Room 42

In his life, Bill's lost a lot of things. He's lost gemstones and portkeys and girlfriends and directions. He's lost keys to doors and telephone numbers and ideas and clothes and business cards and money, but he's never lost family, and elderly little-known aunts or uncles don't count.

He lost two of his brothers and no matter how he tries to explain that away, he can't. He can't see to make it into something fair no matter what, and on top of that, his wife's lost her mother and sister. It all seems a terrible price to pay.

And yet life goes on: they have children on the way. Making a sandwich of his wife, he rubs her stomach and back at the same time. "Charlie," he says. "Charlie."

Alexandria.

The city today looked out onto the Mediterranean Sea, blue and luxurious. It wasn't always here, though: Alexander the Great himself outlined the walls of the city. He knew what he wanted: small, unassuming, beautifully crafted.

Now, Bill stood looking out at a city that stretched some 70 kilometers along the coast of the Mediterranean. It was uniquely Egyptian, but it was also uniquely itself. The Wizarding Quarter -- much like the one in Luxor -- was squirrelled away from the main city and it didn't face the endless blue of the sea. Consulting the map in his outstretched hand, he showed it to Dumbledore. A series of magical red lines crosshatched the map, appearing and disappearing as he moved from north to east to south to west. "You see, Headmaster? Even this city is filled with carefully-planned vortices. Escape routes visible only for those who know where and when they're active. Permanent Portkeys, as it were, but only active when the lines converge. The ancient Egyptians were so skilled at aligning things with the planets and stars and seasons; it's my belief that those who set these vortices and gridlines into place have done the same thing. It takes a bit of a celestial event to activate them, but it doesn't need to be a major one. Simply an... event. Planets aligning in certain ways, things of that nature."

They weren't there, however, to ponder the nature of the vortices. They were only there to use them to point them to where the crypt might be that contained the item they sought: the horcrux in Godric Gryffindor's dagger. Bill watched the map, mesmerised. "Sir, we should be moving towards the Wizarding Quarter. Shall we?"

"After you, Bill," said Albus with a slight smile.  If he had to be here for such a reason, at least he had a fine guide.

They made their way past the Corniche to the western end; Bill couldn't help but pass by the Shatby Tomb. The oldest in all Alexandria, he had to at least take a look.

He could smell the magic in the air; the Wizarding section wasn't far away.

---

Kom al Sukkfa, the catacombs of Alexandria, had been forgot by the Muggle population for centuries, but the wizards of Alexandria had never lost them. They were a place of reverence, a hallowed site for loved ones who’d passed beyond the veil. But they were also a place riddled with hidden passageways and secret vaults. It was little wonder that Tom Riddle had taken a fancy to such a place, and chose it to guard one of his most important secrets.

With small pops of displaced air, Albus and Bill Disapparated under the arch of the main entrance to the first level of the labyrinth.

"Well, here we are, my boy," said Albus, sighing inwardly while forcing himself to standing straight. Truth be known, he was tired. The events of the last few months were wearing on him, and he knew it would only get worse. One didn’t have to be a Seer to know the future these days.

Bill took a moment to look round in awe: this was one of the most amazing places he'd ever seen, and he'd seen a lot of catacombs, labyrinths, and tombs all over Egypt. This, though, was so much more Greco-Roman in its design; it simply took his breath away. He took a moment to marvel at the central spiral stair (definitely Romanesque): it was an amazing feat of ancient engineering. This place had been visited. Nearly but not quite speechless, he let his hands contact the walls leading to the chambers.

One could simply breathe the antiquity of the place. "I... I could stay here for months, Headmaster. It would be something to study. All this time in Luxor and I didn't know... look at these chambers. Look at the markings: a beautiful synthesis of Egyptian and Roman culture. I'm..." Bill laughed at himself. "I'm needing to focus on the task at hand."

Albus grinned and clapped Bill on the back. "Perhaps you'll be able to come back here in the near future. One can only hope." He pulled a scroll out of his robe pocket and unrolled it. "The directions to the vault are detailed. Tom made sure of that. My only worry is that, in the time between 1954 and whenever this horcrux was made, Voldemort changed his mind."

