LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Four

It didn’t take long for everyone to know. In the wizarding world, word spread fast.

And once they knew, the owls came – and kept coming, dozens upon dozens of them, from all over the globe, all with a variation on that age-old message: We’re so sorry. We loved him, too.

"Do I need to answer them?" Hermione asked Arthur, and he shook his head.

"Not necessary," he said. "They know you’re grieving. They won’t expect anything back."

They both looked over at the dining-room table, now piled high with parchment envelopes. A few opened ones lay off to the side of the larger stack – Hermione had started to read them, but hadn’t had the will to continue. Nobody else seemed to want to open them, either; but for the muted swish of owl-wings at regular intervals, the soft click of beaks as the messengers paused for a post-delivery snack from the bowl of salted cashews Hermione had set out for them, the dining room was dark and empty, a shadowy mausoleum to the dead.

The rest of the house was another matter. If their friends had sent written condolences – and apparently that was the custom, in the wizarding world – the family had shown up in person en masse: Charlie, still in his work clothes, arms shiny with burn scars; Percy and Penelope with their toddler and new baby; Ron and a very pregnant Madeline-the-Hufflepuff, their wedding rings still new and shiny; graduate-student Ginny with red-rimmed eyes and a short new haircut, gripping Harry’s hand hard. The twins, their perpetual smiles forced, their merry eyes bleak.

The sadness was palpable, like another person at the table, a cold damp-eyed ghost sitting in Bill’s empty chair. Even so, the Weasleys hadn’t all been in the same place together since Ron’s wedding – and they’d never been people inclined to silence, Hermione thought. Wasn’t that one of the reasons she’d been so drawn to them? Their noisiness, their volatile emotions, their unbreakable, unshakable bond?

Somehow it seemed right that the conversation should turn away from death to life – that Percy and Arthur should trade Ministry gossip, that Charlie and Ron and Harry should wrangle over the upcoming Quidditch season, that Fred and George should be down on their knees on the living-room floor playing noisy games with little Artie, that Penelope and Madeline should trade pregnancy horror stories and coo over baby pictures. Hermione, on her way into the kitchen for a glass of water, saw Molly and Ginny deep in mother-daughter conversation over dinner preparations and backed silently away again – there was that bond again, that easy conversation, the sense of grief made more bearable for being shared.

Her own parents had offered to come, on the telephone last night, but Hermione had said ‘no’.

"There’s not going to be a funeral, Mum," she said tiredly. "Wizards don’t have funerals. They immolated him this afternoon, just the immediate family, and we all said a few words and put something into the flames. I put something in for you and Dad, too – one of the neckties you gave him last Christmas, the blue one that he liked the best." A pause while her father came to the phone; her mother was weeping too hard to continue. "The ashes? Yes, I’ve got them," Hermione said, and wondered why that sick distant feeling wouldn’t leave her. "The Mediterrenean, I think. He loved the sea."

She herself had wanted for a brief fervent moment to step into the flames herself, and might have made a motion to do so if it hadn’t been for Harry’s hand in hers, for Ron’s comforting touch at the small of her back. Just then she’d been in the middle of the Weasleys, at the innermost point of the inner circle, and had felt their love around her like a safe-harbor. To destroy herself would have been to betray that love … and so she had closed her eyes instead, and slid the rings from her cold left hand, and tossed them into the fire.

And now, their absence made her feel so naked that she wished she hadn’t done it.

**

She escaped up the stairs into the bedroom and closed the door, blocking out the sounds of conversation and argument and Artie’s high childish laughter. Someone – Ginny, probably; it was the sort of small thoughtful thing she’d think of – had gathered up all the visual evidence of Bill – his shoes, his shaving cream, the pile of his clothes in the hamper – and tucked it away somewhere where Hermione wouldn’t have to look at it. She’d changed the sheets, too; they smelled of laundry detergent, still, but not of memories.

