Bucolia Buck (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} bucolia_buck) wrote,@ 2007-06-26 18:18:00 |
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Taking the Lead, Part One
Title: Taking the Lead
Author: Bucolia Buck (silvernatasha)
Recipient: Eulalie Monkswood (inell)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Back in the field after years of office work, Bill Weasley finds himself sent on a mission to de-curse a mysterious portrait dubbed the ‘fainting painting’. The goblins have hired someone to accompany him, though, and Hermione Granger is the last person he wants to work with.
Pairing: Bill/Hermione
Word Count: ~10,800
Thank You: To my lovely betaandreth_47 for ironing out a few wrinkles! And, of course, to the fabulous Eulalie Monkswood for asking for such a delicious request.
Well done, you’ve made the department so successful that we’re now going to tear it all apart.
Bill kept hearing the high-pitched voices of the goblins in his head, mentally twisting their words of praise for his management of the bank’s curse-breaking department into what he saw as the truth.
After the war, he’d slipped into the role as the head of the department, taking over from a wizened old goblin who’d been so out of it most of the time that it was a wonder he could see anything past his long, pointy nose. Using his knowledge of the personnel in the department, Bill had gradually shuffled the curse-breaking teams around, getting better results in the last five years than the department had in the last century. He’d thrown himself into his work, injuries from the war and the breakdown of his marriage giving him the dire need to concentrate on something other than himself. Office work was hardly the most thrilling work, but Bill had made this position his own. He also rather liked it when some of the other curse breakers called him ‘Guv’.
Now, however, the department was so successful the bank was getting a lot of interest from other parties, teams being hired to help with problems all over the world while getting Gringotts a tidy profit at the same time.
Bill had lost three curse breakers to exhaustion in the last two months. The department was being stretched too thin, the five existing teams being cut down in size to make eight teams and it still wasn’t enough. The goblins had decided, in all their infinite wisdom, to temporarily bring in wizards from outside the bank to help ‘ease the load’. That was how they saw it, anyway, but Bill just saw red, watching as his teams were ripped apart and stitched back together with wizards he’d never even met.
Bill slammed his fist down on a cabinet. He growled to himself, remembering to take deep breaths and try to count to ten. A memo sat on his desk, all innocent cream parchment and blue ink. He was being sent to America, apparently; he needed to keep up his abilities in the field, the goblins told him, which was all very well and good. Getting out of the office was appealing after so long pushing paper.
Except they were sending a freelancer with him.
There was a knock on his open door. “Am I interrupting anything?”
Bill wrenched the book he had gone to fetch from the shelf, turning around. His expression softened when he recognised the witch at the door. “Hermione. No, not at all.”
She smiled. “Bill. It’s been a while.”
“I’ll say.” Bill flopped into the leather chair behind his desk, remembering the last time he had seen her with a sudden, almost distressing, clarity. Ron’s birthday. A little too much to drink and a drunken kiss that they’d both fled from with the utmost speed. “Come in. D’you fancy a spot of tea?”
“That would be lovely.” Hermione’s cane knocked on the wooden floor as she cross the office. She sat, resting the cane against Bill’s polished mahogany desk.
“Leg hurting?” Bill asked, cautiously, eyeing the cane but also taking in Hermione’s countenance. She didn’t appear to be too bothered by their last encounter. Since his divorce, however, he admittedly wasn’t as good at reading women’s innermost thoughts as he thought he was, though he could give it a damn good try.
“My knee’s aching a little,” Hermione admitted. “I think there must be rain coming.” She grinned. “Merlin, I sound like an old woman.”
Bill chuckled. “So what brings you to Gringotts?” he asked. “Not interviewing for that accounting position on the third floor, are you?” He slid open a desk drawer, pulling out a full tea service on a tray. He plucked the lid from the striped blue teapot, aiming his wand and sending a gush of boiling water from the tip of it into it.
Hermione shook her head. “No, not exactly. But I thought I’d pop down and see you while I’m in the building.”
Bill prepared the teacups, watching surreptitiously as Hermione glanced around his office. He almost laughed when he saw her eyes widen as she spotted the zebra head on the wall, pursing his lips shut instead. The varied and unusual contents of his office had been inherited from his predecessors. Goblin and human alike, they had a tendency to collect things, random detritus from all over the world, different excavations and missions. In Bill’s experience most curse breakers seemed to have an area of speciality, too; the Egyptian influences in the room were his.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, Hermione. I haven’t seen you since Ron’s birthday.”
“Has it really been that long?” Hermione asked, smiling as Bill passed her the tea. A blush covered her cheeks. “Thanks. So… what did that cabinet ever do to you?”
Bill blinked. “Pardon?”
“The cabinet.” Hermione nodded at the piece of furniture. “You were hitting it.”
“Ah. So I was.” Bill sighed and blew gently on his tea before taking a sip. “The goblins are doing my head in, I’m afraid. They’ve been bringing in freelance wizards to help the curse-breaking teams because we’re spread horribly thin and can’t really cope with the volume of work.” He pulled open another drawer, closed it, then opened a new one before pulling out a plate of chocolate biscuits and offering them to Hermione.
“Thanks.” Hermione took a biscuit, frowning. “But isn’t that a good thing?”
“Yes and no,” Bill said reluctantly. “We need the help, but I’ve spent a long time organising the teams. Working out who works well together and sorting out whose styles complement and contrast. Now the goblins have all but broken up my teams and stuck in random people I’ve never met.”
Hermione laughed. “So now you’re taking it out on that poor cabinet?”
Grinning, Bill shrugged. “Something like that.” He shook his head. “And I wouldn’t feel too sorry for that cabinet. Used to be cursed something horrid until I sorted it out. Decided to claim it after that.” His fingers toyed absently with the dragon fang that hung from his ear. “The goblins have gone and told me I’ve got to go to bloody America with some hack wizard to ‘help’ me.”
Putting down her tea, Hermione pursed her lips. “A hack? Is that what they said?”
Bill sipped his tea. “Well, they didn’t say that. But I’m not putting much faith in their selection.”
“Why don’t you say anything to them?”
He almost rolled his eyes. It was just like Hermione to be constantly asking questions. “First rule of working at Gringotts,” he explained, waggling a finger at her. “Don’t piss off the goblins.” He shook his head. “It’ll be fine. We’ll go, I’ll do my stuff while the useless sod looks on in slack-jawed amazement.” Bill grinned.
“Nice to hear you’ve got it all planned out,” Hermione said, reaching for another biscuit. “Have you ever been to New Orleans before?”
“No, I…” Bill frowned, not just because Hermione had taken a biscuit without asking. “I didn’t tell you I was going to New Orleans, did I?”
“No.” Hermione shook her head. “You didn’t.”
“Then how…?”
“Perhaps I should have been a little more professional when I came in.” She held out her hand across the table. “Hermione Granger, useless sod.”
Bill raked his hand through his shaggy red hair. “I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “Just a little bit.”
