fic fic fic
I am a bit late for Yuletide reveal, I know! I was waiting to finish this other bit of fic first, and here it is, so.
BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY. I wrote two fics for Yuletide!
My assignment was for the movie Moon, and is postcanon GERTY fic: Hindsight is 30/20.
And the treat I wrote, which I'm sure NONE OF YOU CAME ANYWHERE NEAR GUESSING, was Lord Peter Hilary/St. George fic: as birds of a feather should be.
And finally, another Hogwarts mashup fic. Do these things have titles yet? No, no, they do not. But this one now has 300% more Wimseys :D? And the beginnings of a plot (despite being set near the end of the story) :D?
It was a warm, sunny spring afternoon, perfect for a nap, but Hilary couldn’t seem to sleep. Jerry appeared to have no problem taking advantage; he was sprawled at her side fast asleep, letting out the occasional soft snore, and she caught herself stroking his hair every time he did so. With a sigh, Hilary bundled a sheet around herself-- it was only fair, considering that he had stolen most of the blanket, no mean feat in a bed this size-- and swung her legs over the edge of the bed only to sit there, irresolute. She was thirsty, but after they had spent months scrabbling to find privacy wherever and whenever they could on the Hogwarts grounds, it seemed a shame not to take full advantage of the luxuries of a place like Denver. Not to mention the chance to laze properly with Jerry.
This, of course, was when he let out a snuffle and curled around her again, pressing his face against her hip and slipping an arm around her waist. “Going so soon?”
“Only for a moment.” Hilary cupped her hand over his and smiled down at Jerry-- not that it made much difference, with his eyes still shut. “What are the chances there’ll be pumpkin juice in the pantry? I think I could do with something cold.”
He shrugged, just a twitch of one shoulder. “Not if my parents had anything to say about it-- but my grandmother visits often enough that she may have. You’ve seen the pantry?”
Hilary nodded. “I should be able to get there all right-- but you’ll have to let go of me.”
Jerry groaned, but loosened his arm enough to let her stand up. “Don’t be long.”
Hilary bent to kiss him, humming happily when his fingers slid down her bare spine. “I won’t,” she promised, and shed the bedsheet in favor of borrowing his dressing gown and tucking her wand into one pocket. The house was meant to be nearly empty, thanks to the holiday, and she ought not to care what people would think in any case, but she didn’t feel quite daring enough to go wandering around it entirely naked.
The bang of her Apparition echoed slightly in the large pantry, making Hilary wince; she really had to learn to control that noise somehow. Tugging the dressing gown more tightly closed around her, she explored the room until she found a large metal cabinet up against the wall, cool to the touch, and remembered vaguely that Muggles used some sort of machine to keep their food cold. There was a jug of pumpkin juice inside, more than half full, and Hilary claimed it triumphantly and then ventured out into the kitchen to locate a pair of tall glasses.
Thus equipped, she could easily have Apparated right back to Jerry’s room, but Hilary found she wasn’t inclined to do so just yet. Jerry had given her a sort of vague tour of the house when they’d first arrived, but they’d been far too preoccupied ever since for Hilary to explore properly. Since she didn’t doubt that he had gone back to sleep the moment she’d Disapparated, now seemed the perfect time to have a few minutes’ look around. Hilary murmured a charm to let the jug of pumpkin juice and the glasses fit easily into the empty pocket of Jerry’s dressing gown-- she would have to remember to undo that, later-- and went up the narrow stairs to the dining room. It was easily twice the size of that at the Red House-- luxuriously furnished, but somehow all the more intimidating for it, and she shivered and moved on.
The next room was a hall of portraits-- Muggle portraits, of course, the unnatural stillness of which didn’t do much to settle her nerves, but far more fascinating all the same. It was a long hall; Hilary couldn’t recall how many Dukes of Denver there had been, but there were portraits of a good few dozen men lining both walls, the most recent of which she easily recognized as Jerry’s father. It was a rather depressing thought to imagine that one day her best friend would be added to that row of paintings, immortalized motionlessly like the rest; it felt almost like a trap.
Or perhaps-- Hilary started as something twitched at the edge of her vision-- not quite motionless.
She shuffled a few steps and peered up at the next portrait over. “I saw that, you know.” And if she were mistaken, she was about to feel very silly, talking to an empty room.