Cleo was curled up on the bed in a loose, sprawling ball. Hermione still remembered what she’d looked like as a kitten – all dusty-grey fluff and plaintive mew, a rumbling Marlene-Dietrich purr and a predilection for salmon paté. Now she was full-grown, sleek and dun-coloured and roughly the size of a half-grown Labrador retriever; Hermione had seen her leap on more than one occasion from the open second-floor window of the bedroom, eight feet out into thin air, and land safely, smugly in the nearby orange-tree. No doubt it was that same self-preservatory leap that had saved her from sharing the same fate as Bill … by the time Hermione had reached home yesterday, after her interview with the Aurors, Cleo had been waiting for her in the upstairs hall.

She kicked off her shoes, grateful for the silence, and folded herself onto the bed, tucking her knees up under her chin and hugging her calves with locked-together hands. Her throat burned with suppressed tears. Up till now there’d been no respite – she’d tossed and turned all night, tortured with visions of fire and char behind her eyelids if she closed her eyes, and finally dragged herself out of bed an hour before sunrise, just for a moment to herself.

Quiet house, quiet kitchen – and then, a knock at the door before she’d even put the water on for tea.

It was Linchpin, Bill’s boss from Gringotts.

Hermione didn’t know the goblin well, but they’d had her to dinner on a few occasions, and she and Bill had worked together for a long time. "Hullo," she said, and stood back to let her visitor come inside.

"We regret your loss," Linchpin had said without preface, in that oddly formal tone the goblins took with most humans. "Your husband will be sorely missed at Gringotts."

"Thank you," Hermione said weakly. "You’re very kind."

An inclination of the severe little chin. "I offer my own personal condolences as well," she continued. "Bill Weasley was – honourable. I will miss him." She reached into the inside lapel pocket of her uniform jacket and drew out a leather folder and a small velvet bag. "His pension," Linchpin said, handing Hermione the passbook, and smiled faintly at Hermione’s surprise. "Whatever is said of goblins in the world of humans," she said, "we do not leave our widows alone and helpless."

She held out the velvet bag. "The passbook is official," she continued briskly, "but this is not. The department chipped in."

Wonderingly, Hermione drew the bag open and tipped the contents onto her palm: loose cut diamonds, a dozen or more, brilliantly cut and sparkling under the kitchen’s overhead light. Her jaw dropped.

"I can’t accept—" she began, but Linchpin cut her off.

"We thought of him that way, you see," she said, and to her shock, Hermione saw tears shimmering in the small close-set eyes. "Never a falsehood. Clear as sunlight. We were fortunate to know him."

Loss recognises loss, Hermione thought, wet-eyed, regardless of species. And went down on her knees to embrace the weeping goblin.

"Thank you," she murmured finally, drawing back, and Linchpin put her small clawed hands firmly on Hermione’s shoulders.

"We will avenge him," she said softly. "No matter the time, the place. No matter the person. Find the parties responsible for this, and all of Gringotts – all of the goblin world – will rise up for vengeance. I swear it to you."

We will avenge him.

They were the most comforting words Hermione had heard yet.

**

It was a week and a half before she saw the Aurors again.

She’d kept thinking back to their first conversation, back to Bullwinkle’s incisive, devastating question, the one that had stopped her in her tracks: Someone’s been telling your secrets – any guesses who? Or why?

A handful of people at the Consortium, another half-dozen at Lilly. Herself, and Bill. Hermione couldn’t speak for the American team, but the thought seemed slim – the Knights of the Golden Wand, even in their heyday, hadn’t had much of a purchase in the United States. Pure blood didn’t count for much in the Colonies, after all, be you wizard or Muggle. And the idea of any of her Consortium colleagues being her betrayer … that thought was too painful to contemplate. She’d shrugged.

"Will they try again?" she’d asked. Rocky had cocked his head to the side.

"That depends," he said. "If their goal was to halt your research and keep you from completing your project, they’ll probably be satisfied, unless you begin it again. If, on the other hand, what they want is to see you destroyed …" He lifted one shoulder. "Then they’ll try again. Hard to know for sure."

