Lumos

Chapter Fifty-Seven: "Inheritance" (II)

But without more context, Hermione couldn't fault her. Especially not when she supplied a few rounds of potions meant to help, and extra that were presumably for George, who Bacri snuck more than a few concerned looks at.

At the end of the appointment, the healer smiled at George's hundredth glance at the décor and asked a question, and Fleur repeated it with a uneasy laugh: "Are you a fan of his work?"

George blinked, thrown. He opened his mouth and closed it. "Sorry?"

He'd been a thousand miles off, just then.

The healer grinned and murmured a few bars of a song that seemed to be in Italian, rather than French or English. Just a few moments of the tune, as she gestured at the memorabilia.

George tugged his hat down over his charmed-brown hair, frowning at the framed black-and-white image showing a man gesticulating over a piano at a person out of view.

The mannerisms, the glint in Dominic's eyes, the tilt of the man's head as it swooped back and he released what had to have been a deep, booming laugh—it rang of George.

"Never heard of him," George said quietly.

Fleur repeated the message.

The healer frowned and shrugged, then prattled off a stream of speech.

George swallowed and glanced at Hermione's midsection. The wrinkle between his brows deepened.

"He was a great artist," Fleur translated with a bit more resignation. "And what a terrible loss when he died so young."

His frame tightened like the sentiment had knocked into him.

George pinched his lips into a smile and lifted his head once again. "I wouldn't know," he said.

And that was the end of it. George locked tight as a vault, withdrawn more than he had been since their initial return. He said not a word on the train ride, nor the drive back. He didn't have to.

He would know what a terrible loss it had been.

What's more, she knew he saw the similarities in the photographs. Like a mirror, Dominic Maestro's image.

And there was a reason George didn't care to talk about it.

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July 22, 2003, 6:54 a.m.

Hermione squinted at the glass bowl.

Had she added the salt?

Probably.

Maybe.

She worked the spoon through the mixture, then turned to frown at the scribbled directions.

Bill hadn't remembered half the details. She could always wake George and ask, but that would rather ruin the surprise.

Was overmixing or undermixing a concern? Bread dough got tough when overworked. Was cake the same?

A pop sounded to her right. Hermione started, dropping the bowl in the sink. Batter splattered her apron and face, and she cried out.

Gable stood in the kitchen, silver curls falling over his eyes.

Hermione pressed her hand to her chest, gasping.

Polished, steel armor curved over his frame, hugging his fatigues beneath. The look of it—just like the history books. Like the statues. Gable Grinkit appeared like he might've leapt from an oil painting. Well, save for the knit cap.

He lifted a finger to his lips. A thin, pink line marked his cheek—scar tissue, healing from some fight. Perhaps hers. Somehow, the gesture was silent.