The holidays passed in quiet, peace, in the family circle.
A rest from the daily school bustle, from prefect duties, from all of it. Wonderful days. My parents and I went into London several times, visited the theatre, walked without particular purpose, talking about everything — including news from the ordinary world.
Did I speak to my parents about the danger from the wizarding world? Not directly. I simply indicated that things were unsettled and unclear on our side of things, and that a degree of alertness was warranted. Where Hermione's words tended to be received as a teenager's opinion, my habit of presenting thoughts and conclusions in a measured, serious tone seemed to have served me better — the information landed. But I didn't speak of genuine danger, and I certainly didn't suggest they go anywhere. The reason was simple: the further away they were, the harder it would be to protect them if something actually happened.
The house had its wards, and they were good. Dark Magic, like any other, wouldn't pass through them. My parents had personal protection of my making — it worked, and at any moment I could take direct control of the sharp flying trinkets and reduce any threat to very small pieces. In an extreme case I could Apparate, or arrive as a phoenix. But if my parents left, my options would narrow sharply, and whether hostile wizards could reach them elsewhere was an open question. So no — better they stayed here, in comfortable partial ignorance, while I took care of the rest, as I always had.
But could it really be that a full week and a half passed without anything of note? Well — not quite, if one counted the minor upheaval in the wizarding world over the identity of the new Minister for Magic. Bartemius Crouch Senior. Expected, in its way, but still remarkable given that his candidacy had been rejected before, on account of his son having been a Death Eater — quite the story. Yet according to the papers, it was precisely he — hard, immovable, decisive, and above all with nothing left to lose, no family, no children — who was the obvious choice. In the past, as I understood it, his allies and supporters hadn't dared turn his son's Death Eater status to their advantage. Now everyone had remembered it — and the framing had reversed entirely. Where before people said how can you trust a country to a man who couldn't manage his own family, now they said he gave everything to the people and to the country, and that is why it happened. And the crucial point, in Hermione's view, was that Minister Crouch did not deny Voldemort's return.
At this time there is no evidence confirming whether You-Know-Who has or has not returned, the Daily Prophet quoted the Minister. However, we must acknowledge the possibility. Acknowledge it, and begin preparations. Take every measure available in case it is true. We cannot afford to be wrong. A fairly sound position, as far as I was concerned. But that wasn't the event I was referring to.
On the evening before my return to Hogwarts, I received a letter from Monsieur Delacour. He was requesting a meeting. I had no reason to decline. I put on the suit-fabric — I ought to check on the sapling that produced it, actually; I'd created it, taken what I needed, and completely neglected it since — configured it as a dark navy three-piece, added a black winter coat, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and went to the address given in my reply.
The destination turned out to be an ordinary restaurant. Not expensive, but not a roadside café either. Somewhat predictably, it was near Soho.
Inside — a bright, moderately respectable, modern establishment — I met the gaze of a young woman in a formal skirt suit. We exchanged the standard pleasantries, I gave my name, and was shown to the table.
Monsieur Delacour was seated at a standard table with a white cloth, looking out of the window — the table was positioned right beside it — and clearly waiting for me. What could I say? He wasn't getting any younger — that was one thing. His wife and daughters were absent — that was another. He was no poorer, and possibly rather the opposite — visible in his clothes and his general bearing.
"Monsieur Delacour," I said, with a smile, hanging my coat on the hook by the door — the restaurant was small, and the absence of a cloakroom struck me as the right decision. "Good to see you in good health."
"Monsieur Granger," the not-so-young wizard smiled back. "Very, very pleased to see you. Please, sit? I hope you're hungry and will join me?"
"I've probably given everyone the same answer by now, but — I'm a growing organism. I'm always hungry."
"Ah, youth! What a wonderful thing."
We placed a substantial order, ate well, punctuating it occasionally with a remark or two about this and that, and only after all of that arrived at the actual matter for which Monsieur Delacour had asked to meet.
"I have some rather disagreeable news, Monsieur Granger."
"The inspector general is coming to town?"
The Frenchman required approximately two seconds to place the reference. It was a good thing that even magical schools taught literature — classics, including foreign ones — otherwise conversing with narrow-minded and poorly-read wizards would be on par with torture.
"I'd welcome an inspector general at this point," said Monsieur Delacour, shaking his head with a sad smile. "The matter concerns the land — you know which."
I made a small gesture and raised an invisible barrier — one that distorted words and prevented lip-reading.
"The land purchased with my assistance?"
"Precisely."
