Harry Potter fic - Chapter Five

[weavilsfanfic]

Chapter Five of the Lucius fic. Warnings for mild violence and language in this part.


Song Lyrics; ‘All Along the Watchtower’ by Bob Dylan, ‘The Sound of Silence’ by Paul Simon, ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ by Procol Harum. Dialogue quoted from ‘James Bond; You Only Live Twice’, screenplay by Roald Dahl.

Chapter Five
With a Little Help from My Friends

I
No reason to get excited, the thief he kindly spoke; there are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke. But you and I we’ve been through life and this is not our fate; so let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late

The shop sat on the corner of Fitzwilliam and Trumpington Streets, nestled in beside the post office. Its façade of old sandstone and its weather-worn carvings blended seamlessly with the muggle buildings of the ancient university, so that most people walked straight by and paid it no heed. Its sign was unassuming, reading only ‘Novich - Books’, in gold letters on a chocolate coloured board. The windows were dark and bore no displays. Likewise the only decoration on the door was a gilt knocker in the shape of an eagle. The place seemed, even before its magical protection, to be nothing of consequence, and though a few gaggles of students from nearby Queens’ or Corpus Christi often left their bicycles in the racks outside, none of them ever went in or even looked at the place.

‘Rather unimposing, wouldn’t you say?’ mused Barbason, grinning through the passenger window of Abraxas’ car.

‘Yes,’ agreed Abraxas, frowning. ‘Hardly Diagon Alley…all these muggles around…’ They watched as a group of youths in colourful shirts and flared jeans wandered by.

‘The muggle schools must be out for the summer too,’ Barbason said, wriggling in his seat to have a better look at their surroundings.

‘What precisely would one learn at a muggle school?’ sneered Abraxas as he got out of the car.

Neither Barbason nor Goyle answered. All three approached the shop and lingered outside for a moment, peering into the empty window. Abraxas breathed deeply, a broad leer spreading over his face. Before he finally approached the doorway, he straightened his robes, adjusted the collar of his white turtleneck and polished the silver snake’s head on his cane with the edge of his sleeve.

‘Shall we?’ he asked the others, then pushed the door open, listening with satisfaction as the little bell announced their presence.

Inside, despite the dusty windows, a few shards of sunlight pushed through and fell on the polished oak floorboards. The place seemed more of a private gentleman’s study than a shop, with gilt-edged armchairs by the fireplace, and shelves of books in no real order ranged around the walls. Most of these shelves also housed ornaments, skulls and candles or strange golden sculptures, which observed the three men as they wandered inside. There was a counter at the very back and a doorway behind, covered by a red velvet curtain decked with gold stars. Above the door hung a wooden sign with gilt letters, reading, ‘KEEP WATCH AND WARD; THYSELF REGARD’. But there was no sign of a till, no notices about credit or prices. And there was no sign of any assistant or salesman, though the fire was lit and crackled smugly in the hearth, so someone was at home.

Goyle surveyed it all with a slight sneer, while Abraxas beamed and examined the nearest bookshelf. It was then that he noticed the large black cat sitting on the counter, watching him with one yellow eye. Although the animal’s expression was lazy and disinterested, Abraxas still straightened and felt a little tightness around his collar under such scrutiny. He returned his attention to the bookshelf and pulled out a volume with an unmarked spine.

‘Artisque adminiculo,’ he read aloud, ‘medicina salubris factur; heic fluo.’ He frowned and racked his memory. ‘Through the aid of the arts, made into wholesome medicine; flow here.’

‘Bibat ex me qui potest: lavet, qui vult: turbet qui audet,’ answered a heavily-accented voice near the counter. Goyle, Barbason and Abraxas looked up towards the doorway at the back of the shop, but saw no one. Abraxas frowned, listening to the thick silence that followed. The cat continued to regard him smugly.

‘Drink with me who can,’ Abraxas answered, sounding unsure. ‘Wash in me who wishes to.’ He bit his lip, struggling to think. ‘Trouble me who dares.’