*****
Charlie grunted as he pushed down on the floor, body rising up as he ground out, “Forty-three.” Bill watched his brother do a couple more press-ups before slipping into the bathroom next to Charlie’s bedroom, leaving the door open.
“Bloody woman,” he said, finding his shaving cream. “I don’t know what she thought she was playing at not telling me she was the freelancer they’ve assigned to me. Just sitting there and letting me insult her.” He smeared the cool cream over his stubble and rinsed his fingers, reaching for his wand.
“She probably didn’t realise that you’d be such a prick about it all,” Charlie called.
“The bitch probably knew exactly what she was doing,” Bill retorted, leaning in towards the mirror to get a better look as he started to cast a wordless shaving charm.
“Is this your ‘all-women-are-manipulative-bitches’ speech?” Charlie asked, lying chest-down on the floor of his bedroom for a moment, then getting up. He stretched his arms over his head.
Bill scowled at his reflection. “She even took two of my chocolate biscuits! Can you believe it?”
“I’m shocked and horrified,” Charlie told him dryly, pushing open the window to let in some fresh air and adjusted the curtains, looking out at the grey morning view.
“I mean, I was just being polite when I offered her the first one because I wanted one and knew it would be rude not to offer. But then she just went and helped herself to a second one. The cheek!”
“Scandalous.”
Bill cleaned the remnants of his shaving cream from his cheeks with another charm, reach for his moisturiser. The scars on his face already felt tight from the charms he had been using, the moisturiser essential. “So now I’ve got to go to New Orleans with her and I’m going to have to be nice to her after this.” He paused, rubbing a little moisturiser into his hands. “Where did you go last night?”
Arriving home from work after his encounter with Hermione, Bill hadn’t paid much attention to his brother, with whom he shared the flat, but he now distinctly remembered Charlie wearing one of his ‘date’ outfits.
His brother laughed from the next room. “Ah, right. Mum set me up on a blind date.”
Bill rolled his eyes. Molly Weasley’s attempts to match make her second eldest son were somewhat futile, their mother not yet comprehending one crucial factor. “And?”
“And I think I’ve got to give the woman a round of applause. She’s finally figured out what I’m looking for.”
That caught Bill’s attention. “What? You mean, tall, blond, an arse to die for…”
“And a cock?” Charlie suggested, appearing in the doorway. He smirked, leaning against the doorjamb. “Yeah.”
Bill shook his head, laughing. “I can’t believe she finally worked it out.”
Charlie shrugged. “I think she’s actually quite pleased. Proud, even. Mum had all these leaflets from a support group for parents, too. She seems to like the idea of having a gay son. Told me she always thought one of us might be, but that she’d always assumed it was Percy.”
“How is Perce, anyway?” Bill asked, running a comb through his hair. He no longer wore the ponytail of his youth, but his hair was still a lot longer than his mother liked.
“Up to his elbows in nappies the last time I went around his place.”
“So definitely not gay,” Bill said with a grin.
“Definitely not.” Charlie frowned. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright on this trip? It’s just the two of you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. And, yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m looking forward to spending some time in the Big Easy.”
Charlie chuckled. “Don’t let Hermione hear you calling her that.”
“Prat,” Bill grumbled, rolling his eyes. He tousled his hair with his fingers, checking his reflection to make sure he looked the right sort of ruffled, as though he hadn’t spent long on his appearance at all. “Got time for breakfast?” he asked Charlie. “I think I need to hear about Mum’s matchmaking success.”
In Bill’s opinion, the best fried breakfast in wizarding London was at Marco’s Café. About five minutes’ walk from the middle of Diagon Alley, it didn’t look much from the outside, but did food that Bill would cross the country for. With an Italian family owning the café, there was a curious mixture of English and Italian food on the menu, homemade lasagne sitting next to the full English breakfast on the board above the counter.
Mopping up the last of his fried egg with a piece of toast, Bill looked up from his conversation when Old Marco shouted, “Get that bloody bird out of here; this is a café, not a menagerie.” Young Marco, his sixteen-year-old son, snickered from behind the coffee maker.
The offending owl landed on the back of the empty chair next to Bill. Charlie raised his eyebrows. “I think it’s for you,” he said, which was not entirely helpful.
Bill sighed, wiping his hands on his jeans and taking the letter from the owl’s leg, shooing it away. It flapped out of the café as Bill examined the handwriting on the envelope and then opened it. Reading the letter, his expression darkened. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Bill thrust the piece of parchment at Charlie. “I don’t believe her.”
Charlie read the letter, then started to laugh. “I dunno,” he said, shaking his head. “Got to admire her audacity.”
Dear Bill,
When you pack for the New Orleans mission, don’t forget to bring some suitable formal attire. We’re going to a party.
Yours,
Hermione Granger
“I don’t do parties,” Bill announced, slumping back in his chair.
“Hermione seems to think you do.”
“She obviously doesn’t know me. Last party I went to was Ron’s birthday. And that was only because I had some rather harsh words from Mum.”
Charlie narrowed his eyes in thought as he bit into a piece of fried bread. “Wasn’t that the party where you got off with some random girl and ran away like a scared teenager?”
Bill gritted his teeth, looking across the table at Charlie with a glare.
Charlie snickered. “Oh, damn, Bill. Please tell me it wasn’t Hermione.”
Clearing his throat, Bill looked from the letter to his brother. “I can’t tell you that,” he said finally, “because that would be a lie.”
“Fucking hell.” Charlie looked far too amused by this for Bill’s liking. “Never thought it would be her.”
“Well, it was.” Bill tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. “She knows me better than a lot of people so I don’t know why she’s doing all this crap to me.”
Charlie shrugged, digging his fork firmly into his last piece of sausage. “I dunno. Maybe she’s trying to antagonise you? She’s doing a pretty good job of it so far.” He grinned, showing off the dimples that frustrated every woman who realised that he simply wasn’t interested in anyone with breasts. “It’s quite funny, actually. Haven’t seen you like this over a woman for a long time.”
“She’s not a woman!” Bill protested hotly. “Well, she is, but I’m not pissed off because she’s a woman.”
Sniggering, Charlie picked up a piece of toast that he’d been saving, shaking his head. “Oh, this is just too funny. I think I’m going to have to tell Ron about this.”
“Fuck off.” Bill folded up the letting, slipping it into the pocket of his robes.
“What? Scared he’ll tell Hermione?”
Bill wished he had something to throw at his brother, as he would have done when they were younger. “Sod off.” He shook his head. “I can see what she’s trying to do. She wants to put me off my game so that she’ll do a better job when we’re out in the field and then try and wangle more money from the bank.” He frowned. “I’ve seen freelance wizards like her do that sort of thing before.”
Charlie munched on his toast. “I didn’t even know Hermione did curse-breaking.”
“Does a bit of everything, I think. Whatever pays the bills so she can do whatever the hell it is she does the rest of the time.” Bill shoved back his chair, standing up. “Speaking of paying the bills, I need to get to the bank. Got a team heading off to the Cotswolds in a couple of hours. Don’t you have some dragons you need to go and tame?”