"It's entirely possible. A lot of it depends on how much time he had to go back and redo what had already been done, though I have to say this is a beautiful place to hide something. Look at..." Bill stopped, his eyes riveted on a strip of hieroglyphics above one of the chamber doors; it was still legible in part. His majesty had brought for him a case of scrolls. They said before his majesty that he was lost. The heart of his majesty was sad beyond all else; his majesty said that he would do everything according to his...

Not now. Alexandria wasn't going to go away; he could come back here at his leisure and study. Focus, Bill. "Headmaster, look at the fittings on these chamber doors: it takes a small army to open and close them without the luxury of magic. Speaking of that..."

"We know the range of guard curses we might be up against," said Albus, choosing a middle pathway that began a slow descent down to the seventh level where the vault was located. "I daresay you know even more, although I doubt Voldemort put as much study into curses of the region as you have in finding ways to break them."

The glows from the ends of their wands illuminated runic writing amidst hieroglyphics, ancient paintings of Roman deities beside sketches of rare herbs for potions. As they passed into the sixth level, the air grew colder.

"Watch now," whispered Albus. "Can you feel it?"

Bill shivered visibly. "Yes, I can. Wait. Before we go any further... here, take this." Digging into a pocket, he brought out two silver-and-gold cartouches on golden chains. "Gringott's puts a lot of time and energy into training its curse-breakers, and the goblins don't like for us to get killed if we can help it. Wear this cartouche and I'll wear mine. If we get separated by some quirk of fate, you can Summon me by pressing the Eye of Horus; it's the symbol at the top of the cartouche. Likewise, I can Summon you: it's rather like a Portkey." Putting his round his neck, he waited for Albus to do the same. "There. It works within a radius of several kilometers. This pair is keyed each to the other; no other pair of tracking devices works with either of these." Satisifed, shivering again, he moved forward with his wand drawn.

"Thank you, Bill. Having these could come in quite handy." He began walking again, purposefully striding down the dim corridor. "I don't think Voldemort would have used the traditional tomb protections," Albus said with deadly quiet. "He liked to think himself beyond the rest of us common wizards."

"I agree." Bill nodded, following the Headmaster's lead. "But still, if you will: let me go in first once we're there. I shouldn't like to think of myself as expendable, but if only one of us is to survive this quest, our world needs it to be you."

On that point, there was no negotiation.

"If you insist," said Albus with a nod of the head. He'd be right behind the younger man, anyway, ready to aid, if aid was needed. His fingers glanced across the cartouche. Its weight against his chest gave him comfort. He thought of similar Summoning charms used over the years and years of perilous adventures like this. There were more of these memories than he liked.

"I do." Of all the things he was qualified to do, breaking curses on ancient tombs was probably the thing at which he had the most experience. So long as there weren't ancient werewolves protecting this one... Bill had a sudden flash of memory but shook his head quickly, vigourously. Not now. If they survived this -- which they would -- and survived what was to come after this (the Order meeting weighed heavy on his mind, but most notably it was the look in Fleur's eyes that haunted him), he would have enough time to sort through memories. Not right now.

"Look at the fittings on this door." It was cold to the touch, a warning of what might lay inside. Wand at the ready, Bill tapped three times. "Revelare." He stopped, waited: no glamour, or at least no standard glamour: what they saw on the door was what was actually there: an ancient funerary procession. Standard-issue tomb decoration with one exception: at the end of the line of carved-in people, an almost unnoticeable hooded figure, staff in its hands. That was not typical for the time. A later addition, perhaps: its lines were only a fraction clearer. Of course, that could have been due to the depth of the tomb and the stillness of the air.

The tension was palpable. The Alohomora spell was almost inaudible but the screech of rock against ancient rock was not; Bill held his breath, high alert. "Lumos." The light from two wands barely made a dent in the intense dark fog and certainly did nothing to stem the chill. Suddenly, though, the chill was replaced by a stultifying moist heat. This tomb wants a dozen curse-breakers, Bill thought, just before he saw it: a shadow moving round the edges of the floor.

"Fuck! A Lethifold."