Mortimer Gerald Bredon Wimsey, fifteenth Duke of Denver-- according to the brass plate beneath him, at any rate-- uncrossed and recrossed his legs, looking back down at her with distinct displeasure. “And you’ll be a friend of young St. George’s, I suppose. I ought to have known it would come to this.”
“Come to what?” asked Hilary, feeling her teeth set a little on edge.
“Affairs with witches,” said His Late Grace, with a great deal of starch. “I suppose it can’t be helped that the boy is what he is, under the circumstances, but I did trust that Helen might have raised him firmly enough that things would balance out.”
Hilary folded her arms across her chest; she had forgotten for a moment that, while going about in Jerry’s dressing gown technically made her decent to the eye, it didn’t make much of a secret about what business she had in the house to begin with. She was of age now, she reminded herself, at least by wizarding standards, and it ought not to have made a difference to anyone else what she did or to her what they thought; but she felt the portrait's sharp Victorian eye on her rather keenly all the same. “Whatever did you go and marry a witch for, then?”
“Honoria’s got sense in her,” said Denver pointedly. “She knew this family was more important than any of that wizarding rot-- though I do wish,” he added, with a faint plaintiveness that was startling in its sudden reminiscence of Jerry-- “I hadn’t indulged her by sitting for this portrait. Damned vulgar custom, if you ask me, and one gets so stiff having to sit perfectly still every time guests are brought through or risk disgracing the family.”
“Surely people come and visit you.” Hilary had never met a wizarding portrait of a Muggle before; indeed, she wasn’t sure she had known such a thing was possible. She wasn’t finding herself terribly fond of the man, so far-- certainly not enough to feel in any way sorry for him-- but she couldn’t help being curious.
“Oh, yes, all the family do-- even Helen and Gerald speak to me, every so often, and Mary brought her son once. She married a policeman, did you know that? A wizard policeman. Of all the blasted things. No thought for family whatsoever, you young people.”
“I think Mr. Parker’s quite nice,” objected Hilary.
“Not the sort one wants one’s daughter marrying, though, all the same.” Denver frowned at her. “I expect you think St. George is going to marry you.
Hilary stared. She hadn’t any intention of marrying anyone, really, and most certainly not of marrying into any family of which this man was representative-but it stung a little worse each time she was reminded that Jerry, for all that he was a wizard, had familial obligations that would sooner or later force him to withdraw from wizarding society. And thus, inevitably, from her. Not that it ought to have mattered so much, of course; they were really only friends, after all, and she had never meant this particular facet of their friendship to go on for very long. But it did hurt, and quite badly, sometimes--as the prospect of losing a friend was wont to do, she supposed. “I don’t think anything of the kind.”
Denver smiled, thin and disdainful. “And what, I wonder, does that say about your character?”
“Perhaps,” Hilary suggested, “it means I’ve got a sense of humor. A thing you appear to have lacked.”
“Oh, you are a friend of that boy’s, all right.” Denver huffed and settled back in his chair. “You should hear the way he talks to me; no respect whatsoever. Do you know, he promised once that when he was Duke I should be turned to hang with my face to the wall, just to shut me up?”
Hilary shrugged. “I can’t say I blame him. My mum did much the same with a portrait of her mother at home. I believe Grandmother felt much the same about Muggles as you did about wizards. Perhaps,” she went on, suddenly enlightened, “it might be instructive to hang the two of you up in a room together. I bet you’d get on marvelously.”
“I see you’ve met my father.”
The voice was so similar to the portrait’s that Hilary could not for a moment understand why it came from behind her. For another moment, she thought it might be Jerry, come looking for her-- but when she turned to look it was Peter Wimsey, standing in the door to the dining room with his hands folded into the sleeves of his robes. “Oh, damn,” said Hilary, remembering the dressing gown all over again, and did the first thing she could think of-which was to Apparate immediately back to Jerry’s bedroom.
Her arrival startled him half-awake, and he leaned up on one elbow and stared blearily as Hilary began to toss away the dressing gown, remembered the jug and glasses just in time, and paused to remove them and her wand from the pockets before letting the garment crumple to the floor and going hastily in search of her own clothing. “Where’s the fire?”