“I’m monitoring egg clutches. Not the most thrilling of work.” He grinned. “See you later, Billy-boy. Don’t get yourself too worked up over Hermione, yeah?”
“I’m not worked up,” Bill told him firmly. He scowled. “See you tonight.”
*****
If there was one thing that Hermione Granger appreciated, it was punctuality. In her opinion, it showed all sorts of respect and consideration. Bill seemed to be having a little difficulty meeting her on time for their international portkey.
“Were you going to leave me standing here all day?” Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows as Bill strode towards her across the Gringotts foyer.
“Something like that,” Bill agreed, dropping his soft leather bag at his feet. He glanced at the trunk that Hermione appeared to be taking with her. Why couldn’t women travel light? Fleur had been the same when he had been married to her. Fleur could never settle for one pair of shoes when she could take ten.
Hermione pursed her lips. She supposed she deserved a little coldness after not being completely upfront with him about being his freelancer. He could at least retain some professional dignity, in her opinion. She was being employed by Gringotts and so, for the duration of this mission, they were colleagues; Hermione had at least expected a little decorum. “Did you get my owl yesterday about the party?”
Bill raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I don’t quite understand what a party has to do with de-cursing a painting, though. Care to enlighten me?”
He didn’t sound pleased and Hermione wasn’t sure why. “Gringotts rarely has business in that area. There’s a ball-type thing at an art gallery in the Wizarding Quarter. I thought it would be a good idea to go and make some contacts.”
It took all Bill’s restraint not to groan loudly. “Hermione, we have met before, haven’t we?”
Her brow furrowed. What was that supposed to mean? “Of course. We worked together during the war.”
“Then you should know by now that I don’t do ball-type things.”
Hermione folded her arms across her chest, fixing him with a hard look that she had perfected on Harry and Ron over the years. “Well, you have to go. You’re the one who actually works for Gringotts.”
“But I didn’t want to go in the first place.” Insufferable woman. If she had already arranged this, he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this easily without making the bank look bad. He growled, shoving his hand in his pocket and pulling out a banana. He thrust it towards Hermione, who raised her eyebrows.
“No, thank you. I’ve just had lunch.”
“It’s the portkey,” he told her shortly. “Just take it. It’ll activate any second now.”
She pursed her lips, dubious. “You turned a banana into a portkey?”
“It’s disposable. I get to eat it afterwards.”
She sighed and grasped the banana firmly.
“Don’t squeeze too hard,” Bill warned her. She was going to make a mess if she held it like that.
“Sorry,” she said, unapologetic and looking him in the eye. “I was expecting something bigger.”
*****
Three hours after their arrival in New Orleans, Bill was fairly certain that he was going to throttle Hermione by the end of the trip. In fact, the return journey was going to be him and a corpse.
The bloody woman just wouldn’t stop talking. Talking and talking and talking and, oh Merlin, she was going to drive him crazy.
Her collection of reference books was quite impressive. Bill wasn’t so impressed, however, that she had brought them all with her. If Bill had been in a better mood, he might have pointed out to her that a decent curse breaker would do their preliminary research before they went on the mission and that it was overkill to bring that many books, anyway.
After going over his notes, Bill shoved his feet into his favourite pair of dragonhide boots, putting his hotel key into his pocket.
“Where are you going?” Hermione asked, eyes narrowed at him over the top of her book.
“Going to take a look at this painting.”
“But we’re not scheduled to go and look at it until later this evening when the museum is closed!”
“No,” Bill said, mustering his patience, “that’s when we’re going to go and start trying to break the curse. Right now, I’m going to go and check out the ‘fainting painting’ in action.” He paused by the door. “You can come with me if you want.”
Hermione huffed, snapping her book shut. “Fine.”
She followed Bill rather obediently out of the hotel and out into the Wizarding Quarter; Bill remembered to slow his pace so that she could follow with her cane. Glancing at Hermione, Bill smirked when he saw her intense expression. “Oh, go on, then,” he relented. “Tell me what you know.”
“Well.” Hermione tucked a curl that had escaped from her ponytail behind her ear. “Someone at the Louvre made a bit of a mistake - no one’s quite sure how. One of the paintings from the wizarding collection got muddled into what they were sending to the New Orlean’s Museum of Art. They thought it would be alright because, even though it was painted by a wizard, it doesn’t move so it was hardly going to breach the international statute of secrecy.”
“Nice to know you’ve memorised the mission briefing.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “Now, however,” she continued as they walked down the street past a noisy café, “it seems that just because the painting doesn’t move doesn’t mean it’s not magical. All the men who look at it keep getting ill.”
“And…” Bill prompted, taking a moment to scowl at someone who stared for too long at his scars.
Hearing the annoyance in Hermione’s voice could only increase Bill’s glee.
“And now it’s attracting the attention of the Muggle media. They’re calling it the ‘fainting painting’, which is just getting it more and more attention. The Muggles are fascinated by it.”
Bill grinned. “It’s like having my own walking encyclopaedia.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s Apparate.”
Hermione gasped as they both disappeared from the street with a pop. “Bill Weasley, you can’t just do that without warning me!”
Bill slipped his hand over her mouth. “Quiet,” he told her. She glared. Finally, Bill removed his hand.
“Where are we?” Hermione looked over her shoulder and groaned. “You Apparated us into the men’s toilets?” He smirked, almost able to see fire flashing in her eyes. Such a passionate one; no wonder she and Ron had clashed so horribly when they had finally attempted a romantic relationship. “I’m going to look like such a tart walking out of here with you.”
“And is that such a bad thing?” Bill teased, standing far closer to her than absolutely necessary.
“Yes.”
Hermione was making this far more difficult than she needed to. Even if her cheeks were flushed in that attractive sort of way she could at least keep her cool. Smirking, Bill’s hand snaked down to give her arse a quick pinch. She squeaked, cheeks reddening. “You go out now, I’ll follow in a couple of minutes and meet you by the painting.”
“Why don’t you go first?” Hermione challenged.
He smiled. “Because I’ve just drunk two very large cups of coffee and feel the need to relieve myself.” This announcement did nothing to relieve Hermione’s blushing.
“Fine,” she said firmly. She pulled her wrist away from Bill’s grasp. “I’ll meet you there in five minutes. If you wander off and just leave me standing there like an idiot, I’ll…”
“Hermione. I’m a professional. I’m here to do a job, not to antagonise you.”
Her eyes narrowed, lips pursing. “I’ll meet you there in five minutes,” she repeated, turning on her heel and walking out of the room, her head held high. A man in a garish t-shirt that screamed ‘tourist’ passed her on the way out, giving her a bemused look as she walked by. However, as he moved to a urinal, Bill found it really rather difficult to feel the least bit sorry for her.