"We'll save the more... carnal activities for later, I should think," remarked Dumbledore with steely calmness, wand raised. As one, he and Bill cast the only spell known to stop one of these creatures. "Expecto Patronum!" A huge and silvery phoenix flew out of Dumbledore's wand, beating back against the encroaching shadow-creature; a radiant Nehebkau -- Egypt's winged snake-God of protection and magic -- joined the other Patronus. For a moment the battle raged back and forth: the Lethifold gaining ground, trying to slither round the magical protectors towards human feet, but there was nothing doing. After all this time it was weakened; much like a boggart it simply burst into a thousand pieces and disappeared.

Bill let out a sigh of relief but didn't let down his guard. "That can't be all... right. Look out, Headmaster." Deep fog roiled away unfathomably, considering the closed nature of this crypt, regenerating into a rain of tiny walking daggers; both phoenix and ancient god vanished as one Shielding Charm and one Immobilising Charm were cast in their stead. Once the daggers had been forced back, Bill Banished and sealed them quickly into one of the urns lining the walls of the crypt. The urn rattled dangerously.

"We don't have much time, Headmaster. Here: the sarcophagus. Our map and gridlines point to it being inside." Bill wiped his brow, preparing to levitate the sarcophagus's lid.

"I can see why you find this job so entertaining, Mr. Weasley." There was an undeniable twinkle in Albus's eyes, but his wand was at the ready. Now the room had cleared of fog, Lethifold, and razor-sharp dancing daggers, neither man was taking chances. Once the sarcophagus was open, a deadly and still quiet filled the room: the only thing to be heard was one heartbeat after another, one breath after another.

It reminded Bill of mummies; he half-expected there to be a living one in the coffin. But there was only a long-deceased linen-wrapped figure holding a spectacular jewel-hilted dagger. As the light from the wand ran over it, the gems glittered.

"Gryffindor's dagger, sir?" Bill couldn't help but glance at Dumbledore's ruined hand with a shiver. "I can break the curses protecting this crypt, but you're the one who knows how to destroy a horcrux." He didn't even realise he was holding his breath.

"No, not Gryffindor's dagger. Tom -- Voldemort, I mean -- was duped. I'd like to know who managed to fob it off on him. Whoever it was, it's unlikely he or she lived much longer, whether Voldemort found out the truth or not. This dagger is clearly from the fifteenth century; you can tell by how the jewels were inlaid." He approached the sarcophagus carefully. He was a powerful wizard, but something like this required not only power, but great skill and last time he'd not taken into account all the possible outcomes. When he'd broken the horcrux within the ring, he'd only just got to Severus in time, and he'd never regained full use of his right hand. Knowing tha this narrow escape had resulted in a new life of sorts made the sacrifice much more bearable.

He leaned against the sarcophagus, the chill of the stone pressing through the cloth of his summer robes. First he cast Shielding Spells to protect Bill as well as himself. Next, he slowly reached both hands out to remove the dagger: his hands met resistance. "There's a barrier here," he muttered. He tried a few Neutralization charms to no avail. Then he sighed. "Oh, Tom. It was always about the blood for you, wasn't it? So trite."

The tip of his wand touched the end of his left index finger, and three drops of blood splashed against the invisible barrier.

"All right, there, Headmaster?" asked Bill from the other side of the room.

"Yes," murmured Albus, eyes not leaving the dagger. "Stay where you are, Mr. Weasley." In that instant, Albus felt the inexorable pressure of the last and most dangerous of the curses begin. The magic funneled up through the openings in the barrier created by his blood and grabbed at him, clutching and not letting go. It was like standing inside the vortex of a whirlwind. Nothing could be seen moving within the tomb, but all around him magic was whipping and slashing about, drawing on his energy and draining it. To use power one must sacrifice power: he hoped the Shielding Charm was strong enough to protect Bill.

"Institio," he commanded, and the psychic wind lessened enough for him to grab the dagger. It burned with cold fire, but he did not let go. The curse emanated from the ruby in the center of the hilt: that's where the horcrux was. He struggled to raise his wand, pressing the tip against the ruby with a slow but steady hand. "With this I release you," he said, and with a loud crack, the ruby burst apart and the tomb filled with an ugly red glow. The horcrux broke with a shriek, pulling yet more of Albus's energy with it.

And then it was done.

He propped both hands against the sarcophagus. His knees were unsteady, and he was tired. So tired. "Bill," he whispered, "a hand, if you please?"