“No fire-- worse, actually.” Hilary located her brassiere and knickers and struggled into them hastily. “Your uncle’s here. In the dining room.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Jerry rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in a pillow. “What would Uncle Peter want in our dining room?” he went on, muffled. “He’s got one of his own.”
“Me, I think,” said Hilary, occupied in pulling her dress over her head. “Have you seen my other shoe?”
“Well, he can’t have you; I’ve got a prior claim. For Easter weekend, anyway, and it’s only Saturday.” There was a moment’s pause, during which Hilary began to be concerned by how much this sentiment pleased her, and then Jerry bolted upright, eyes wide. “Did you say Uncle Peter’s here? He saw you dressed like that?”
Hilary threw up her hands. It was easy to be exasperated with him; she was used to it, after all, but it didn’t make his continued state of undress any less distracting. “A lot of use you are. Get up, would you?”
Jerry shoved his fingers back through his hair, though it could hardly have gotten any messier. “Your shoe’s by the door.”
“Thank you,” said Hilary fervently, scrambling to retrieve it, and decided she could spare a moment to get one knee up on the edge of the bed and kiss him once more. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, smoothing her hand down his bare arm. “It's been such a lovely weekend. Maybe he’ll go away again.”
“It’s Uncle Peter,” said Jerry gloomily, “he never goes away unless you actually want him for something.” He gave her knee a regretful sort of squeeze. “I’ll be right down-deny all knowledge of your existence, that sort of thing, not that it'll be any use.”
Hilary rolled her eyes and Disapparated.
Wimsey hadn’t left; had barely even budged, in fact, apart from having pulled out a dining room chair and settled himself in it to wait for her. When she reappeared, he looked up and smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I rather startled you, Miss Thorpe.’
Hilary smoothed her skirt hopelessly as she stood before him. She had long since gotten over a tendency to feel grubby and poorly put-together next to Jerry: partly just because she was used to him, but partly because she had come to recognize that Jerry’s grace and poise were necessary to mask a severe lack of good judgment. The elder Wimsey possessed both poise and judgment, and was more than twice Hilary’s age to boot; in short, he unnerved the hell out of her, for all that she didn’t think he meant to, and the circumstances of their meeting on this particular occasion weren’t exactly dignified either.
All the same, Hilary was the last of an old and respectable wizarding family, and if she could never quite manage to look the part, she could at least try to act it. “I’m sorry,” she answered, smoothing her skirt one last time before forcing her hands to be still. “This is your brother’s house, isn’t it? I should say that makes me the intruder.”
“I take for granted that you’re here with my nephew’s knowledge-- which, since it is also his home, makes you an invited guest, and therefore entitled not to be crept up upon by his relatives.” Wimsey rose briefly to pull out another chair. “Shall we call it even?”
“I think we’d better.” Hilary stared blankly for a moment before realizing he meant it for her and taking a seat, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her cheeks were hot, but there was hardly anything she could do about that; she couldn't decide whether Wimsey's extreme tact about Jerry's having brought her there made her feel better or worse. “So you were looking for me, then?”
He bent his head briefly. “Circumstances require that you be brought back to Hogwarts a day early-- for your own protection, you understand, Miss Thorpe. Since the locator spell indicated you to be on my own home ground, so to speak, I thought I might as well come take care of the matter rather than letting Charles send two of his men.”
“I don’t understand,” said Hilary, a bit more sharply than she really meant to. “Protection from what?”
“Er.” Jerry peered in cautiously, more or less fully dressed; he was in his shirtsleeves, without even robes over his clothes, but then again Hilary hadn’t bothered with hers either. “Have I missed all the excitement?”
“Lots,” said Hilary, the instinct to needle him momentarily overcoming her desire to remain poised in front of his uncle. “Apparently I’m being fetched.”
“There has been another attack on the Hogwarts grounds,” said Wimsey, eyes flicking only briefly to Jerry. “Mr. Renard has been cursed quite severely. Not fatally, as Professor Fedorov was, but that is thought to have been the intention.”
Poise forgotten, Hilary slumped back in her chair. Jerry moved towards her, but she caught his eye and shook her head slightly-- not in front of your uncle-- as if there were any chance Wimsey wouldn’t notice the exchange anyway. “Oh Merlin-- is he going to be all right?”