Bill knew he was pushing it a little when he arrived at the painting seven minutes later. He couldn’t even pretend that he had got lost: there were far too many tourists buzzing around it to miss it. The rest of the collection was sadly getting neglected in Bill’s opinion, though the painting in question was rather exquisite; a young woman full of Victorian wizarding glamour looking pensively out of a window. At the same time, though, there didn’t seem to be anything pathetic or weak about her, an inner sense of strength almost radiating from the canvas.
Bill hung back, watching with amusement as a couple of lesbians tried to give Hermione a leaflet before being chased off by a security guard.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bill asked, stepping up behind her. Startled, Hermione looked up at him with wide eyes. “I especially like the hair.”
A group of teenage boys moved in front of them, apparently daring each other to see how long they could stand to look at it.
“Tell me all about it, then,” he prompted. The way Hermione stared at him was particularly unnerving, all big brown eyes and intense concentration, as though she were trying to read him like one of her books. Rather than looking at her, Bill looked at the painting, wondering if it would have the same effect on a wizard as it did on Muggle men.
Hermione cleared her throat, turning towards the painting. In Muggle surroundings, she kept her tone quieter, though really it was the painting itself that was drawing all the attention. “Painted in approximately 1860, it was donated to the Louvre about a hundred years ago by an anonymous artist. It’s been kept in their wizarding collection, though doesn’t appear to have actually been on display. A wizard painted it, but the subject doesn’t move so my guess is that it was just passed over for more interesting paintings.”
One of the teenage boys fainted, his friends laughing even as they tried to help him, a museum employee also on hand to help the latest victim of the ‘fainting painting’.
“Men,” Hermione grumbled. “They’re all the same. Even Harry and Ron would still be daring each other to look at it.”
Bill was sure that he and Charlie would do the same, actually. They were the first to admit that they were a bad influence on each other, often reverting to sniggering teenagers if they had the chance. He smiled to himself at the thought.
“How do you feel?” Hermione asked suddenly, looking Bill up and down and not at all amused by his smile.
He shrugged. “Fine. Don’t really feel any different.”
“No nausea, headaches or anything like that?” Hermione rattled off the list of symptoms that Muggles had been showing.
“Nope.”
“Typical. I’m here with the one man the painting doesn’t seem to affect.”
Bill frowned, her vitriolic tone surprising him a little. He looked down at her, noticing how her fingers were wrapped tightly around her cane, knuckles turning white. “Hermione, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but your bitchy side really seems to be shining right now.” Bill winced; he hadn’t quite intended it to sound like that.
Hermione eyes widened, face growing pale. “How dare you…” She stormed out of the exhibition, leaving Bill raking his hand through his hair in exasperation. This brought back horrible memories from near the end of his marriage.
Counting slowly to twenty in a bid not to lose his temper, Bill followed and found her a few minutes later in another area of the gallery. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”
“You think I’m a bitch?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Er, no. Yes. Well, no, not exactly. Sometimes. But you did seem rather bitchy just now. Especially about those kids.” Seeing Hermione wobble slightly, Bill reached out to steady her. “Hey. Are you alright?”
“Just feel a little dizzy,” Hermione said, trying to shake off Bill’s hand. “Came over a bit funny when I walked away from the painting.” She bit her lip, thinking. “You know what? I think you’re right.”
Bill frowned. “That you’re a bitch?” he ventured.
She rolled her eyes. “Alright, I admit it. I can be a bitch sometimes, but that’s just who I am. No, I mean about those boys. Looking at that painting, it was as though I was struck with an overwhelming hatred for everything male.”
Idly scratching an old scar on his jaw, Bill tried to put this new piece of information with what they already knew. “So it affected you, but didn’t seem to have that effect on Muggle women.”
“Because I’m a witch?” Hermione suggested. “But it didn’t have any effect on you.”
“Indeed. Looks like this curse is a little more complicated than we thought.” He grinned. “Aren’t you glad we did this bit of reconnaissance?”
Hermione pursed her lips, ignoring his last question. “Any ideas?”
“A few.”
“Would you care to share?”
“I’m thinking… I’m thinking that we need to find out exactly who painted this painting. Reckon that’s in those books of yours?”
Hermione considered this, gaze softening a little as she slipping into the memory of the books that she had brought with her. “I have some art history books,” she said. “I think it’s possible that we could make an educated guess.”
Bill chuckled. “Excellent. That’s my favourite kind of guess.”
*****
“I wish I’d brought more books with me,” Hermione complained, yawning as she skimmed over another page.
“You already have half a small library in that trunk, Hermione. We’ll make do with what we’ve got.” Bill looked across at Hermione’s bed, which was scattered with books, more piled on the floor. Considering the goblins’ way with money, it was perhaps unsurprising that the goblins had only booked one room for them to share. Bill could only hope that Hermione didn’t snore.
“I’m not entirely sure why we need to know who painted the portrait,” Hermione admitted. “We know what it does; I’m sure it wouldn’t take much to break the curse.”
Bill shrugged. “Maybe. We didn’t know until this afternoon that it affects witches, though. I don’t want any more nasty surprises. If we know who painted it, then perhaps we’ll have a better idea.”
Hermione sighed, flipping the page over. “Why do people curse things like paintings, anyway? It seems like such a waste.”
Chuckling, Bill closed his book; Hermione had never trained as a curse breaker, so these questions were almost endearing. “That’s a question curse breakers have been asking for centuries.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And has anyone found an answer?”
“None of us really care,” Bill admitted. He closed his book, yawning and stretching his arms over his head. “As long as people keep cursing things, it keeps us in business.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “I suppose I see your point.”
“I’m starving,” Bill announced, drumming his hands on his flat stomach.
Gesturing her quill at the tray of plates, Hermione said, “We’ve already had room service.”
“And damn good it was, too,” Bill agreed. “But now I want dessert.”
“So order some, then,” Hermione told him, not looking up from the book.
“I fancy going out. Thought I saw a good-looking place when we were walking through the Wizarding Quarter earlier.”
Hermione looked at her watch. “We’re supposed to be going to the museum in an hour.” Her hand covered her mouth as she yawned.
“You’re tired,” Bill pointed out.
“It’s the time difference.”
“Okay. So I’ll get the hotel to send a message to our contact. We’ll go to the museum in the morning before it opens.”
“But, Bill…”
“And tonight we’re going to go out, have dessert and a couple of drinks and then a good night’s sleep.”
Hermione scowled, but reached for her bookmark anyway. “I’m in no fit state to go out.”
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get ready,” Bill said, heading for the door. “I’ll just pop down to reception and come back for you.”
Returning ten minutes later, Hermione had changed into a dress and restrained her bushy hair into a plait down her back. “It’s too humid for robes,” she complained, the dress surprising Bill a little less when she said that. He had always taken her for a very practical dresser and, in this weather, the wrap-around dress was very practical. Bill wondered, though, if she were aware of quite how the soft red material clung to her breasts? Considering the eye-catching necklace that was framed perfectly by the neckline of the dress, he was fairly certain that she was.
