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Jan. 2nd, 2005 12:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecooloneThey say alcohol is a piss-poor way to gain insight into anything. This morning, Bill concurs heartily. He looks at the empty bottle of Ogden's on the bedside table as a stab of pain passes between his temples. He raises his hands to his head as if pressing will force that particular nightmare away but it's no one's fault other than his own. No one told him to drink.
At least it stopped him dreaming: no waking in a sweat with shadowy images and laughter and agony of such exquisite nature it has to be magical in origin. He replays a conversation with Headmaster Dumbledore from his last year at Hogwarts: a determined Head Boy discussing career choices.
- Mr Weasley, there are things in this world that you can only imagine. Things far greater than any of us; fraught with far more peril and excitement than most of us can conceive.
- I know, Headmaster. That's why I want to travel, see the world, live a little, have some experiences that most people don't.
- And you've decided to pursue curse-breaking with Gringotts Bank then, Mr Weasley? Is my understanding correct?
- Egypt, Headmaster. Unravelling the secrets of the Pyramids, finding treasure, solving puzzles. Yes, I'm following on with Gringotts.
There's a pause; Dumbledore simply looks at him before speaking again.
- Mr Weasley, I may need to contact you from time to time while you find yourself on overseas assignment. Might I have your permission to retain communications with you?
Well, looking back, that was the start of things, wasn't it. Who would have known at the time? Dumbledore was always the better chess player. He never looked just the requisite number of moves in advance; he looked years into the future.
Bill rubs the remnants of Ogdens-induced crust away from his eyes and sits up in bed; a wave of nausea hits but he fights it off. "No more of you in that quantity," he says to the empty bottle once he's sure he won't be sick. Still, his head pounds, as much from the memory of Minerva McGonagall talking calmly with Tom Riddle and Peter Pettigrew as from too much drink.
Remember that bar in Cairo, Bill? The Bejewelled Sarcophagus, it was, where you and that French wizard -- what was his name, Jean-Claude something? -- had a drinking contest the night before a big assignment to one of the lesser pyramids? and you stopped just short of completely pissed and the next day had to face down a Sphinx guarding a centuries-old treasure trove with your worst hangover ever? That was fun. Sphinxes aren't all bad, are they.
Remember the first time Dumbledore actually tapped you to do Order business while you were still in Egypt? Nothing huge, just keeping your ears open, eyes on the street, watching and looking and listening? for any sign of undue Dark activity?
Remember other things, Bill? Remember the Triwizard tournament at Hogwarts? Charlie with his dragons? The return of You-Know-Who, who apparently has nothing and everything to do with that Tom Riddle in the bar?
Remember Cedric Diggory, Bill?
Remember Sirius Black?
Remember your last assignment? And everyone thought it was for Gringotts. No, no, they don't send desk clerks on field assignments. Why is it so easy to fool the people we love?
Bill's eyes widen in sudden realisation. The last assignment: back to Cairo, to a city he knows so well, to follow up on a potential lead about You-Know-Who's whereabouts and it makes sense: the one who's cheated death seeking refuge with the dead. Valley of the Kings; City of the Dead; it follows. It makes sense.
And you never make it to Cairo, do you, Bill. Do you.
But what happens next? Try as he might, he can't remember. There are only flashes: cloaks, masks, being jostled through a crowd in... how far did you get? Aswan? Luxor? Luxor, yes, that's it, a bazaar in Luxor and running and panic and fear... fear... and turning, and...
Blackness.
And then here.
Bill looks at the bottle and it looks back at him. "Maybe you weren't such a bad idea after all."
Somewhere, there needs to be parchment. And a quill. Or a piece of paper and a pencil. And someone who knows how to send an owl from this place and if not an owl, someone who knows how to get a message out. He needs to speak to Albus Dumbledore.
At least it stopped him dreaming: no waking in a sweat with shadowy images and laughter and agony of such exquisite nature it has to be magical in origin. He replays a conversation with Headmaster Dumbledore from his last year at Hogwarts: a determined Head Boy discussing career choices.
- Mr Weasley, there are things in this world that you can only imagine. Things far greater than any of us; fraught with far more peril and excitement than most of us can conceive.
- I know, Headmaster. That's why I want to travel, see the world, live a little, have some experiences that most people don't.
- And you've decided to pursue curse-breaking with Gringotts Bank then, Mr Weasley? Is my understanding correct?
- Egypt, Headmaster. Unravelling the secrets of the Pyramids, finding treasure, solving puzzles. Yes, I'm following on with Gringotts.
There's a pause; Dumbledore simply looks at him before speaking again.
- Mr Weasley, I may need to contact you from time to time while you find yourself on overseas assignment. Might I have your permission to retain communications with you?
Well, looking back, that was the start of things, wasn't it. Who would have known at the time? Dumbledore was always the better chess player. He never looked just the requisite number of moves in advance; he looked years into the future.
Bill rubs the remnants of Ogdens-induced crust away from his eyes and sits up in bed; a wave of nausea hits but he fights it off. "No more of you in that quantity," he says to the empty bottle once he's sure he won't be sick. Still, his head pounds, as much from the memory of Minerva McGonagall talking calmly with Tom Riddle and Peter Pettigrew as from too much drink.
Remember that bar in Cairo, Bill? The Bejewelled Sarcophagus, it was, where you and that French wizard -- what was his name, Jean-Claude something? -- had a drinking contest the night before a big assignment to one of the lesser pyramids? and you stopped just short of completely pissed and the next day had to face down a Sphinx guarding a centuries-old treasure trove with your worst hangover ever? That was fun. Sphinxes aren't all bad, are they.
Remember the first time Dumbledore actually tapped you to do Order business while you were still in Egypt? Nothing huge, just keeping your ears open, eyes on the street, watching and looking and listening? for any sign of undue Dark activity?
Remember other things, Bill? Remember the Triwizard tournament at Hogwarts? Charlie with his dragons? The return of You-Know-Who, who apparently has nothing and everything to do with that Tom Riddle in the bar?
Remember Cedric Diggory, Bill?
Remember Sirius Black?
Remember your last assignment? And everyone thought it was for Gringotts. No, no, they don't send desk clerks on field assignments. Why is it so easy to fool the people we love?
Bill's eyes widen in sudden realisation. The last assignment: back to Cairo, to a city he knows so well, to follow up on a potential lead about You-Know-Who's whereabouts and it makes sense: the one who's cheated death seeking refuge with the dead. Valley of the Kings; City of the Dead; it follows. It makes sense.
And you never make it to Cairo, do you, Bill. Do you.
But what happens next? Try as he might, he can't remember. There are only flashes: cloaks, masks, being jostled through a crowd in... how far did you get? Aswan? Luxor? Luxor, yes, that's it, a bazaar in Luxor and running and panic and fear... fear... and turning, and...
Blackness.
And then here.
Bill looks at the bottle and it looks back at him. "Maybe you weren't such a bad idea after all."
Somewhere, there needs to be parchment. And a quill. Or a piece of paper and a pencil. And someone who knows how to send an owl from this place and if not an owl, someone who knows how to get a message out. He needs to speak to Albus Dumbledore.