“Madam Horrell and Professors Vane and Merrythought are working with him; they believe so, but he may not be able to compete in the third task of the tournament. Which does, I am afraid, cast a certain light upon our visitors from Durmstrang-- but you can see, I’m sure, why the Ministry would rather that you cut your holidays short and be somewhere where the Aurors can keep an eye on you.”
“I suppose I’d better, then. Poor Louis; I’d like to see him, if Madam Horrell will let me.” Hilary smoothed her hands over her lap once more-- not to rearrange her skirt this time, but because her palms were damp. “How are we getting back, if not from King’s Cross?”
“I’ve got a car,” said Wimsey, “if you don’t mind them; I’ve found that many wizards don’t like motor vehicles, enchanted or otherwise. Makes ‘em ill. But I happen to be rather attached to mine.” He seemed almost embarrassed by it.
“You don’t mind this one,” Jerry confided, at Hilary’s elbow. “It’s a marvellous car.”
“I’ve never been in one, actually-only taken the Knight Bus a few times.” Hilary looked between them and nodded. “Might I get my things?”
“Of course.” Wimsey made a gesture that she assumed to be a gracious dismissal; Hilary stood up and exited, as gracefully as she could in her distraction.
“Excuse me,” said Jerry quickly behind her, and was at her side in another moment. “Would you rather I came with you? There doesn’t seem much point my sticking around and waiting to take the Express tomorrow afternoon-- certainly not without you here for company.”
Hilary smiled gratefully and took his arm. “I think you just want the car ride.”
“I can’t say I object to it, no.” Jerry glanced back at the dining room door to make sure his uncle wasn’t in sight, and then slipped his arm around her waist-- only to be greeted by a pointed throat-clearing from the other end of the room. “Oh.” He groaned, leaving his arm where it was. “Hilary, I’d like you to meet my grandfather.”
“We’ve met.” Hilary leaned against him, as much to irritate the late Duke’s portrait as to soothe her own nerves. “In fact, we’re practically old friends.”
She put her tongue out at the painting as they went out of the room, and the loud “Hmph!” she got in response went a surprisingly long way towards cheering her up.
BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY. I wrote two fics for Yuletide!
My assignment was for the movie Moon, and is postcanon GERTY fic: Hindsight is 30/20.
And the treat I wrote, which I'm sure NONE OF YOU CAME ANYWHERE NEAR GUESSING, was Lord Peter Hilary/St. George fic: as birds of a feather should be.
And finally, another Hogwarts mashup fic. Do these things have titles yet? No, no, they do not. But this one now has 300% more Wimseys :D? And the beginnings of a plot (despite being set near the end of the story) :D?
It was a warm, sunny spring afternoon, perfect for a nap, but Hilary couldn’t seem to sleep. Jerry appeared to have no problem taking advantage; he was sprawled at her side fast asleep, letting out the occasional soft snore, and she caught herself stroking his hair every time he did so. With a sigh, Hilary bundled a sheet around herself-- it was only fair, considering that he had stolen most of the blanket, no mean feat in a bed this size-- and swung her legs over the edge of the bed only to sit there, irresolute. She was thirsty, but after they had spent months scrabbling to find privacy wherever and whenever they could on the Hogwarts grounds, it seemed a shame not to take full advantage of the luxuries of a place like Denver. Not to mention the chance to laze properly with Jerry.
This, of course, was when he let out a snuffle and curled around her again, pressing his face against her hip and slipping an arm around her waist. “Going so soon?”
“Only for a moment.” Hilary cupped her hand over his and smiled down at Jerry-- not that it made much difference, with his eyes still shut. “What are the chances there’ll be pumpkin juice in the pantry? I think I could do with something cold.”
He shrugged, just a twitch of one shoulder. “Not if my parents had anything to say about it-- but my grandmother visits often enough that she may have. You’ve seen the pantry?”
Hilary nodded. “I should be able to get there all right-- but you’ll have to let go of me.”
Jerry groaned, but loosened his arm enough to let her stand up. “Don’t be long.”