New Orlean’s Wizard Quarter was just as busy in the evening as it was in the day. To Hermione, it seemed even more magical that Diagon Alley, though she supposed that she’d got used to the magical oddities of London after over a decade of living in the wizarding world. There was an Italian ice cream parlour not far from their hotel; Hermione watched with amusement as Bill ordered himself a rather large sundae. Had she not seen Bill or his brothers demolish large amounts of food in the past, she would never have believed that he could eat it all.
Hermione picked at her cannoli as Bill dug into the mound of ice cream. “I still don’t understand why someone would curse a painting like this. I mean, I can understand the desire to curse a priceless artefact or an ancient tomb. That’s all about protection and greed.” There had been plenty of that sort of thing about during the war, as her occasional need for a cane attested.
Licking his spoon, Bill nodded, indicating for her to continue.
“But this is just a painting. By an anonymous painter of an anonymous subject.” She sipped her coffee, thinking aloud and in mid-flow of her thoughts now. “It’s nothing special. It doesn’t even move. It just makes witches angry and Muggle men weak and prone to fainting.” Hermione frowned.
“You don’t like it when you don’t understand, do you?” Bill asked gently.
Hermione gave a reluctant shake of her head.
Bill stuck his spoon into his pile of ice cream, information starting to come together. Perhaps Hermione’s constant talking and encyclopaedic tendencies could be useful. “I think I might have an idea of what it might all be about.”
“What is it?”
He smirked. “You’ll see in the morning,” he assured her. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Bill held up his hand, not willing to listen. “Just enjoy your dessert and relax. It’s okay to have a little pleasure while we’re here on business.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Part Two
Title: Taking the Lead
Author: Bucolia Buck (
silvernatasha)Recipient: Eulalie Monkswood (
inell)Rating: NC-17
Summary: Back in the field after years of office work, Bill Weasley finds himself sent on a mission to de-curse a mysterious portrait dubbed the ‘fainting painting’. The goblins have hired someone to accompany him, though, and Hermione Granger is the last person he wants to work with.
Pairing: Bill/Hermione
Word Count: ~10,800
Thank You: To my lovely beta
andreth_47 for ironing out a few wrinkles! And, of course, to the fabulous Eulalie Monkswood for asking for such a delicious request.Well done, you’ve made the department so successful that we’re now going to tear it all apart.
Bill kept hearing the high-pitched voices of the goblins in his head, mentally twisting their words of praise for his management of the bank’s curse-breaking department into what he saw as the truth.
After the war, he’d slipped into the role as the head of the department, taking over from a wizened old goblin who’d been so out of it most of the time that it was a wonder he could see anything past his long, pointy nose. Using his knowledge of the personnel in the department, Bill had gradually shuffled the curse-breaking teams around, getting better results in the last five years than the department had in the last century. He’d thrown himself into his work, injuries from the war and the breakdown of his marriage giving him the dire need to concentrate on something other than himself. Office work was hardly the most thrilling work, but Bill had made this position his own. He also rather liked it when some of the other curse breakers called him ‘Guv’.
Now, however, the department was so successful the bank was getting a lot of interest from other parties, teams being hired to help with problems all over the world while getting Gringotts a tidy profit at the same time.
Bill had lost three curse breakers to exhaustion in the last two months. The department was being stretched too thin, the five existing teams being cut down in size to make eight teams and it still wasn’t enough. The goblins had decided, in all their infinite wisdom, to temporarily bring in wizards from outside the bank to help ‘ease the load’. That was how they saw it, anyway, but Bill just saw red, watching as his teams were ripped apart and stitched back together with wizards he’d never even met.
Bill slammed his fist down on a cabinet. He growled to himself, remembering to take deep breaths and try to count to ten. A memo sat on his desk, all innocent cream parchment and blue ink. He was being sent to America, apparently; he needed to keep up his abilities in the field, the goblins told him, which was all very well and good. Getting out of the office was appealing after so long pushing paper.
Except they were sending a freelancer with him.
There was a knock on his open door. “Am I interrupting anything?”
Bill wrenched the book he had gone to fetch from the shelf, turning around. His expression softened when he recognised the witch at the door. “Hermione. No, not at all.”
She smiled. “Bill. It’s been a while.”
“I’ll say.” Bill flopped into the leather chair behind his desk, remembering the last time he had seen her with a sudden, almost distressing, clarity. Ron’s birthday. A little too much to drink and a drunken kiss that they’d both fled from with the utmost speed. “Come in. D’you fancy a spot of tea?”
“That would be lovely.” Hermione’s cane knocked on the wooden floor as she cross the office. She sat, resting the cane against Bill’s polished mahogany desk.
“Leg hurting?” Bill asked, cautiously, eyeing the cane but also taking in Hermione’s countenance. She didn’t appear to be too bothered by their last encounter. Since his divorce, however, he admittedly wasn’t as good at reading women’s innermost thoughts as he thought he was, though he could give it a damn good try.
“My knee’s aching a little,” Hermione admitted. “I think there must be rain coming.” She grinned. “Merlin, I sound like an old woman.”
Bill chuckled. “So what brings you to Gringotts?” he asked. “Not interviewing for that accounting position on the third floor, are you?” He slid open a desk drawer, pulling out a full tea service on a tray. He plucked the lid from the striped blue teapot, aiming his wand and sending a gush of boiling water from the tip of it into it.
Hermione shook her head. “No, not exactly. But I thought I’d pop down and see you while I’m in the building.”
Bill prepared the teacups, watching surreptitiously as Hermione glanced around his office. He almost laughed when he saw her eyes widen as she spotted the zebra head on the wall, pursing his lips shut instead. The varied and unusual contents of his office had been inherited from his predecessors. Goblin and human alike, they had a tendency to collect things, random detritus from all over the world, different excavations and missions. In Bill’s experience most curse breakers seemed to have an area of speciality, too; the Egyptian influences in the room were his.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, Hermione. I haven’t seen you since Ron’s birthday.”
“Has it really been that long?” Hermione asked, smiling as Bill passed her the tea. A blush covered her cheeks. “Thanks. So… what did that cabinet ever do to you?”
Bill blinked. “Pardon?”
“The cabinet.” Hermione nodded at the piece of furniture. “You were hitting it.”
“Ah. So I was.” Bill sighed and blew gently on his tea before taking a sip. “The goblins are doing my head in, I’m afraid. They’ve been bringing in freelance wizards to help the curse-breaking teams because we’re spread horribly thin and can’t really cope with the volume of work.” He pulled open another drawer, closed it, then opened a new one before pulling out a plate of chocolate biscuits and offering them to Hermione.
“Thanks.” Hermione took a biscuit, frowning. “But isn’t that a good thing?”
“Yes and no,” Bill said reluctantly. “We need the help, but I’ve spent a long time organising the teams. Working out who works well together and sorting out whose styles complement and contrast. Now the goblins have all but broken up my teams and stuck in random people I’ve never met.”
Hermione laughed. “So now you’re taking it out on that poor cabinet?”
