cage wider.
Aberforth Dumbledore appeared in the doorway to glare at them from under his bushy white eyebrows. "What is this fire show? The hell you're scaring my poor babies for, Weasley?" Belying his words, he turned to the goats and barked, "Get away from my cabbages, you miserable wretches!"
"Hiya, Aberforth." Bill smiled. Some of his fondest childhood memories were of playing with baby goats and krups when Uncle Gideon and Abe's son, Aurelius, babysat him and Charlie here. Mum hadn't approved of the goats, Aurelius or, towards the end, places where Uncle Gideon disappeared to and returned hiding bruises and curses and wounds, but at the time, Bill hadn't understood the reasons. Well, maybe for goats. After all, they were smelly.
"So why do you have Regulus Black in a cage? Who, unless my old eyes deceive me, looks like he hasn't aged a day since the last time he darkened my pub's doorstep a decade ago?"
"Regulus Black?" Bill stared at the Inferius through the flaming bars. Sirius Black's brother? He could see the resemblance. Aunt Muriel would have placed him straight off, but Bill had better things to do than memorise every pureblood in Wizarding Britain, let alone a family with a genealogy tree as screwed up as the Blacks. Then again, there were much less of them around in recent years. So maybe being prone to sudden homicidal behaviour was a trait that predated his undead status.
"One and only." Aberforth narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "Was he the one who offed McNair yesterday?"
Bill startled. "Walden McNair?" Vicious satisfaction spread through him like molasses. Walden McNair had been there on the night of his uncles' murder, but with the Imperius excuse and a sizable bag of gold from Malfoy's coffers to grease the way, the Wizengamot dropped the charges faster than one could cast the Vanishing Charm. The man had been a sadistic bastard who would have been in Azkaban for life if only the Ministry was a little bit less of a cesspool of corruption and pureblood revanchism. Instead, he got a cushy Ministry job and was free to kill animals and attack little kids, if Dudley here was to be believed. "Good," Bill said with finality.
"Indeed."
"Can we leave him here for a bit and have a private booth?" His thoughts raced, trying to come up with the best way to deal with the situation. An Inferius wasn't exactly a Kneazle kitten you fixed up with friends or parents for a few nights before finding it a new home.
"We?" Aberforth gaze fell on the boy who had been hanging on their every word.
"This is Dudley." Bill moved to put his hand on Dudley's shoulder, but the boy flinched away, perhaps unsurprisingly.
"Hmph. If that thing doesn't burn down my backyard."
"You know me better than that, Abe." Bill grinned.
"Then take him into the shed, will you? You know how some of my regulars are."
Aberforth disappeared inside, and Bill levitated the cage into a rickety shed full of crates and boxes. He dispensed with the flames, leaving the bars red hot. Inferius or not, Regulus Black deserved some comfort for his recent service to society.
Grey eyes stared at him with disturbing intensity. The scarf loosened, revealing a gnarly neck wound. Bill shivered and looked away. Just to be sure, he double-tapped a heavy barn lock with his wand on his way out.
In the doorway to the main building, Dudley hesitated as a tray full of empty tankards and mugs zoomed inches from his face, clanking loudly.
"It's just a pub," Bill said. "We can have a private conversation, but we won't be alone here."
Predictably, there were hardly any patrons this early. Just Mundungus Fletcher in the corner, nursing what looked like the mother of all hangovers, and a man Bill vaguely remembered as one of Dad's Ministry acquaintances—Peck? Perkins?—who was reading the Daily Prophet over some beans on toast.
"One more of Arthur's?" He glanced at Dudley and guffawed good-naturally. "Can't keep up with you all these days."
Bill opened his mouth to protest, but then noticed the furtive looks Dudley gave the food on the man's table.
"When did you last eat?" he asked.
Dudley shrugged. "I'm fine."
"Uh-oh." Bill pointed him to the farthest booth and asked Aberforth to whip together whatever was available for breakfast.
In the booth, Dudley had taken off his oversized robe and folded it carefully next to him. His T-shirt with a muggle cartoon print was too big on him as well, and he looked even tinier sitting on the wooden chair that was a favourite of Hagrid's. His feet didn't touch the floor, dangling restlessly in the air. He stared with a dubious expression at a grimy hog's head on the wall, the one Aberforth swore had been here since the 17th century. Maybe the Three Broomsticks would have been a better place for a traumatised kid, Bill thought, although the nine-year-old in him rebelled at the idea.
"My uncle used to hunt," Dudley said, his startling green eyes still glued to the head. "Mostly ducks, but he boasted of killing a boar once."