Hermione had digested this in silence. "So I may still be in danger," she’d said finally. Bullwinkle nodded.

"So it seems."

"And that," she continued slowly, "puts everyone who’s close to me at risk, as well."

Not exactly what you wanted to think about in the middle of the night, was it?

It had been that realisation, carried with her throughout the immolation ceremony, throughout the next few family-crowded days of grieving, that had made her deny her parents’ offer of company, made her send the Weasleys away. Now it was just her in the house, her and Cleo, which was simultaneously worse and better – better, not to see his red hair or hazel eyes on someone else’s face every time she turned around, not to pretend composure to keep them from worrying; worse, to haunt the empty halls, sleep in the least-used guest room, hiding from the ghosts of their shared life, and wake up to the sound of her own screaming.

Worse by far than the Priestess, this. At least then waking had been better than sleep. Now, she’d be hard-pressed to make the comparison.

Something had to give, and she was afraid it was going to be her.

"What do you think I should do?" she asked now, and got silence for an answer, eventually broken by Bullwinkle clearing his throat.

"The Ministry," he said quietly, "suggests that you leave the country, at least temporarily, and that you maintain a certain distance from your family – if only for their, and your, protection." He met her eyes for a moment, holding her bleak gaze with his own. "You’ve made powerful friends, Mrs. Weasley. We’ve already heard from Albus Dumbledore. And from His Royal Highness, Farouk al-Hussein of Jordan. I believe you spent some time at his residence in Alexandria a few years ago?"

Hermione nodded. "I knew his great-niece in school," she said. "She was one of my bridesmaids."

"Ah, yes. The Princess Fatima." Bullwinkle shuffled some papers in the file he was holding. "Funny you should mention her. Have you spoken to her since your wedding?"

"On and off," Hermione said, frowning – where was this headed? "I know she finished her degree in Amman and then went to medical school in the States. I don’t know where she’s living at the moment."

"Ah." Bullwinkle sucked his teeth. "Al-Hussein," he said, "contacted our offices jointly with Professor Dumbledore a few days ago." He looked rueful. "If the Muggle police think they have trouble keeping secrets from the general populace, it’s a thousand times worse for us. In this case, though, it works to our mutual advantage."

"Oh?"

"Your school chum, Fatima bint-Hussein, is presently in Paris," Bullwinkle said, "running a free medical clinic for the French-Arabic community there, and living under an assumed name, to avoid notoriety in the press. Both her apartment block and the building which houses her facility are owned by her half-brother Khaled, who is a silent partner in her enterprise, and who has set up a corporation on her behalf. Some time and effort has gone into making sure that the identity of this corporation cannot be traced back to the royal family – being good Muslims, al-Hussein has explained to me, they wish to carry out their charity privately."

He took a deep breath. "Because this … blind, of a sort, has already been established, both they and we feel this to be a good opportunity for you – to disappear off the radar of those who wish you harm, and also, if you wish, to continue your research in a place where it won’t be questioned."

Hermione considered this for a moment.

"Won’t I just be putting her in danger?" she asked finally, and Bullwinkle looked uncomfortable.

"Theoretically," he said. "If we took no precautions, you’d be easily Located again, no matter where we moved you. That’s one of the matters that Professor Dumbledore wished to discuss with us. According to him – and I must say that I agree with this – there’s really only one way to make sure you – and your friend – are completely safe."

Hermione had the feeling she understood, but she didn’t like it. "You want me to go into deep hiding," she said slowly, and Rocky nodded.

"There’s not much left for you to do," he said, and looked so hopeful that she wanted, illogically, to cry. "Dumbledore’s even found you your Secret-Keeper."

Dumbledore’s even found you your Secret-Keeper.

There’s only one way to make sure you’re completely safe. Hermione closed her eyes.

The Fidelius Charm.

**