My companion clearly needed to collect his thoughts, which he'd been doing throughout the meal, giving proper attention to English cooking and its considerable differences from French.
"Considerable pressure is being applied to me. They want me to surrender those lands and the production on them for virtually nothing."
"Who?"
"I cannot say," Delacour said, going slightly pale.
"Allow me to guess," I said pleasantly. "The Dark Lord, Nott, and associated Death Eaters?"
"No, no, certainly not," he said — while his expression communicated something entirely different, and rather unmistakably.
"And how did you respond?"
"I indicated that the land does not, in practical terms, belong to me. Under the terms of our agreement."
"Elegant," I said, with a nod.
"No — I did not reveal your identity, Monsieur Granger," Delacour said quickly, misreading my single word as something else entirely.
"Don't concern yourself with that. Since you asked for a meeting, I assume you have some proposal?"
"Indeed," said Delacour, his expression brightening. "I propose that we execute the terms of our agreement now."
"Meaning — sell the land at the price you originally paid for it, to whomever I specify?"
"Yes, Monsieur Granger," Delacour said, smiling and nodding.
"I have no particular objection," I said, leaning back in my chair with a slight shrug. "I hope you've extracted everything of value from the land in the meantime."
"Oh, yes." Delacour leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "I anticipated potential complications — there were already certain unhealthy rumours circulating at the time. Through those lands we absorbed some interesting techniques, and established a small joint venture with a compatriot of mine — the foundation, as it were, for everything going forward."
"Excellent."
The clever Frenchman had decided to rid himself of the source of the problem. I couldn't blame him. It seemed I wouldn't be holding the land as long as I'd planned.
"What do you think of the arrangement?"
"Does it not concern you, Monsieur Delacour, that the wizards who threatened you won't simply stop once the land is out of your hands?"
"Don't worry on that account," said Delacour — he'd evidently anticipated this question. "There are solutions available that are safe for everyone and satisfactory to all parties."
"You know best," I said, with a nod. "Very well. Under the terms of the agreement — I'd like the land sold to me."
"To you?" Delacour was genuinely surprised. "But... what would be the point?"
"That isn't really relevant," I said, with a smile. "So?"
"Well... if that is what you want..."
We spent half an hour drawing up a new agreement, concluding the old one, and arranging for Delacour to handle the Ministry paperwork — he agreed to do so without charge, so eager was he to be free of the land. The whole thing moved quickly enough. The fact that we were signing documents with a quill attracted no attention whatsoever from the other diners or the staff — magic, a formidable force.
"How soon should I expect a visit from unwanted wizards?" I asked, passing over the money and tucking my copy of the new agreement into my rucksack.
"Within a week, I'd estimate. That's how much time remained before these distinguished gentlemen were due to call again," Delacour said — his tone doing remarkable work with those two words, leaving no doubt as to his opinion of the gentlemen in question.
"And how quickly will the Ministry paperwork be settled?"
"Tomorrow, Monsieur Granger. Tomorrow. You'll arrive at Hogwarts and receive confirmation by owl shortly after."
"In that case," we rose from the table, and I extended my hand, "I'm relying on you in this matter."
"But of course, Monsieur Granger," the Frenchman shook it. "But of course. I'm glad we've reached an understanding. With your permission, I'll remain a little longer in this fine establishment."
It seemed he intended to settle the bill as well — or would see to it by magical means. Wizards had a remarkably flexible conscience where ordinary people were concerned, whatever their stated position on blood purity or Muggle sympathy. Everyone wanted to get one over on someone.
I left the restaurant with mixed feelings, and walked through the evening London streets while the overcast sky burned orange with light pollution, people moving around me still somewhere in the midst of Christmas, looking at the bright lights and the passing cars.
I was thinking about how exactly to play this card. The mixed feelings had been produced by the Nott lands themselves. On one hand, I had no intention of making use of them directly — they were simply a resource. It didn't matter to me whether I received them now, in an hour, or in years. Getting them sooner was fine.
On the other hand, the Dark Lord had apparently decided to assist Nott through the return of those lands. They were likely pursuing two ends simultaneously — restoring some semblance of the Nott family's standing, and perhaps restablishing their agreements with the Greengrasses. In which case, since the Greengrasses had in fact shown genuine interest in those lands, perhaps they were the right card to play here. Worth thinking through — but there was no rush. For now, home. Tomorrow morning, the Hogwarts Express waited for Hermione and me, which meant making the most of what remained of the home atmosphere.
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