The voice came again, this time with a dark chuckle that was only just audible. ‘Bibite, fratres, et vivite!’

As they stared, a silver tray with glasses and an etched crystal decanter appeared on the counter top. Abraxas glanced over at Goyle, who scowled and took a step backwards, towards the door. Barbason shrugged and walked forward.

‘Well, the man said ‘drink’.’ He poured himself a glass of crimson wine and reached to one side to pat the cat as he did so. The feline arched its back, then bounced down onto the floor behind the counter, out of sight.

Goyle and Abraxas remained together, exchanging uncomfortable glances. Goyle reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a cigarette.

‘I would appreciate it if you would refrain from smoking,’ said the voice, only this time it had a less ethereal quality. As they looked back at the counter, a tall, desperately thin man with short, greying brown hair and large grey eyes stepped through the doorway, dusting off his charcoal-coloured robes. ‘But do, please, help yourselves to the wine.’

Goyle shook his head and folded his arms, remaining by the door. Abraxas, however, forced a smile and slipped forward to the counter.

‘Mr Novich?’ he began. ‘Abraxas Malfoy. And this is Oliver Barbason from…’

‘From the United States,’ Novich finished. ‘Yes.’ He poured himself a drink and took one sip, then dabbed his thin lips with a handkerchief. ‘I have read your book, The Sea of the Unknown. A remarkable insight into Meso-American alchemy and shamanism, if you do not mind my saying. Some have suggested that it might mark the beginning of a new acceptance for American wizardry.’

Barbason raised an eyebrow and stepped forward, offering his hand. ‘Well, I must thank your for the glowing review, Mr Novich. I hadn’t expected anyone this side of the Atlantic to have read my work. Actually, I find it surprising that anyone in my country has read it.’

‘Not at all,’ said Novich, slipping around to the other side of the counter. ‘Sooner or later, most works of outstanding promise come to my attention. As do their authors. I make it my business to get to know the writer as well as the word, so I am most glad you chose to come here.’

‘Well, your reputation had come to my attention, too,’ replied Barbason. ‘Several of my colleagues have mentioned your shop and suggested I pay a visit. I believe my Ancient Runes tutor was here last year, a Professor Bechard.’

Novich gave a serpentine smile. ‘Ah, I think I recall him. A very pleasant gentleman, and extremely well versed on his subject, amongst other things.’

‘Yes, I count him as a close friend.’

‘So, you share his interests?’

Barbason glanced wryly at the others, then grinned. ‘You might say I taught him everything he knows. Unfortunately we find ourselves in a minority in the States, which means we tend to stick together. Our wizarding community is really still in the process of finding its feet. It’s hard, therefore, to know whom to trust.’

‘Even in Europe, Professor, there is a similar problem,’ agreed Novich. ‘Not everyone can be trusted on account of their bloodline.’

Abraxas straightened and glanced over at Goyle, who continued to glower.

‘Quite so,’ Abraxas cut in. ‘One cannot rely on purity of blood these days. Just look at the Weasleys.’

‘Quite,’ muttered Novich, turning away. ‘Are you in this country long, Professor Barbason?’

‘Not long enough, Mr Novich. But I have a few days before I have to return to the brats.’

‘Then, you must visit my club in London.’ Novich reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, which promptly sprouted a set of bat-like wings and fluttered into Barbason’s hand. ‘Your…’friends’ may accompany you if you wish,’ he added reluctantly.

‘Most kind of you,’ said Abraxas.

‘In the meantime,’ Novich continued, ‘let us have more wine, and do please tell me if there is anything in particular that I might get for you, by way of books, I mean.’

‘Much obliged,’ grinned Barbason. ‘Much obliged.’

Abraxas, smiling widely, made to follow, but noticed that Goyle had not moved.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

Goyle glowered. ‘D’you need me any more?’ he asked in a low whisper.

‘No, the fellow seems safe enough. He’s impressed with Barbason, so I doubt he’ll try anything funny.’

Goyle drew out his cigarettes and placed one in his mouth as he made for the door. ‘I’ve a couple of things I want to check. I’ll stop by the house later.’