Grinning, Bill shrugged. “Something like that.” He shook his head. “And I wouldn’t feel too sorry for that cabinet. Used to be cursed something horrid until I sorted it out. Decided to claim it after that.” His fingers toyed absently with the dragon fang that hung from his ear. “The goblins have gone and told me I’ve got to go to bloody America with some hack wizard to ‘help’ me.”
Putting down her tea, Hermione pursed her lips. “A hack? Is that what they said?”
Bill sipped his tea. “Well, they didn’t say that. But I’m not putting much faith in their selection.”
“Why don’t you say anything to them?”
He almost rolled his eyes. It was just like Hermione to be constantly asking questions. “First rule of working at Gringotts,” he explained, waggling a finger at her. “Don’t piss off the goblins.” He shook his head. “It’ll be fine. We’ll go, I’ll do my stuff while the useless sod looks on in slack-jawed amazement.” Bill grinned.
“Nice to hear you’ve got it all planned out,” Hermione said, reaching for another biscuit. “Have you ever been to New Orleans before?”
“No, I…” Bill frowned, not just because Hermione had taken a biscuit without asking. “I didn’t tell you I was going to New Orleans, did I?”
“No.” Hermione shook her head. “You didn’t.”
“Then how…?”
“Perhaps I should have been a little more professional when I came in.” She held out her hand across the table. “Hermione Granger, useless sod.”
Bill raked his hand through his shaggy red hair. “I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “Just a little bit.”
Charlie grunted as he pushed down on the floor, body rising up as he ground out, “Forty-three.” Bill watched his brother do a couple more press-ups before slipping into the bathroom next to Charlie’s bedroom, leaving the door open.
“Bloody woman,” he said, finding his shaving cream. “I don’t know what she thought she was playing at not telling me she was the freelancer they’ve assigned to me. Just sitting there and letting me insult her.” He smeared the cool cream over his stubble and rinsed his fingers, reaching for his wand.
“She probably didn’t realise that you’d be such a prick about it all,” Charlie called.
“The bitch probably knew exactly what she was doing,” Bill retorted, leaning in towards the mirror to get a better look as he started to cast a wordless shaving charm.
“Is this your ‘all-women-are-manipulative-bitches’ speech?” Charlie asked, lying chest-down on the floor of his bedroom for a moment, then getting up. He stretched his arms over his head.
Bill scowled at his reflection. “She even took two of my chocolate biscuits! Can you believe it?”
“I’m shocked and horrified,” Charlie told him dryly, pushing open the window to let in some fresh air and adjusted the curtains, looking out at the grey morning view.
“I mean, I was just being polite when I offered her the first one because I wanted one and knew it would be rude not to offer. But then she just went and helped herself to a second one. The cheek!”
“Scandalous.”
Bill cleaned the remnants of his shaving cream from his cheeks with another charm, reach for his moisturiser. The scars on his face already felt tight from the charms he had been using, the moisturiser essential. “So now I’ve got to go to New Orleans with her and I’m going to have to be nice to her after this.” He paused, rubbing a little moisturiser into his hands. “Where did you go last night?”
Arriving home from work after his encounter with Hermione, Bill hadn’t paid much attention to his brother, with whom he shared the flat, but he now distinctly remembered Charlie wearing one of his ‘date’ outfits.
His brother laughed from the next room. “Ah, right. Mum set me up on a blind date.”
Bill rolled his eyes. Molly Weasley’s attempts to match make her second eldest son were somewhat futile, their mother not yet comprehending one crucial factor. “And?”
“And I think I’ve got to give the woman a round of applause. She’s finally figured out what I’m looking for.”
That caught Bill’s attention. “What? You mean, tall, blond, an arse to die for…”
“And a cock?” Charlie suggested, appearing in the doorway. He smirked, leaning against the doorjamb. “Yeah.”
Bill shook his head, laughing. “I can’t believe she finally worked it out.”
Charlie shrugged. “I think she’s actually quite pleased. Proud, even. Mum had all these leaflets from a support group for parents, too. She seems to like the idea of having a gay son. Told me she always thought one of us might be, but that she’d always assumed it was Percy.”
“How is Perce, anyway?” Bill asked, running a comb through his hair. He no longer wore the ponytail of his youth, but his hair was still a lot longer than his mother liked.
“Up to his elbows in nappies the last time I went around his place.”
“So definitely not gay,” Bill said with a grin.
“Definitely not.” Charlie frowned. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright on this trip? It’s just the two of you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. And, yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m looking forward to spending some time in the Big Easy.”
Charlie chuckled. “Don’t let Hermione hear you calling her that.”
“Prat,” Bill grumbled, rolling his eyes. He tousled his hair with his fingers, checking his reflection to make sure he looked the right sort of ruffled, as though he hadn’t spent long on his appearance at all. “Got time for breakfast?” he asked Charlie. “I think I need to hear about Mum’s matchmaking success.”
In Bill’s opinion, the best fried breakfast in wizarding London was at Marco’s Café. About five minutes’ walk from the middle of Diagon Alley, it didn’t look much from the outside, but did food that Bill would cross the country for. With an Italian family owning the café, there was a curious mixture of English and Italian food on the menu, homemade lasagne sitting next to the full English breakfast on the board above the counter.
Mopping up the last of his fried egg with a piece of toast, Bill looked up from his conversation when Old Marco shouted, “Get that bloody bird out of here; this is a café, not a menagerie.” Young Marco, his sixteen-year-old son, snickered from behind the coffee maker.
The offending owl landed on the back of the empty chair next to Bill. Charlie raised his eyebrows. “I think it’s for you,” he said, which was not entirely helpful.
Bill sighed, wiping his hands on his jeans and taking the letter from the owl’s leg, shooing it away. It flapped out of the café as Bill examined the handwriting on the envelope and then opened it. Reading the letter, his expression darkened. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Bill thrust the piece of parchment at Charlie. “I don’t believe her.”
Charlie read the letter, then started to laugh. “I dunno,” he said, shaking his head. “Got to admire her audacity.”
Dear Bill,
When you pack for the New Orleans mission, don’t forget to bring some suitable formal attire. We’re going to a party.
Yours,
Hermione Granger
“I don’t do parties,” Bill announced, slumping back in his chair.
“Hermione seems to think you do.”
“She obviously doesn’t know me. Last party I went to was Ron’s birthday. And that was only because I had some rather harsh words from Mum.”
Charlie narrowed his eyes in thought as he bit into a piece of fried bread. “Wasn’t that the party where you got off with some random girl and ran away like a scared teenager?”
Bill gritted his teeth, looking across the table at Charlie with a glare.
Charlie snickered. “Oh, damn, Bill. Please tell me it wasn’t Hermione.”
Clearing his throat, Bill looked from the letter to his brother. “I can’t tell you that,” he said finally, “because that would be a lie.”
“Fucking hell.” Charlie looked far too amused by this for Bill’s liking. “Never thought it would be her.”
“Well, it was.” Bill tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. “She knows me better than a lot of people so I don’t know why she’s doing all this crap to me.”