"You've both of mine, sir." Bill hurried to his side and took his elbow. "Let me do the honours getting us out of here; we really ought to be well away before that urn bursts."

Albus nodded; he wouldn't have been able to Disapparate for love nor money at the moment. He was glad to have Bill with him. Very glad. After a moment there was the familiar compression of Apparation, and soon enough, there would be rest.

Bill's thoughts are not fit for public consumption. They're barely fit for his own: he paces the floor of Room 42. Back and forth, back and forth: does she think he's stayed away this whole time over a buggering fight? Has she got his letter yet? Does she have a sense he's trying to reach her and can't? All the thoughts, of course, are punctuated heavily by fuck! and bloody hell! and damn! and his brother Charlie's favourite, fuckity fuck fuck!

He's miserable. Completely, utterly miserable and frantic. It's a bloody fuck of a good fucking thing she's as good a witch as she is. Fuck's sake, she saved his life. Twice.

And this is how you repay her, Bill. How very genteel of you.

He's so caught up in angry thought that he doesn't even hear the door opening.

He would pick her up and carry her over the threshold, but that's for newlyweds.

He would bring her tea and sandwiches, but he suspects she's not hungry.

He would shower her with kisses.

I can do that. But first, he closes the door behind them and walks her over to their bed and pats the spot beside him as he sits. "Tell me, love: tell me everything." Already, in his mind, he's seeing the world's most beautiful, radiant child. Of course he is: his little girl in his mind's eye looks just like her mother.

It's time. I promised Fleur.

As he rises to answer the knock at the door, Bill swallows hard: he doesn't like admitting he needs help. Never has, most likely never will, but there are things he simply doesn't know and has to find out.

He opens the door to Room 42 and his face crinkles into a genuine smile, one of the first ones he's had for anyone but Fleur in months. "Hullo, Headmaster. Thank you so much for coming to see me." Gesturing to the easy chair, he sits on the edge of the bed, his wand playing nervously in his hand.

"Tea?" Bill can Summon it in a heartbeat.

Anything to delay this conversation.

Bill's tired of resting and tired of sleeping and tired of questioning and tired of not knowing. He's tired of glances full of pity and that overwhelming sensation of people tiptoeing about him, of treating him differently.

As if he can't handle things any more.

And so, when Fleur leaves for a few minutes to go get more tea, or a bowl of soup, or whatever she thinks is best at the moment, Bill throws back the blankets and stands. It's his first time out of bed unassisted since he got here, but he's through playing the invalid; he refuses to do it any longer.

I am not some pitiful creature. Slowly, he makes his way across the room and into the bath and, for the first time, faces himself squarely in the mirror.

He stares.

And stares.

Methodically, he peels off the remaining bandages: the wounds underneath don't look quite so bad as he'd feared. She'd said it was Raven who did the healing; there will have to be thanks proffered yet again. Once he's done examining the scars and scabs, he looks into his eyes in the mirror. One time when they thought he was asleep, Bill thought he heard someone say that one eye was not in the socket when they brought him in.

But it looks all right now. Common wisdom says that eyes are the mirrors of the soul: he gazes into his own, only confident about what he sees because this is not a magical mirror that will try to flatter or cajole him.

He looks for signs that he's... different. That he's fierce or more dangerous or part wolf or... he's not sure what, but he only sees his own eyes looking back at him, dull and glassy with the fever that accompanies trauma and healing.

Bill rests his head against the mirror's glass, eyes closed. "I don't feel different. I don't."

Nor does he want to.

Carefully, he peels out of his sick-bed clothes, foraging in the bureau for fresh things. He dresses with great appreciation for simple things, like being able to move about, then pulls the covers up on the bed, taking a seat in the chair instead. Reaching for his wand, he taps it against his palm a few times, speaking to the room. "I would very much like to see my brother, Charlie." He nods as if that pronouncement made to thin air will make his brother simply appear.

It's a white-hot light of searing pain and somewhere in the distance someone is singing in a low, calm voice that every now and again simply erupts into tears.

He would wake up if he could, but he can't. He's tried, and he can't. But this is not that place of I don't care or pretty light; it's somewhere else and he drifts, drifts in and out of it, in and out of a series of images each stronger than the one before.

He sees Luxor and the bazaar and running running running.

