The fourth of July. A day like any other, really. True, it happens to be my birthday, but I'm not particularly inclined to celebrate, and few people even know the date. God, I'm just like Hermione in that regard. My little sister never bothered telling anyone at school that her birthday was in September either, and doesn't make much of a fuss about it.
Still, that morning, after my physical exercises in the back garden and the usual accompanying business — shower included — I came downstairs to find the family assembled in the dining room around a small cake. No fuss, no fanfare.
— Well, it seems I won't be escaping congratulations after all, — I said with a smile, glancing down at my perfectly ordinary home attire of plain trousers and a t-shirt. — And here I am, not even dressed for the occasion.
— Oh, come on, — my parents smiled. — We've already figured out that you, just like Hermione, aren't particularly fond of this sort of thing.
— Fair enough, — I sat down at the table.
— But we can't do without a small formality — that's just how things are done in this house, — Mum smiled. — So then. Happy birthday.
— Tea, everyone! — Hermione glanced at the cake with poorly concealed anticipation.
— Yes, yes, — I nodded, beginning to cut the cake. — It's just about time for tea.
After a small and pleasantly peaceful family tea, we decided to make a trip to London, to a shopping centre, and pick up a few things I needed. My attempts to assert my independence by handling the financial side of the shopping myself met with complete failure in the face of my parents' invariable argument:
— We don't need our children's money to indulge our own whims, — Dad said.
— But you want to buy things for me.
— But it's we who want to, not you. And not only for you — for Hermione as well.
And so the whole family set off to London to go shopping. We could have bought everything in Crawley, of course, but that prospect held no appeal for my parents, who only came to London on business or for the occasional personal treat. And here was a perfect excuse to go absolutely everywhere — not to be missed. In short, we spent practically the whole morning, right up until lunch and my appointment with Daphne, on a family shopping circuit. My parents entertained themselves by trying to dress me up in various things — or at least attempting to. Hermione assumed this was causing me distress and took a certain sisterly satisfaction in it: Not just me suffering for once.
What I find particularly amusing about Hermione is her fervent rejection of certain "typically feminine" values. Clothing, for instance. Under the guise of practicality, my little sister adores wearing all manner of unisex things, and constantly tries — often successfully, to her credit — to project an image of independence and self-sufficiency. Any "girly" sensibility, anything soft or sweetly romantic, she tries to stamp out at the root, though only when she manages to catch herself in the act. The only question is: who is she trying to prove something to, and what? Given her near-perfect memory and a rather sharp mind, the answer is: only to herself.
By lunchtime I was obliged to leave the company of my bustling relatives and make my way to meet Daphne. My father offered to drive me to the Leaky Cauldron, simply because we happened to be close to the pub. Though I suspect my parents were simply curious about this "Daphne" and were hoping we might emerge into the non-magical part of London. Not certain, but quite plausible.
Dad parked the Range Rover across the road from the Leaky Cauldron.
— Here we are, — he turned to face me and Hermione, sitting in the back.
— I do appreciate it, — I straightened the cuffs of my light summer jacket — dark navy fabric, simple cut — and adjusted my rucksack strap before glancing at my parents. — But it really wasn't necessary. I could have just Apparated.
— But where's the fun in that?
— It would've given you more time to spend on Mione, at least.
— Me?
— You've been rather pleased with yourself all morning, not being the one getting dressed up in things.
— Well…
— What a wonderful idea, — Mum smiled from the front seat.
— But… — Hermione looked, for just a moment, like a cornered animal. — I've got everything I need, I don't want anything…
— But you wouldn't want to disappoint Mum and Dad, would you? — I smiled, and made my exit promptly, giving a parting wave.
— Ambush… — my little sister's voice floated after me.
I looked both ways, confirmed no cars were coming, and crossed the road at an easy pace, stepping into our beloved wizarding pub.
The atmosphere was, as ever, that of a gloomy medieval tavern. A small number of witches and wizards sat apart at separate tables, nursing tea or something stronger. A few had dropped in for lunch, or simply to share gossip and personal grievances. What was amusing, though, was that against the general backdrop of gloom pervading Diagon Alley and the Leaky Cauldron itself, the wizards had somehow started to look more presentable and well-kept. Which raised two rather obvious questions, given that these were mostly the same people who had spent years paying precious little attention to their appearance for one reason or another: what was the occasion, and where had the money come from?