Hilary bent to kiss him, humming happily when his fingers slid down her bare spine. “I won’t,” she promised, and shed the bedsheet in favor of borrowing his dressing gown and tucking her wand into one pocket. The house was meant to be nearly empty, thanks to the holiday, and she ought not to care what people would think in any case, but she didn’t feel quite daring enough to go wandering around it entirely naked.
The bang of her Apparition echoed slightly in the large pantry, making Hilary wince; she really had to learn to control that noise somehow. Tugging the dressing gown more tightly closed around her, she explored the room until she found a large metal cabinet up against the wall, cool to the touch, and remembered vaguely that Muggles used some sort of machine to keep their food cold. There was a jug of pumpkin juice inside, more than half full, and Hilary claimed it triumphantly and then ventured out into the kitchen to locate a pair of tall glasses.
Thus equipped, she could easily have Apparated right back to Jerry’s room, but Hilary found she wasn’t inclined to do so just yet. Jerry had given her a sort of vague tour of the house when they’d first arrived, but they’d been far too preoccupied ever since for Hilary to explore properly. Since she didn’t doubt that he had gone back to sleep the moment she’d Disapparated, now seemed the perfect time to have a few minutes’ look around. Hilary murmured a charm to let the jug of pumpkin juice and the glasses fit easily into the empty pocket of Jerry’s dressing gown-- she would have to remember to undo that, later-- and went up the narrow stairs to the dining room. It was easily twice the size of that at the Red House-- luxuriously furnished, but somehow all the more intimidating for it, and she shivered and moved on.
The next room was a hall of portraits-- Muggle portraits, of course, the unnatural stillness of which didn’t do much to settle her nerves, but far more fascinating all the same. It was a long hall; Hilary couldn’t recall how many Dukes of Denver there had been, but there were portraits of a good few dozen men lining both walls, the most recent of which she easily recognized as Jerry’s father. It was a rather depressing thought to imagine that one day her best friend would be added to that row of paintings, immortalized motionlessly like the rest; it felt almost like a trap.
Or perhaps-- Hilary started as something twitched at the edge of her vision-- not quite motionless.
She shuffled a few steps and peered up at the next portrait over. “I saw that, you know.” And if she were mistaken, she was about to feel very silly, talking to an empty room.
Mortimer Gerald Bredon Wimsey, fifteenth Duke of Denver-- according to the brass plate beneath him, at any rate-- uncrossed and recrossed his legs, looking back down at her with distinct displeasure. “And you’ll be a friend of young St. George’s, I suppose. I ought to have known it would come to this.”
“Come to what?” asked Hilary, feeling her teeth set a little on edge.
“Affairs with witches,” said His Late Grace, with a great deal of starch. “I suppose it can’t be helped that the boy is what he is, under the circumstances, but I did trust that Helen might have raised him firmly enough that things would balance out.”
Hilary folded her arms across her chest; she had forgotten for a moment that, while going about in Jerry’s dressing gown technically made her decent to the eye, it didn’t make much of a secret about what business she had in the house to begin with. She was of age now, she reminded herself, at least by wizarding standards, and it ought not to have made a difference to anyone else what she did or to her what they thought; but she felt the portrait's sharp Victorian eye on her rather keenly all the same. “Whatever did you go and marry a witch for, then?”
“Honoria’s got sense in her,” said Denver pointedly. “She knew this family was more important than any of that wizarding rot-- though I do wish,” he added, with a faint plaintiveness that was startling in its sudden reminiscence of Jerry-- “I hadn’t indulged her by sitting for this portrait. Damned vulgar custom, if you ask me, and one gets so stiff having to sit perfectly still every time guests are brought through or risk disgracing the family.”
“Surely people come and visit you.” Hilary had never met a wizarding portrait of a Muggle before; indeed, she wasn’t sure she had known such a thing was possible. She wasn’t finding herself terribly fond of the man, so far-- certainly not enough to feel in any way sorry for him-- but she couldn’t help being curious.
“Oh, yes, all the family do-- even Helen and Gerald speak to me, every so often, and Mary brought her son once. She married a policeman, did you know that? A wizard policeman. Of all the blasted things. No thought for family whatsoever, you young people.”
“I think Mr. Parker’s quite nice,” objected Hilary.
“Not the sort one wants one’s daughter marrying, though, all the same.” Denver frowned at her. “I expect you think St. George is going to marry you.