"Why'd he stop?" Bill asked. Wait, didn't the letter mention that Dudley's uncle was dead?
"Black ate his brain yesterday."
Right. Bill looked at the boy, at a loss. "I'm sorry," he said softly.
Dudley just shrugged, a complicated flurry of emotions flickering across his face. Most of those had no place on a child this young.
Aberforth brought in a full English for Dudley and a coffee for him. "Don't expect anything like you got used to abroad," he said gruffly. "This is a proud British pub."
Despite his words, the brew was rich and flavourful, with just the right ratio of bitterness and acidity. Aurelius had brought a state-of-the-art enchanted coffee machine from Milano years ago, even though Aberforth still complained that it was too modern and too complicated to use, and threatened to chuck it to the goats every time Bill visited. He still kept it in the kitchen, of course, sleek chrome and cups hovering like a Ferris wheel next to a huffy Victorian oven. Aurelius himself stepped so rarely on British soil these days.
Bill watched Dudley tuck in, trying not to gorge himself on the food and not entirely succeeding. The boy was way too thin. A very Molly thought, Bill caught himself wryly, but not at all untrue. He let Dudley eat in silence and leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee until the boy finished. Dudley's round glasses kept sliding down his nose, and Bill wondered whether they had ever been a good fit.
"I'd offer you some pudding," he said, "but the only thing you can get here resembling a dessert is a goat cheese plate."
"No, thanks," Dudley said politely, without making a disgusted face at the idea of a goat cheese dessert as Ron or Ginny would. "I'm full."
The silence stretched some more, but Bill was a Curse-Breaker. Patience was one of his strongest suits. He was rewarded for it when Dudley started talking, first haltingly, and then it was as if a dam broke. Some of it was still censored, Bill was sure, but he didn't know him well enough yet to know exactly what.
The boy was a bright little thing, insightful and kind, and Bill couldn't comprehend how anyone could choose to hurt him. An orphan. Getting him back to his grieving, magic-hating aunt would be irresponsible at best and possibly an act of cruelty. Even loving Muggle families were often ill-equipped to handle a magical child, and from everything Dudley had told and omitted, Bill suspected that his was everything but. When asked about the names of his parents—one or both might be wizards, even if Dudley didn't know that—he clammed up, whether because he didn't know them or didn't trust Bill yet. Bill promised himself to earn it. His globe-trotting life had no place for a child, of course, but maybe the Burrow was big enough for another. Today Mum and Dad had their hands full meeting his brothers, but he would speak to them tomorrow. He had promised to be there for lunch anyway.
"So what do you think, can Black get better?" Dudley asked.
"Most would say that it's impossible."
"But he recognised me and almost spoke once! He's not always a mindless zombie."
Bill tapped his finger on his lip. Dudley's attachment to Black was a bit concerning, but he might be onto something here. Inferi he had met in Egyptian tombs had been mindless beasts that assaulted any living being that came their way. They weren't the types to ride patiently in a carriage with school kids.
He shuddered at the thought. Anything, anything could have happened. Perhaps a talk about recklessness and stranger danger was overdue with the twins.
"There are two types of Inferi," he said finally. "A dark witch or wizard may animate a dead body to do their bidding. Although they wear a human face, their soul and magic are long gone, and they are nothing but puppets for their master. Without direct orders, they will aimlessly attack anything that moves too close." He wondered if he was adding to the nightmares Dudley was sure to have. On the other hand, his mother's philosophy of coddling children by shutting down any topic she deemed remotely not child-friendly—it was a long, long list, and death was right on top of it—was a source of their many disagreements. After everything Dudley had gone through, he deserved some honesty.
"In the movie I saw, zombies were created by biting," Dudley said.
"That's the second type. An Inferius bite means almost certain death, and those who die that way return as Inferi themselves, unless their brain is damaged beyond repair. These are just as aggressive and mindless but completely uncontrollable."
"But Black isn't like that! I mean, he's not running around eating just everyone. This morning he was trying to talk to me, I swear!"
"He does seem a bit more independent than one would expect from an Inferi." Bill tapped the side of his long-cold cup.
"Is he the first type, then? Someone's controlling him?"
"No. In that case, their master would have to be nearby at all times, commanding them directly. They aren't capable of following anything but the simplest orders."
Dudley was thoughtful for a moment. "Does that mean Black is the first one to get better?"