‘Can’t leave Ministry business for five minutes? Very well, but if you come by the house later, for goodness’ sake apparate outside the gates and walk up the drive. That hearthrug is leaping with cleaning spells as it is.’

With a final grunt, Goyle slipped out the shop, drawing out his wand just long enough to cast a charm on the bell, so that it remained silent as he left.

II
Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again; because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping, and the vision that was planted in my brain

Row after row of wide-eyed muggles sat in the dark, their faces tinted by the flickering images on screen. A slightly dishevelled and hastily robed Oriental girl gazed out at them, the twinkling lights that were supposed to be Hong Kong behind her.

‘Darling,’ she said to her co-star, ‘I give you very best duck.’

‘Well that would be lovely,’ replied the man, rolling over in bed. ‘You know, we’ve had some interesting times together, Ling…I’ll be sorry to go.’

A close up of her well-manicured nail on a button, then the muggles in the audience gasped or chuckled as their celluloid hero’s bed shot up into a housing in the wall. The girl raced across the set and opened the door to a pair of Chinese gunmen, who, as the muggles held their collective breath, fired round after round before running off.

Flint held up his box of popcorn, looking for any stray crumbs at the very bottom. With a disgruntled snort, he tossed the empty container along the aisle.

The muggles fell very silent as, on screen, the bed was at last pulled down again and they all waited for their hero’s cunning escape. Instead they saw him lain there, dead (or pretending to be dead, thought Flint, who glanced around at the rest of the audience and wondered how on earth they could be convinced by this).

‘We’re too late,’ said one of the actor-policemen. The muggles whispered or gasped again.

‘Well, at least he died on the job.’

‘He’d’ve wanted it this way.’

As the camera focussed on the bloodstain spreading over the sheets, and dissolved into the film’s opening titles and signature song with a sudden swell of strings, Flint nudged the nearest of his four compatriots and nodded towards the aisle. The group stood and shuffled out of their seats, smiling at the muggles who protested this interruption.

Flint tugged his blazer and straightened his Slytherin old boys’ tie, then ran his hand over his black hair to ensure it was all neatly slicked into place. With one last sneer towards the big screen, he made his way up the aisle towards the doors.

The corridor outside was littered with popcorn and old sweet wrappers, cigarette stubs mashed into the carpet. Posters for the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour and some dreadful looking horror film entitled ‘The Terrornauts’ clung tentatively to the walls. Flint, however, ignored them and strode on towards a narrow wooden door at the end of the hall, above which hung a sign that read, ‘Manager’s Office’. He walked in without knocking, with his colleagues close at his heels.

‘Morning Mr Travers,’ he declared, grinning. He spoke with a rough-edged East End drawl that sounded ever ready to burst into rhyming slang, yet at the same time seemed too dark to say anything so jovial as ‘killing him brown bread.’

Travers, a small, plump man with only a few strands of hair plastered across his crown, lifted his feet off the desk and set them on the floor, shoved his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and stared wide-eyed at the intruders.

‘See business is doing well,’ Flint continued, nodding towards a rather large pile of white fivers lying on the desk.

‘Who the devil are you people?’ Travers demanded, reaching for the telephone. ‘I warn you, I’ll call the police.’

Flint tutted and shook his head. ‘Now that’s not very clever, is it Mr Travers.’ Travers saw the other man pull something from his jacket and flinched, waiting for the gunshot. However all he felt was the phone dropping from his hand onto its cradle, as though it had been on elastic. When he opened his eyes, he saw Flint holding what looked like a slender black stick with a silver wolf’s head at one end. Flint continued to smile leeringly and ran his fingers along the wand’s shaft.

‘What d’you want?’ Travers sputtered, glancing again towards the phone. Was it worth making a grab for it again?

‘Well, Mr Travers, you’re new in the area,’ said Flint. ‘So I’ll forgive you for not knowing who we are. But you’ll soon get used to the sight of us.’

‘I sincerely hope not, sir!’