But honestly, I couldn't care less about the fortunes of these people. Truth be told, I couldn't care less about most things, though I really ought to be more… inspired by life, so to speak. Probably. Or perhaps not. I'm unlikely to discover anything new on that front, and most of youth's diversions are simply a waste of time — a way to tickle the brain's pleasure centre and fuel hormonal surges that, in my case, are considerably more stable than average, with none of the usual jagged peaks and valleys of adolescent body chemistry.
Passing the bar and giving a polite nod to Tom the ever-present landlord, I made my way through to the back courtyard, and from there into Diagon Alley.
Gloomy. Far too gloomy. No desire to linger here at all. Perhaps I ought to stroll down the street casting a particularly robust Patronus — not to spread this grey, oppressive misery, but something rather more uplifting.
I looked around, then set off towards Florean Fortescue's. There was no need to weave through crowds — there were precious few people about. The colourful robes in every conceivable style and cut were no feast for the eyes, adding to one's general unease — everyone was dressed conservatively and practically.
Stepping into the café, I spotted Daphne immediately, seated at one of the tables. She had evidently succumbed to the prevailing gloomy fashion, though she had never been known for wearing bright or eye-catching colours to begin with. A dress and robe in dark shades of blue, her black hair worn loose, a cup of tea in hand.
— Hello, — I sat down across from her with a smile. — You look wonderful. Though that's hardly news.
— Thank you, — Daphne nodded, smiling. — You're dressed like an ordinary person today, I see.
— Indeed. Family shopping trip. Clothes were on the list.
— I've never noticed any particular inclination in you toward changing your wardrobe. Though one can't deny you have your own distinctive sense of style.
— Something wrong with my sense of style?
— Quite the opposite. I don't follow fashion closely, but my parents instilled some appreciation for it. Fashion is changeable. The classics are eternal.
— Agreed, — I couldn't help but agree — it had been true in every world and era my shards had ever lived through. — Which is why I tend to favour dark navy, suits, or at the very least something in the same spirit.
My new jacket, for instance, was rather austere in its design, with no trace of current fashionable trends. Clothing, really, is not something worth chasing in terms of styles and designs. Ideally, it should simply appeal to you, reflect your own sensibility — and even if you end up looking like a mad hatter, you'll carry it naturally. And of course there's one other factor that can't be overlooked: a person who is genuinely healthy and well looks perfectly natural in just about anything. Someone who is ill — and therefore wan — is very difficult to improve with clothing alone.
— My thoughts have wandered somewhere rather off the point, talking about clothes, — I smiled, and ordered a cup of tea with barely-sweetened pastries, and for dessert, naturally, ice cream. — I hope you don't mind a small bite to eat. A day traipsing around London with the family is rather exhausting.
— I deliberately didn't have lunch so I could keep you company, — Daphne nodded. — I knew you'd want something to eat.
Our order arrived before long. Over tea and pastries we talked on various unrelated topics — the general atmosphere around them, some rumour about one wizard or another's latest antics.
— I see Pansy has decided to spend time with your sister?
— You are observant, — Daphne hid a smile behind her teacup, with a slight note of amusement. — Yes, she decided to stay home with Astoria. They get along remarkably well. It even provokes a mild… jealousy.
— Jealousy?
— Yes. And I can't quite work out who towards whom, — Daphne gazed thoughtfully out of the café window, but finding nothing on those grey streets to hold her attention, looked back at me. — Whether I'm jealous of my sister for having my best friend, or of my best friend for having my sister.
— Perhaps both at once?
— Hm? — Daphne considered this, taking her cup in both hands. — I hadn't thought of it in those terms.
After eating, we left Florean Fortescue's, though the gloom of Diagon Alley was thoroughly killing any good mood.
— The other streets aren't any better, — Daphne remarked as we passed Ollivanders.
— A genuine threat to our afternoon. Perhaps ordinary London, then — at least on the magical streets one can only expire of sheer despondency.
— We could, but am I dressed appropriately?
I looked Daphne over again and found only one element that didn't quite fit the concept of "ordinary" — the robe. But given that it was tailored in the French style, fitted, cut close to the figure, and really looked more like a very fine coat or cape, there was no real problem there either.
— I believe I've mentioned before that even simply neat clothing looks perfectly normal in the ordinary world. Take my word for it — there are no fewer eccentrics out there, and even if we stand out, most people, on the whole, won't care. But you could simply take off the robe. Or we could go under a Muggle-repelling charm.
— Quite right, — Daphne agreed, smoothing non-existent creases from her sleeves. — One falls into the habit of thinking as… as one is expected to think. Shall we?
Smiling, Daphne took my hand, and we walked toward the Leaky Cauldron. Except we didn't quite make it.