Hilary stared. She hadn’t any intention of marrying anyone, really, and most certainly not of marrying into any family of which this man was representative-but it stung a little worse each time she was reminded that Jerry, for all that he was a wizard, had familial obligations that would sooner or later force him to withdraw from wizarding society. And thus, inevitably, from her. Not that it ought to have mattered so much, of course; they were really only friends, after all, and she had never meant this particular facet of their friendship to go on for very long. But it did hurt, and quite badly, sometimes--as the prospect of losing a friend was wont to do, she supposed. “I don’t think anything of the kind.”
Denver smiled, thin and disdainful. “And what, I wonder, does that say about your character?”
“Perhaps,” Hilary suggested, “it means I’ve got a sense of humor. A thing you appear to have lacked.”
“Oh, you are a friend of that boy’s, all right.” Denver huffed and settled back in his chair. “You should hear the way he talks to me; no respect whatsoever. Do you know, he promised once that when he was Duke I should be turned to hang with my face to the wall, just to shut me up?”
Hilary shrugged. “I can’t say I blame him. My mum did much the same with a portrait of her mother at home. I believe Grandmother felt much the same about Muggles as you did about wizards. Perhaps,” she went on, suddenly enlightened, “it might be instructive to hang the two of you up in a room together. I bet you’d get on marvelously.”
“I see you’ve met my father.”
The voice was so similar to the portrait’s that Hilary could not for a moment understand why it came from behind her. For another moment, she thought it might be Jerry, come looking for her-- but when she turned to look it was Peter Wimsey, standing in the door to the dining room with his hands folded into the sleeves of his robes. “Oh, damn,” said Hilary, remembering the dressing gown all over again, and did the first thing she could think of-which was to Apparate immediately back to Jerry’s bedroom.
Her arrival startled him half-awake, and he leaned up on one elbow and stared blearily as Hilary began to toss away the dressing gown, remembered the jug and glasses just in time, and paused to remove them and her wand from the pockets before letting the garment crumple to the floor and going hastily in search of her own clothing. “Where’s the fire?”
“No fire-- worse, actually.” Hilary located her brassiere and knickers and struggled into them hastily. “Your uncle’s here. In the dining room.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Jerry rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in a pillow. “What would Uncle Peter want in our dining room?” he went on, muffled. “He’s got one of his own.”
“Me, I think,” said Hilary, occupied in pulling her dress over her head. “Have you seen my other shoe?”
“Well, he can’t have you; I’ve got a prior claim. For Easter weekend, anyway, and it’s only Saturday.” There was a moment’s pause, during which Hilary began to be concerned by how much this sentiment pleased her, and then Jerry bolted upright, eyes wide. “Did you say Uncle Peter’s here? He saw you dressed like that?”
Hilary threw up her hands. It was easy to be exasperated with him; she was used to it, after all, but it didn’t make his continued state of undress any less distracting. “A lot of use you are. Get up, would you?”
Jerry shoved his fingers back through his hair, though it could hardly have gotten any messier. “Your shoe’s by the door.”
“Thank you,” said Hilary fervently, scrambling to retrieve it, and decided she could spare a moment to get one knee up on the edge of the bed and kiss him once more. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, smoothing her hand down his bare arm. “It's been such a lovely weekend. Maybe he’ll go away again.”
“It’s Uncle Peter,” said Jerry gloomily, “he never goes away unless you actually want him for something.” He gave her knee a regretful sort of squeeze. “I’ll be right down-deny all knowledge of your existence, that sort of thing, not that it'll be any use.”
Hilary rolled her eyes and Disapparated.
Wimsey hadn’t left; had barely even budged, in fact, apart from having pulled out a dining room chair and settled himself in it to wait for her. When she reappeared, he looked up and smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I rather startled you, Miss Thorpe.’
Hilary smoothed her skirt hopelessly as she stood before him. She had long since gotten over a tendency to feel grubby and poorly put-together next to Jerry: partly just because she was used to him, but partly because she had come to recognize that Jerry’s grace and poise were necessary to mask a severe lack of good judgment. The elder Wimsey possessed both poise and judgment, and was more than twice Hilary’s age to boot; in short, he unnerved the hell out of her, for all that she didn’t think he meant to, and the circumstances of their meeting on this particular occasion weren’t exactly dignified either.