Flint raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, that’s not very nice, is it Desmond?’

‘Certainly not, Mr Flint,’ replied the largest, meatiest member of Flint’s entourage.

‘Me and the boys came here as a sort of welcoming committee, didn’t we boys? You see, we take a serious interest in the economy of this area, what with our having several business concerns here ourselves. It’s something of a duty, we feel, to make sure that all the businessmen and the entrepreneurs of these parts get along and find ways to work together. Co-operation, that’s what it’s all about, in’t that right?’

‘That’s right, Mr Flint,’ replied Desmond.

‘Co-operation?’ asked Travers, looking less than convinced.

‘Mutually beneficial,’ Flint went on, still pawing his wand. ‘You see, this is a rough area, as I’m sure you’ll know.’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh yeah. Very rough. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth sticking ‘round here. Awful business when a man can’t go out at night for fear of being jumped, in’t that right? You see, things happen ‘round here. Odd things. Things what can’t be explained.’ He stepped forward, reaching into his jacket once again, as Travers trembled. This time, however, he drew out a packet of cigarettes and pulled one out.

‘See the thing is,’ he continued, ‘there’s a lot of old buildings round here. All close together. And you know what happens in London when you have all these old buildings close together?’ He muttered something under his breath, and a small flame erupted from the tip of his wand. ‘Things burn, Mr Travers.’ He brought the wand to the end of the cigarette and lit up, then extinguished the flame with a sharp flick of his wrist.

‘Who are you?’ asked Travers again. ‘What are you?’

‘Us?’ Flint let out a dry laugh. ‘We’re magic, we are. In’t that right, Desmond?’

‘Magic, Mr Flint.’

‘You see we can do things ordinary folk can’t,’ Flint told the manager. He muttered again, and this time waved his wand at the pile of cash, which promptly floated up into the air. ‘We can do thing ordinary folk can’t even dream of.’

He let the money drop back down, his icy blue eyes glittering as he watched the frown spread over Travers’ reddened face. ‘So we try to do all we can for the good folks of the area. Look after ‘em, as it were. Stop the bad things from happening. This is a lovely building you got here, Mr Travers, and doing very well, I might add. I never seen so many people go to the pictures, even muggles. So it’d be a shame, wouldn’t it, if something were to happen? Mind you…’ He drew hard on his cigarette and stared ahead with a thoughtful expression. ‘Reckon it’d look pretty, all them lovely velvet seats going up. Wonder what colour they’d burn?’

‘Protection, that’s what you’re offering?’ sneered Travers. ‘I refuse to be bullied. I am British…’

‘No,’ snapped Flint. ‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Get out.’

‘That’s a bit silly of you, Mr Travers, when all we’re asking is a few of your pounds a week.’

‘Get out or I’ll call the police.’

‘Now, we’ve already been there, haven’t we?’

Flint chuckled and looked about the room for a moment. Finally his gaze settled on the desk itself. Without losing his air of suave nonchalance, he made a sweeping gesture with his arm and aimed his wand towards the object.

‘Reducto!’

Travers let out a whimper as his desk exploded in a cloud of sawdust. The blotter, phone, money and other trappings that had sat on it clattered around his feet. Flint cocked his head to one side and smirked as the cinema manager curled up in his seat, trying to push himself as far into the corner as he could go.

‘But there’s…’ whimpered Travers. ‘…This isn’t possible! There’s no such thing as magic!’

‘You hear that, boys?’ jeered Flint. ‘There’s no such thing as magic. Well, in that case…’ He lunged at Travers, moving closer until the tip of his wand pressed against the terrified muggle’s forehead. ‘…This won’t do you any harm, will it?’

‘Please!’ shrieked Travers.

‘And there’s much worse magic than that, Mr Travers,’ Flint warned. ‘Some of it so nasty you couldn’t begin to imagine.’

‘Unforgivable, Mr Flint,’ Desmond chimed in.

‘All right,’ sobbed the manager. ‘I’ll give you what you want. Just go away.’

‘Ten pounds a week, Mr Travers.’