(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)

He sees the dark small room, windowless, with the one door.

(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)

He sees the door open and a woman step through.

(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)

He sees a flash of green before he feels himself fall.

(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)

He sees the door, shimmering and, despite himself, he moves to touch it.
He sees... a different place, crowded with people laughing and smiling and drinking.
He sees the woman he loves. Who used to love him.
He feels his heart breaking.

(In his sleep, restless, his breath catches and rattles in his chest; from far away the singing stops and there is a moment of silence before it picks up again.)

He sees a petite woman with long dark hair and embers of black for eyes.

(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)

He sees her leave.
He sees another woman. The woman he used to love.
He sees himself falling. Falling. Into her arms, into her bed.
He loves her still, he always has. He always has.
He sees bright lights and strange cities and her, she's by his side in white and he's in black.

(We deserve this attention)

He sees the Eiffel Tower, but it's not the Eiffel Tower.
He sees flowers. Flowers. Fleur.

(That's her name, she's a flower! Of course she is! And I love her.)

He sees home, a new home, and work, old work, and then the images run together in a blur: the church, the tombs, the catacombs, wolves. Something hazy on the wall, something important but he can't quite remember what, and then a shape looming, growling, swiping.
He sees teeth.
He feels pain.
He feels nothing.

Nothing.

Until the tears of an angel. There is chanting in the background.

(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)

Thirsty, so thirsty. As if the whole world was a desert and he's drowning in sand.

Drifting, he drifts out and above and looks down at what he sees: it's her, it's... what did he call her? Fleur. Sitting over him, stroking his hair.

It's so sweet. It's so simple. It's so loving.

I really ought to be there for it.

With a rush, he feels himself falling, falling, reclaiming that body lying on the bed. It hurts to be in it, but there's her touch on his forehead. That's what he's here for.

Bill forces his eyes (eye?) open.

"Fleur."

The effort of speaking costs everything, but he deserves to expend it. She's worth everything.

They walk down the lane leading to the house; it's always amused Bill so very highly that Muggles don't know the place is there. After all, it's a four-storey building with a very loud ghoul in the attic. Fleur's hand held tightly in his, he pushes open the front door.

A virtual marketplace of smells hits him, and he knows Mum's been cooking. They step in, into the kitchen with its overflowing shelves. A knife is busy dicing potatoes in one corner and a brush scrubs a pot in another. The oven is hot; some sort of roast is cooking there and it smells simply divine: spicy and succulent and Bill realises that no matter how excellent the food at the bar, the emotional component of the phrase eating at home is one he always underestimates. He gives Fleur's hand a squeeze, smiling.

"Mum, Dad, surprise..."

He feels Fleur move behind him just a little bit as the door opens and Molly bustles in, a cooking rag in her hands and an apron over her clothing. "Bill! I saw the clock hands change... it's been so long!" She hugs him fiercely before standing back and taking in the situation.

"...and Fleur. How lovely to see you."

Air kisses all around.

As mums worldwide are wont to do, she brushes the hair back from her son's face and Bill knows she's doing a mental calculation on how much of his hair she can cut, or ask him to cut, before she treads into dangerous territory. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming! Arthur's out in the shed disassembling a Muggle alarm clock... oh, dear, it's good to see you!"

Bill just grins and takes Fleur's hand into his again. He knows he only wants to make the announcement once. "Shall I go let Dad know we're here?"

It isn't the heat that catches Bill's attention first: it's the lights. Everywhere they look, there are lights. Blinking, stagnating, moving, forming patterns, forming designs, and he knows deserts: this is not any Egyptian desert he's ever had the privilege to visit. Holding Fleur tightly by the hand, they step out into the bright-light-blinking-darkness and the hot hot hot that tells him this town being built where it is has to be some miracle of modern technology.

Up and down the street he looks, and then something catches his eye. Well, something beyond the crowds and the noise and the heat and the lights. He nods. "Look, love. Is that supposed to be the Eiffel Tower?"

Were they to turn around, they would see a pyramid with a jet of blue cascading up into the night sky.

"What is this place?"

"You asked me a question downstairs, Fleur." He sits on the bed, looking up at her. Studying her, really, and he reaches for her hands. "Sit with me. Let's talk."

He loves her fiercely.