— Hector! — those two voices are unmistakable, anywhere and anytime.
Outside the twins' shop — still closed, not yet ready for customers — stood the twins themselves, holding enormous boxes. The boxes didn't look heavy — they'd almost certainly been charmed to reduce their weight, or something of the sort.
— Hey lads, — I waved my free hand and glanced at Daphne. — Shall we?
— Why not. That's certainly more interesting than walking these dismal streets.
In the short ten metres or so between us and the twins, they set the boxes down on the doorstep and turned to face us. They looked… absolutely identical in their matching brown suits. In the past, they had made a deliberate point of incorporating small distinguishing details into their appearances, and then — once people grew accustomed to those — would swap them to throw people off. Now, apparently, their new philosophy was one of absolute indistinguishability.
— Hello, hello, you two lovebirds, — Fred extended his hand, then George, and I shook both. — Taking a stroll down these dreary cobbled streets?
They greeted Daphne as well, though with nothing more than a nod.
— How familiar, — Daphne, out of habit, pulled on her mask of expressionlessness — though not a full one, perhaps seventy percent — and if one looked carefully, one could still make out the faint sardonic smirk beneath.
— You can't fool us, — the twins were smiling, though only Fred was speaking. — We can see right through potential customers…
— …otherwise we'd be in a sorry state…
— …and if the young lady truly felt any genuine displeasure at such a thing…
— …we would conduct ourselves strictly within the bounds of propriety.
— How do people put up with you and that manner of speaking, — I shook my head, unable to suppress a smile.
— How do you always know which of us is Fred and which is George? — Fred's question was rhetorical; I'd answered it more than once. I can feel it.
— I can feel it, — I said it anyway, and the twins said it at the same moment I did: He can feel it. — And you're your own removal men, I see?
— The Floo connection's not being hooked up until tomorrow, — George lamented. — The bureaucratic red tape of it all is enough to drive you to despair. And with everyone on edge, the Ministry's busier than ever.
— You could Apparate, — Daphne didn't see the problem.
— No thank you, — the twins shook their heads simultaneously and exchanged a glance. — They're trying to be the death of us.
— Can't manage it? — a smirk crept onto my face.
— Oh, we can manage it well enough, — George replied. — It's just that the loads are large and heavy, absolutely crammed with magic from top to bottom. Personally, I've no desire to Apparate and arrive to find the contents of a box where my internal organs used to be.
— By the way, — Fred leaned forward. — Come and see us. We need to have a proper talk.
— Why not now? You could show us around while you're at it.
— Ah, no, brother-magnate, our shop is a work of art!…
— …one thing to invite a business partner in for a chat…
— …quite another to show an unfinished masterpiece to young ladies…
— …or friends…
— …or friends of young ladies…
— …or young ladies of friends…
— …or parents — one's own, or friends'…
— …or, heaven forbid, parents of young ladies.
— So in short, only when I'm alone may I enter your inner sanctum?
— No offence, — they answered in unison, glancing at Daphne, with George continuing the thought. — But the moment everything's ready — you'll be our first, exclusive visitors.
— Why are you doing all the carrying yourselves, anyway? — my gaze fell on the boxes sitting on the shop steps. — Haven't you got a layabout at home? You could take him on as a casual labourer for the duration. Ron'd earn himself some money into the bargain.
The twins exchanged a glance and replied, without malice, in an amused tone:
— He thinks he's very clever, — then turned back to us, with Fred taking the floor. — Ronnie is an irredeemable lazybones and a lump. The only person who can make him do anything is Mum, and only under threat of being cut off from the food supply…
— …and he's in no position to source his own provisions, — George finished. — We tried. Offered him money. But he couldn't be bothered, apparently — magazines don't read themselves, Quidditch doesn't play itself…
— …besides, he's supposedly training with Ginny. Ah well, he'll come asking for a discount. Family price.
The twins smiled with thoroughly calculated cunning.
— And there I was thinking you two loved playing tricks on him.
— We do, — Daphne's mask shifted into something slyly amused, revealing only a portion of what was actually going through her mind. Moments like these are when you understand precisely how close to someone's inner circle you've been admitted — and that's rather disarming. — Some of your escapades have become school legend.
— His own fault, — Fred shrugged. — But we've decided there's no point winding him up any further. His greed and laziness will guarantee he comes asking for a discount on our products. That's when we'll have our revenge for his complete and utter refusal to help.
— If he'd just asked for free things outright, fair enough! — George protested. — In short, no one helps us except Mum. Though her help is worth incomparably more. Who else can cook the best home food in existence?