‘Ten pounds?’

‘Oh I think that’s fairly reasonable, given the unscrupulous characters we’ll be protecting you from.’

Travers closed his eyes tightly and nodded, gesturing towards the pile of money on the floor, amongst the remains of his desk.

‘There we are then,’ sighed Flint, stepping back. He put his wand back into his inside jacket pocket, slicked back his hair and straightened his tie. ‘Everything’s fine and dandy, innit?’

He stepped over the wreck of the desk, leaving the minions to collect the cash.

III
We skipped the light fandango; turned cartwheels ‘cross the floor. I was feeling kinda seasick but the crowd called out for more. The room was humming harder as the ceiling flew away; when we called for another drink, the waiter brought a tray

Goyle leant against a lamppost and watched the cinema door, only stubbing out his cigarette when he saw the five men leave. He let them swagger a short way along the street, then fell into a stealthy pursuit. Once they had all turned the corner and headed into an emptier side street, he quickened his pace.

‘Flint!’

Flint paused, his goons reaching instinctively for their wands, but he waved them to stand down, spread out his arms, and smiled. ‘Cal! You sod, how’s it going?’

‘What you up to, Flint?’

Flint frowned, feigning hurt. ‘Bit of this, bit of that. You know how it is, Mr Goyle.’

Goyle nodded, his eyes narrowing. ‘Another report just in at the Ministry. Someone threatening muggles. Using magic in front of them.’

‘Cor, some people. Whatever’s the world coming to, ay Mr Goyle? Still, I’m sure whatever’s going down, you can…sort it out?’

He pulled a few galleons from his blazer and pushed them into Goyle’s coat pocket.

‘After all,’ Flint continued, ‘What do I pay you for?’

‘You know, loyalty can only go so far, Flint. I can’t keep covering up, not forever.’

Flint pouted and stood posing, cigarette in hand. ‘What’s loyalty got to do with it, Cally boy? We’re talking business here, pure and simple. You keep the Ministry out of my hair, and I’ll keep you in fancy coats and them bloody awful cigarettes you like, deal?’

Goyle allowed a shadow of a smile to drift over his lips, but his gaze strayed from Flint’s unsettling grin to his forearm, and to the snatch of exposed skin above the cuff of his shirt.

‘Didn’t think tattoos were your style,’ he remarked.

Flint frowned and threw his cigarette into the gutter, then pulled his cuff down to cover the design completely. ‘It’s nothing. Look, what can I do for you, Mr Goyle, or did you just come here to say hello? Only me and the boys got some work to do down Soho…’

‘Easy, Flint. I just want a word.’

‘Then apparate your arse down to the club and we’ll talk there. I don’t like open spaces.’

Goyle let out a mirthless laugh. ‘Agoraphobic?’

‘You know me, Mr Goyle,’ snorted Flint. ‘I avoid aggro if I can.’

‘Just some people leave you no choice, ay?’

‘Right.’

Flint reached out and touched the shoulders of the nearest goons. ‘Squibs, you know,’ he told Goyle as the other shot him an inquisitive look. Then all six of them apparated, leaving the grimy street behind and appearing in a darkened, smoke-filled dance hall with a dais round the outside and a bar on a raised platform towards the back. A mirror ball on the ceiling spread buttons of light on the walls and made the gilding on the pillars and banisters glitter, the subdued lighting hiding the tatty carpet, stained seats and peeling wallpaper.

‘Get that stuff in the safe,’ Flint ordered. ‘Then get it down Gringott’s in the morning and get it swapped for real money.’ He crossed to the bar and nipped behind to pour himself a drink. ‘Get you something, Cal?’

Goyle nodded, with an air of reluctance that convinced no one.

‘Here,’ Flint went on, ‘How’s your boy doing? He started at Hogwarts yet?’

‘First year.’

‘He in the old…’ Flint tapped a finger against his tie.

‘Yeah,’ replied Goyle proudly.

‘Sorted,’ muttered Flint. ‘So what can I do you for, Mr Goyle? Things at the Ministry a bit slow, are they? Or’s old cousin Abraxas keeping you busy these days?’