Charlie shrugged, digging his fork firmly into his last piece of sausage. “I dunno. Maybe she’s trying to antagonise you? She’s doing a pretty good job of it so far.” He grinned, showing off the dimples that frustrated every woman who realised that he simply wasn’t interested in anyone with breasts. “It’s quite funny, actually. Haven’t seen you like this over a woman for a long time.”
“She’s not a woman!” Bill protested hotly. “Well, she is, but I’m not pissed off because she’s a woman.”
Sniggering, Charlie picked up a piece of toast that he’d been saving, shaking his head. “Oh, this is just too funny. I think I’m going to have to tell Ron about this.”
“Fuck off.” Bill folded up the letting, slipping it into the pocket of his robes.
“What? Scared he’ll tell Hermione?”
Bill wished he had something to throw at his brother, as he would have done when they were younger. “Sod off.” He shook his head. “I can see what she’s trying to do. She wants to put me off my game so that she’ll do a better job when we’re out in the field and then try and wangle more money from the bank.” He frowned. “I’ve seen freelance wizards like her do that sort of thing before.”
Charlie munched on his toast. “I didn’t even know Hermione did curse-breaking.”
“Does a bit of everything, I think. Whatever pays the bills so she can do whatever the hell it is she does the rest of the time.” Bill shoved back his chair, standing up. “Speaking of paying the bills, I need to get to the bank. Got a team heading off to the Cotswolds in a couple of hours. Don’t you have some dragons you need to go and tame?”
“I’m monitoring egg clutches. Not the most thrilling of work.” He grinned. “See you later, Billy-boy. Don’t get yourself too worked up over Hermione, yeah?”
“I’m not worked up,” Bill told him firmly. He scowled. “See you tonight.”
If there was one thing that Hermione Granger appreciated, it was punctuality. In her opinion, it showed all sorts of respect and consideration. Bill seemed to be having a little difficulty meeting her on time for their international portkey.
“Were you going to leave me standing here all day?” Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows as Bill strode towards her across the Gringotts foyer.
“Something like that,” Bill agreed, dropping his soft leather bag at his feet. He glanced at the trunk that Hermione appeared to be taking with her. Why couldn’t women travel light? Fleur had been the same when he had been married to her. Fleur could never settle for one pair of shoes when she could take ten.
Hermione pursed her lips. She supposed she deserved a little coldness after not being completely upfront with him about being his freelancer. He could at least retain some professional dignity, in her opinion. She was being employed by Gringotts and so, for the duration of this mission, they were colleagues; Hermione had at least expected a little decorum. “Did you get my owl yesterday about the party?”
Bill raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I don’t quite understand what a party has to do with de-cursing a painting, though. Care to enlighten me?”
He didn’t sound pleased and Hermione wasn’t sure why. “Gringotts rarely has business in that area. There’s a ball-type thing at an art gallery in the Wizarding Quarter. I thought it would be a good idea to go and make some contacts.”
It took all Bill’s restraint not to groan loudly. “Hermione, we have met before, haven’t we?”
Her brow furrowed. What was that supposed to mean? “Of course. We worked together during the war.”
“Then you should know by now that I don’t do ball-type things.”
Hermione folded her arms across her chest, fixing him with a hard look that she had perfected on Harry and Ron over the years. “Well, you have to go. You’re the one who actually works for Gringotts.”
“But I didn’t want to go in the first place.” Insufferable woman. If she had already arranged this, he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this easily without making the bank look bad. He growled, shoving his hand in his pocket and pulling out a banana. He thrust it towards Hermione, who raised her eyebrows.
“No, thank you. I’ve just had lunch.”
“It’s the portkey,” he told her shortly. “Just take it. It’ll activate any second now.”
She pursed her lips, dubious. “You turned a banana into a portkey?”
“It’s disposable. I get to eat it afterwards.”
She sighed and grasped the banana firmly.
“Don’t squeeze too hard,” Bill warned her. She was going to make a mess if she held it like that.
“Sorry,” she said, unapologetic and looking him in the eye. “I was expecting something bigger.”
Three hours after their arrival in New Orleans, Bill was fairly certain that he was going to throttle Hermione by the end of the trip. In fact, the return journey was going to be him and a corpse.
The bloody woman just wouldn’t stop talking. Talking and talking and talking and, oh Merlin, she was going to drive him crazy.
Her collection of reference books was quite impressive. Bill wasn’t so impressed, however, that she had brought them all with her. If Bill had been in a better mood, he might have pointed out to her that a decent curse breaker would do their preliminary research before they went on the mission and that it was overkill to bring that many books, anyway.
After going over his notes, Bill shoved his feet into his favourite pair of dragonhide boots, putting his hotel key into his pocket.
“Where are you going?” Hermione asked, eyes narrowed at him over the top of her book.
“Going to take a look at this painting.”
“But we’re not scheduled to go and look at it until later this evening when the museum is closed!”
“No,” Bill said, mustering his patience, “that’s when we’re going to go and start trying to break the curse. Right now, I’m going to go and check out the ‘fainting painting’ in action.” He paused by the door. “You can come with me if you want.”
Hermione huffed, snapping her book shut. “Fine.”
She followed Bill rather obediently out of the hotel and out into the Wizarding Quarter; Bill remembered to slow his pace so that she could follow with her cane. Glancing at Hermione, Bill smirked when he saw her intense expression. “Oh, go on, then,” he relented. “Tell me what you know.”
“Well.” Hermione tucked a curl that had escaped from her ponytail behind her ear. “Someone at the Louvre made a bit of a mistake - no one’s quite sure how. One of the paintings from the wizarding collection got muddled into what they were sending to the New Orlean’s Museum of Art. They thought it would be alright because, even though it was painted by a wizard, it doesn’t move so it was hardly going to breach the international statute of secrecy.”
“Nice to know you’ve memorised the mission briefing.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “Now, however,” she continued as they walked down the street past a noisy café, “it seems that just because the painting doesn’t move doesn’t mean it’s not magical. All the men who look at it keep getting ill.”
“And…” Bill prompted, taking a moment to scowl at someone who stared for too long at his scars.
Hearing the annoyance in Hermione’s voice could only increase Bill’s glee.
“And now it’s attracting the attention of the Muggle media. They’re calling it the ‘fainting painting’, which is just getting it more and more attention. The Muggles are fascinated by it.”
Bill grinned. “It’s like having my own walking encyclopaedia.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s Apparate.”
Hermione gasped as they both disappeared from the street with a pop. “Bill Weasley, you can’t just do that without warning me!”
Bill slipped his hand over her mouth. “Quiet,” he told her. She glared. Finally, Bill removed his hand.
“Where are we?” Hermione looked over her shoulder and groaned. “You Apparated us into the men’s toilets?” He smirked, almost able to see fire flashing in her eyes. Such a passionate one; no wonder she and Ron had clashed so horribly when they had finally attempted a romantic relationship. “I’m going to look like such a tart walking out of here with you.”