— Hector, — Fred's face took on a considerably more serious expression as he stepped closer, while George conjured an invisible soundproofing dome around us, one that didn't warp the space inside. — There's something important.
— I'm listening, — I matched his tone.
— From a reliable source — you know the one…
I nodded.
— …we've learned something very significant. You-Know-Who is attempting to take the Minister and the Ministry by blackmail.
— What kind?
— Simple. Either Crouch steps down and hands his authority over to You-Know-Who — disbanding his entire apparatus in favour of You-Know-Who's supporters — or You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters begin killing Muggles. In large numbers.
— Large numbers? — I frowned without meaning to. — Are the projected scale or locations known?
— Nothing to say on that, — Fred shook his head. — The entire Auror Office and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement have been running themselves ragged searching for You-Know-Who, and… well, everyone. Werewolves, giants, Dementors, all manner of dark creatures — all vanished, as if they'd sunk into the earth.
— Word is, — George joined the conversation, — the Dementors are still making themselves faintly known, but without fatalities. Flying around here and there, spreading misery, moving on. Charlie — our brother…
The twins seemed to want to explain, but I remembered.
— I remember. Magical zoologist. Works at the Romanian dragon reserve.
— Right, yes, — the twins nodded simultaneously, and George — the one who'd begun — continued: — He writes that given the enormous Dementor population and the widespread low spirits, the constant poor weather — they're clearly breeding. The fog around the islands lately has been unusual. One should be wary of fog and stay on guard. And in general…
— Yes, quite right — in general, — I agreed. — I'll pass the word to my contacts who live in the ordinary world. Crouch will never capitulate to the Dark Lord. And the Dark Lord won't devalue his own word. This is… problematic. How long ago did the Dark Lord issue this ultimatum, and why has it been kept so quiet?
— How long ago? — the twins exchanged a glance.
Daphne squeezed my hand a little more tightly — a show of support. Thoughtful, even if I don't strictly need it. The gesture itself is what matters, I think.
— We found out today, — George rubbed his chin thoughtfully. — Our source found out yesterday. The information came from Minister Crouch yesterday as well. If one assumes You-Know-Who conducts his affairs at night…
— Understood. I don't think the Dark Lord will give more than a week to deliberate.
— Why do you think that? — Daphne turned to look at me.
The twins were equally interested in the answer.
— Because I wouldn't give more. Right then, lads — we won't keep you any longer. I'll try to look in on you in the next few days, — I clapped Fred on the shoulder — he happened to be closest — and Daphne and I headed for the Leaky Cauldron. — And make sure you write when you're ready to open. We'll come bearing tea and biscuits.
— What about a drop of whisky? — Fred called after us.
— No, I don't like clouding my mind.
Once we'd walked a couple of metres away, Daphne asked:
— I know why I don't like clouding my mind. What are your reasons?
— Everything I have, I've got through it. More than that — I'm alive because of it. To devalue it by getting drunk doesn't strike me as a particularly good way of showing gratitude to oneself.
The Leaky Cauldron met us with a certain forlorn emptiness. The lunchtime crowd had dispersed and gone about their business; only a handful of long-term guests — there were rooms to let on the second and third floors — sat at separate tables, occupied with their own affairs. The barman didn't so much as properly glance in our direction, let alone ask where we were going or why, so we stepped out into ordinary London without incident.
— Gone, — I noted quietly, finding no sign of my parents' car on the other side of the road.
— Who?
— Mum and Dad, and Hermione. They insisted on driving me here even though there was no reason for it. I even suspected they were hoping to catch a glimpse of you — they're terribly curious about this "Daphne" I keep mentioning, the one my sister isn't particularly fond of.
— Is that so? — the girl smiled with quiet cunning, glancing sidelong at the shops on the ground floors of the buildings around them. — So you mention me to your parents fairly often?
— They ask, so I tell them. And Hermione sulks.
— Well, when she has a boyfriend, you won't exactly be over the moon either. I can't even imagine what I'll do when Astoria has a young man, — Daphne looked thoughtful, though there was something distinctly manic about her smile at the same time.
— He'll come to a bad end, judging by that look on your face.
— Not impossible.
Setting aside thoughts that had no business being here right now — and once again commending myself for having ensured my parents and Hermione were equipped with every conceivable protection I could think of — I set off with Daphne for a proper walk around the city, quietly grateful that she had at least a passing familiarity with the ordinary world, contrary to the popular assumption about how much wizarding folk generally know about such things.
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