All the same, Hilary was the last of an old and respectable wizarding family, and if she could never quite manage to look the part, she could at least try to act it. “I’m sorry,” she answered, smoothing her skirt one last time before forcing her hands to be still. “This is your brother’s house, isn’t it? I should say that makes me the intruder.”
“I take for granted that you’re here with my nephew’s knowledge-- which, since it is also his home, makes you an invited guest, and therefore entitled not to be crept up upon by his relatives.” Wimsey rose briefly to pull out another chair. “Shall we call it even?”
“I think we’d better.” Hilary stared blankly for a moment before realizing he meant it for her and taking a seat, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her cheeks were hot, but there was hardly anything she could do about that; she couldn't decide whether Wimsey's extreme tact about Jerry's having brought her there made her feel better or worse. “So you were looking for me, then?”
He bent his head briefly. “Circumstances require that you be brought back to Hogwarts a day early-- for your own protection, you understand, Miss Thorpe. Since the locator spell indicated you to be on my own home ground, so to speak, I thought I might as well come take care of the matter rather than letting Charles send two of his men.”
“I don’t understand,” said Hilary, a bit more sharply than she really meant to. “Protection from what?”
“Er.” Jerry peered in cautiously, more or less fully dressed; he was in his shirtsleeves, without even robes over his clothes, but then again Hilary hadn’t bothered with hers either. “Have I missed all the excitement?”
“Lots,” said Hilary, the instinct to needle him momentarily overcoming her desire to remain poised in front of his uncle. “Apparently I’m being fetched.”
“There has been another attack on the Hogwarts grounds,” said Wimsey, eyes flicking only briefly to Jerry. “Mr. Renard has been cursed quite severely. Not fatally, as Professor Fedorov was, but that is thought to have been the intention.”
Poise forgotten, Hilary slumped back in her chair. Jerry moved towards her, but she caught his eye and shook her head slightly-- not in front of your uncle-- as if there were any chance Wimsey wouldn’t notice the exchange anyway. “Oh Merlin-- is he going to be all right?”
“Madam Horrell and Professors Vane and Merrythought are working with him; they believe so, but he may not be able to compete in the third task of the tournament. Which does, I am afraid, cast a certain light upon our visitors from Durmstrang-- but you can see, I’m sure, why the Ministry would rather that you cut your holidays short and be somewhere where the Aurors can keep an eye on you.”
“I suppose I’d better, then. Poor Louis; I’d like to see him, if Madam Horrell will let me.” Hilary smoothed her hands over her lap once more-- not to rearrange her skirt this time, but because her palms were damp. “How are we getting back, if not from King’s Cross?”
“I’ve got a car,” said Wimsey, “if you don’t mind them; I’ve found that many wizards don’t like motor vehicles, enchanted or otherwise. Makes ‘em ill. But I happen to be rather attached to mine.” He seemed almost embarrassed by it.
“You don’t mind this one,” Jerry confided, at Hilary’s elbow. “It’s a marvellous car.”
“I’ve never been in one, actually-only taken the Knight Bus a few times.” Hilary looked between them and nodded. “Might I get my things?”
“Of course.” Wimsey made a gesture that she assumed to be a gracious dismissal; Hilary stood up and exited, as gracefully as she could in her distraction.
“Excuse me,” said Jerry quickly behind her, and was at her side in another moment. “Would you rather I came with you? There doesn’t seem much point my sticking around and waiting to take the Express tomorrow afternoon-- certainly not without you here for company.”
Hilary smiled gratefully and took his arm. “I think you just want the car ride.”
“I can’t say I object to it, no.” Jerry glanced back at the dining room door to make sure his uncle wasn’t in sight, and then slipped his arm around her waist-- only to be greeted by a pointed throat-clearing from the other end of the room. “Oh.” He groaned, leaving his arm where it was. “Hilary, I’d like you to meet my grandfather.”
“We’ve met.” Hilary leaned against him, as much to irritate the late Duke’s portrait as to soothe her own nerves. “In fact, we’re practically old friends.”
She put her tongue out at the painting as they went out of the room, and the loud “Hmph!” she got in response went a surprisingly long way towards cheering her up.