Lumos

Chapter Fifty-Seven: "Inheritance" (II)

Bill cast George a thin smile before trudging to Gable.

"What's this?" George asked.

"Another quick jaunt," Bill whispered. "Not a big thing."

Arthur shifted to offer an embrace, but George faltered. "Dad?"

"I'll be back soon," Mr. Weasley said. "But we've got things to see to."

"Rubbish to explode," Bill lilted.

"Bill." George's voice went hoarse.

"Few days," Bill said. "Maybe a week. We've got to get Cousin Vincent moved out of that safehouse before it falls down around them."

George's mouth dropped open, and he swiveled between them. "But—"

Bill tilted his head. "It'll be alright, Georgie."

"How's it alright?" George hissed. "You can't say that. You can't know that."

A dull thud echoed in the left-hand corridor, and Fred appeared in the hallway, frantically tugging boots onto his feet. A bag hung off his shoulder, and Angie's form showed in a silhouette in the couple's bedroom door frame.

"I'm almost done," Fred whisper-called, tripping down the hall.

Arthur adjusted a patch on his uniform with a "Medic" rune stitched into it over the bicep. "Fred—"

George's hands started to shake.

"Your house will be protected," Gable repeated, more softly. Then he turned to Fred. "Not you."

Fred's face contorted. "I slept it off. I'm fine."

"No. Winky says you're to watch for rain," Gable said.

Fred's jaw flexed.

Gable turned to Hermione. "Was anything to pass along?"

Hermione blinked.

Oh!

She hurried to her notepad in the living room, tearing a few sheets free. "It's really quite a mess, mostly notes, and the language needs polishing, but I thought Kingsley might want a follow-up statement, or—"

"Percival will have a look," Gable said. "Thank you."

He took the papers, folded them in half twice, then fit them into his bag. "Read the letter," he said.

With no further hints, Gable winked, then cracked into thin air, taking Bill and Mr. Weasley with him.

George swayed.

He caught himself against the counter and stared down at the wasted baking project, now half-filled with mucky suds as it floated in the basin.

"There's a war, George," Fred said.

"I know," George barked. "I know."

George didn't move from his place over the wasted carrot cake batter.

Arms locked, and face gaunt and strained.

But he wasn't looking in the mixing bowl.

He was looking at the water.

#

July 22, 2003, 10:57 a.m.

It took most of the morning to decode Aberforth's letter. Rather than the rough symbols that Ron's post had used, Aberforth's was mostly invisible until they cracked the rune riddle in the center of the page.

Then, plain, brittle English flourished over the pages.

The contents were less than thrilling.

A scathing lecture, complete with dry sarcasm. Like the Daydream Charm, but more verbose. As if Aberforth had stored up the energy to unleash it.