Goyle shrugged and finished his drink in one.

‘Well he can hardly pay well,’ Flint went on.

‘He’s got more money than the rest of the wizarding world put together.’

Flint frowned. ‘I thought he lost the lot?’

Goyle shook his head.

‘So what’s he do with it then? The boys see him down the Alley all the time, haggling and telling that kid of his he’s getting nothing.’

‘Abraxas is very…’frugal’.’

‘Tight-wad? Figures. What’s the point of having enough galleons to start your own bank if you’re not gonna use ‘em? Just seems shameful somehow.’

‘He only puts his hand in his pocket if he reckons it’ll get him somewhere,’ Goyle remarked. He sniffed. ‘That’s what I’m here for. What d’you know about a bloke called Novich?’

‘Novich?’ repeated Flint. ‘What you want to know about him for?’

‘So you have heard of him.’

Flint shrugged. ‘Lot of people know him. So what?’

‘He on the level?’

‘On it and over it.’

‘What does that mean?’

Flint scratched his head and came out from behind the bar. He watched his minions scurry across the dance floor like mice on the underground tracks, but did not speak again until he heard the club door close and was certain they had gone.

‘Look, what d’you wanna know about Novich for?’ he asked in a harsh whisper. ‘He ain’t the sort of bloke you wanna go messing about with.’

Goyle leaned on the bar and lit up a cigarette. ‘Why not?’

‘He’s…well he’s got a lot of friends.’

‘Ones into the dark arts?’

‘Shut your mouth, Goyle.’

‘But they are, aren’t they? That’s his business?’

Flint looked suddenly uneasy and played with his sleeve for a while. Goyle caught another brief glimpse of the end of Flint’s tattoo but again it was covered before he saw anything substantial.

‘Look,’ said Flint. ‘He sells books, all right? And some of ‘em are about the Dark Arts. He used to teach Defence at Durmstrang so he knows a lot about it. And a lot of people, scholars and the like, go to him to ask questions, find stuff out, or to find stuff that’s not so easy to find. But he’s been in the business a long, long time, Cal. Before you or I was born. He knows the game, and knows everyone else that’s in it. He don’t recruit, so to speak, not openly, but if you find him out and he likes the look of you, well he might let you be his friend, that’s all I’m saying. Least that’s how it used to be.’

‘Used to be? You’re not a scholar, Flint, so how do you know him?’

Flint glanced over his shoulder. ‘Let’s just say one of Novich’s friends has been spending a lot of time round here. Fellow’s looking to get himself a little circle of mates, got some plan he’s on about…I dunno what it is. But he needs reliable sorts, muscle, folk who can sniff out who’s straight and who’s risky. I met Novich through him. They’re old pals, see. Shared interests. And Mr Novich, well he’s good to his friends and to the people who work for his friends, innit?’

With a deep sigh, Flint gave a stern glower and then let his usual smile return. ‘It’s just a business arrangement, like everything else. His mate wants things, wants names of people who might be of use, so to speak, and I give it him. End of story. But if you want, next time he’s asking after fellows he can count on, I could slip him your name, Mr Goyle? He’s got big plans, my mate, I can feel it. Says one day he’s going to change the world, and you know, call me crazy, but I believe him. He’s a powerful wizard. Might not know as much about the dark arts as Novich, but he’s bloody better at the practical side, if you know what I mean. And I’m sure my mate could use a friend at the Ministry. Goodness knows you’ve been a gift to me!’

Goyle considered him for a long while. ‘No thanks,’ he answered finally. ‘I’ve got enough trouble just keeping you out of the records without your dodgy mates getting involved too.’

Flint held out his hands. ‘Can’t say fairer than that. But if you change your mind…’

He popped his cufflinks and pushed up his sleeve in one swift movement, allowing Goyle a clear view of the tattoo for the first time. ‘…You know where to find us.’

Hopefully there will be a chapter 6 fairly soon as I am on a roll right now. Any comments are really appreciated.