Bill looked at him seriously. "Magic is capable of many wonders, and there are very few rules without loopholes and backdoors for those daring and inventive enough. Death is one of them. The dead stay dead, and there's nothing you can do about it." Dudley's face was solemn, and Bill wondered if he was thinking about his parents. "But sometimes... Please understand that it's mostly the realm of stories and hearsay; you can't exactly gather volunteers for a peer-reviewed study here as if it were a new Skele-Gro formula. Anyway, they say that sometimes the soul clings to a body after turning and refuses to move on, perhaps if it's stubborn enough and has some unfinished business. Not unlike ghosts, although those don't have a physical body, of course."
"Ghosts are real?" Dudley asked. "Fred and George said there were some in the Shrieking Shack, but I wasn't sure if they were pulling my leg."
"Ghosts are very real. I don't know about the Shack, but Hogwarts has quite a few. Most of them are friendly and open to chat. I always liked my old house ghost, Nearly-Headless Nick, and the Fat Friar is always a hoot."
"Nearly-Headless?"
"It's a story you have to ask him about once you're at Hogwarts."
"So have you met any Inferi that were... alive?"
"Undead would be a proper term. And I'm not sure. There were rumours about a consultant we had on our digs in Egypt when I apprenticed there." Hushed voices followed Saif whenever he appeared—a vampire, a djinn, a qutrub, a revenant. Nobody knew exactly what he was. Some said he was a thief caught in the magical defences of Pharaoh Tutankhamun's tomb centuries ago, and death was often not the end in places like that. Whatever he had become, he was freed when the unsuspecting British Muggles foolishly disturbed the tomb in the 1920s, unleashing countless horrors that took Egyptian wizards years and years to wrangle. Saif's skin was bluish and unwrinkled, and he had a disturbing habit of popping his fingers at unnatural angles, perhaps to mess with the gossipers and newbies like Bill. Whatever other dark secrets he carried, the man was a font of knowledge about ancient curses and dead languages.
"Can you ask him?" Dudley asked.
"I can try writing to him. It's not the sort of thing people discuss openly."
Dudley nodded sagely. "If he ate some archaeologists, he wouldn't want anyone to know."
A snake peeked out of Dudley's folded robe, causing Bill to reach for his wand, even though he knew from Dudley's story that she was around. Oblivious to his distress, Dudley smiled at it—an actual horned serpent, Charlie would be chuffed—and let out a series of hisses. Bill had met a couple of Parselmouths and knew enough not to attribute any dark qualities to the trait, but the sound still sent shivers down his spine. The boy and the snake hissed back and forth, relaxed, as if it was just a language like any other. Perhaps it was.
Dudley glanced at him, his smile wilting a little. Maybe Bill couldn't control his expression as well as he thought he could.
"Slithers is not dangerous," he said defensively. "She is bored and heard some mice, but she's not actually hungry, so I got her to promise to stay put."
"Horned serpents have enough venom to kill a horse in approximately thirty seconds," Bill recited a piece of his brother's animal trivia. "But I trust you to keep an eye on her until we find a proper enclosure."
"She doesn't need to be kept in a small box," Dudley said, petting the snake's head where the scales met the horn. She tolerated it for a few moments before disappearing back into the folds.
"Her species is native to South America. You should ask her, but I'm sure she'd be much happier in a place with proper temperature and humidity."
Dudley stared glumly at the table. When he looked up at Bill, his jaw was set. "Well, I don't have anywhere to keep an enclosure. I'm not going back to my Aunt's. Not that she'd ever allow me to have any pets."
"Alright," Bill said evenly. "You can stay with me for now, and then we can look for a good magical home for you. I have a huge family, so trust me, we'll find something." And once he learned Dudley's parents' names, he could search for his other family.
Dudley bit his lips and hissed something to his snake again, who hissed back. "Slithers thinks I should go with you," he said.
"Smart snake."
"What about Black?"
What about Black, indeed. "I don't think my landlord would be happy with him in his current condition. Let's leave him here with Aberforth while I do some research." Abe wouldn't be pleased with the arrangement either, but it was better than housing the Inferius in his tiny one-bedroom apartment at the same time as a child.
"What if Black attacks him?"
"Don't worry about that. Aberforth can take care of himself." People always overlooked Abe, comparing him to his brilliant brother. Aberforth Dumbledore might not be the defeater of Grindelwald, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot or Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, but he was a capable wizard in his own right. Stronger than others—even the said brother—gave a simple innkeeper credit for.
"Okay," Dudley said quietly, looking shy all of a sudden in contrast to his earlier inquisitive disposition, and scooped his snake up.
And to think of it, he had actually expected his stay on the home soil to be boring and uneventful, Bill mused as he tried to calculate whether first-time apparition or flooing would be less likely to end with the kid's breakfast on the floor, or if he should just call the Knight Bus.