“And is that such a bad thing?” Bill teased, standing far closer to her than absolutely necessary.
“Yes.”
Hermione was making this far more difficult than she needed to. Even if her cheeks were flushed in that attractive sort of way she could at least keep her cool. Smirking, Bill’s hand snaked down to give her arse a quick pinch. She squeaked, cheeks reddening. “You go out now, I’ll follow in a couple of minutes and meet you by the painting.”
“Why don’t you go first?” Hermione challenged.
He smiled. “Because I’ve just drunk two very large cups of coffee and feel the need to relieve myself.” This announcement did nothing to relieve Hermione’s blushing.
“Fine,” she said firmly. She pulled her wrist away from Bill’s grasp. “I’ll meet you there in five minutes. If you wander off and just leave me standing there like an idiot, I’ll…”
“Hermione. I’m a professional. I’m here to do a job, not to antagonise you.”
Her eyes narrowed, lips pursing. “I’ll meet you there in five minutes,” she repeated, turning on her heel and walking out of the room, her head held high. A man in a garish t-shirt that screamed ‘tourist’ passed her on the way out, giving her a bemused look as she walked by. However, as he moved to a urinal, Bill found it really rather difficult to feel the least bit sorry for her.
Bill knew he was pushing it a little when he arrived at the painting seven minutes later. He couldn’t even pretend that he had got lost: there were far too many tourists buzzing around it to miss it. The rest of the collection was sadly getting neglected in Bill’s opinion, though the painting in question was rather exquisite; a young woman full of Victorian wizarding glamour looking pensively out of a window. At the same time, though, there didn’t seem to be anything pathetic or weak about her, an inner sense of strength almost radiating from the canvas.
Bill hung back, watching with amusement as a couple of lesbians tried to give Hermione a leaflet before being chased off by a security guard.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bill asked, stepping up behind her. Startled, Hermione looked up at him with wide eyes. “I especially like the hair.”
A group of teenage boys moved in front of them, apparently daring each other to see how long they could stand to look at it.
“Tell me all about it, then,” he prompted. The way Hermione stared at him was particularly unnerving, all big brown eyes and intense concentration, as though she were trying to read him like one of her books. Rather than looking at her, Bill looked at the painting, wondering if it would have the same effect on a wizard as it did on Muggle men.
Hermione cleared her throat, turning towards the painting. In Muggle surroundings, she kept her tone quieter, though really it was the painting itself that was drawing all the attention. “Painted in approximately 1860, it was donated to the Louvre about a hundred years ago by an anonymous artist. It’s been kept in their wizarding collection, though doesn’t appear to have actually been on display. A wizard painted it, but the subject doesn’t move so my guess is that it was just passed over for more interesting paintings.”
One of the teenage boys fainted, his friends laughing even as they tried to help him, a museum employee also on hand to help the latest victim of the ‘fainting painting’.
“Men,” Hermione grumbled. “They’re all the same. Even Harry and Ron would still be daring each other to look at it.”
Bill was sure that he and Charlie would do the same, actually. They were the first to admit that they were a bad influence on each other, often reverting to sniggering teenagers if they had the chance. He smiled to himself at the thought.
“How do you feel?” Hermione asked suddenly, looking Bill up and down and not at all amused by his smile.
He shrugged. “Fine. Don’t really feel any different.”
“No nausea, headaches or anything like that?” Hermione rattled off the list of symptoms that Muggles had been showing.
“Nope.”
“Typical. I’m here with the one man the painting doesn’t seem to affect.”
Bill frowned, her vitriolic tone surprising him a little. He looked down at her, noticing how her fingers were wrapped tightly around her cane, knuckles turning white. “Hermione, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but your bitchy side really seems to be shining right now.” Bill winced; he hadn’t quite intended it to sound like that.
Hermione eyes widened, face growing pale. “How dare you…” She stormed out of the exhibition, leaving Bill raking his hand through his hair in exasperation. This brought back horrible memories from near the end of his marriage.
Counting slowly to twenty in a bid not to lose his temper, Bill followed and found her a few minutes later in another area of the gallery. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”
“You think I’m a bitch?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Er, no. Yes. Well, no, not exactly. Sometimes. But you did seem rather bitchy just now. Especially about those kids.” Seeing Hermione wobble slightly, Bill reached out to steady her. “Hey. Are you alright?”
“Just feel a little dizzy,” Hermione said, trying to shake off Bill’s hand. “Came over a bit funny when I walked away from the painting.” She bit her lip, thinking. “You know what? I think you’re right.”
Bill frowned. “That you’re a bitch?” he ventured.
She rolled her eyes. “Alright, I admit it. I can be a bitch sometimes, but that’s just who I am. No, I mean about those boys. Looking at that painting, it was as though I was struck with an overwhelming hatred for everything male.”
Idly scratching an old scar on his jaw, Bill tried to put this new piece of information with what they already knew. “So it affected you, but didn’t seem to have that effect on Muggle women.”
“Because I’m a witch?” Hermione suggested. “But it didn’t have any effect on you.”
“Indeed. Looks like this curse is a little more complicated than we thought.” He grinned. “Aren’t you glad we did this bit of reconnaissance?”
Hermione pursed her lips, ignoring his last question. “Any ideas?”
“A few.”
“Would you care to share?”
“I’m thinking… I’m thinking that we need to find out exactly who painted this painting. Reckon that’s in those books of yours?”
Hermione considered this, gaze softening a little as she slipping into the memory of the books that she had brought with her. “I have some art history books,” she said. “I think it’s possible that we could make an educated guess.”
Bill chuckled. “Excellent. That’s my favourite kind of guess.”
“I wish I’d brought more books with me,” Hermione complained, yawning as she skimmed over another page.
“You already have half a small library in that trunk, Hermione. We’ll make do with what we’ve got.” Bill looked across at Hermione’s bed, which was scattered with books, more piled on the floor. Considering the goblins’ way with money, it was perhaps unsurprising that the goblins had only booked one room for them to share. Bill could only hope that Hermione didn’t snore.
“I’m not entirely sure why we need to know who painted the portrait,” Hermione admitted. “We know what it does; I’m sure it wouldn’t take much to break the curse.”
Bill shrugged. “Maybe. We didn’t know until this afternoon that it affects witches, though. I don’t want any more nasty surprises. If we know who painted it, then perhaps we’ll have a better idea.”
Hermione sighed, flipping the page over. “Why do people curse things like paintings, anyway? It seems like such a waste.”
Chuckling, Bill closed his book; Hermione had never trained as a curse breaker, so these questions were almost endearing. “That’s a question curse breakers have been asking for centuries.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And has anyone found an answer?”
“None of us really care,” Bill admitted. He closed his book, yawning and stretching his arms over his head. “As long as people keep cursing things, it keeps us in business.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “I suppose I see your point.”
“I’m starving,” Bill announced, drumming his hands on his flat stomach.
Gesturing her quill at the tray of plates, Hermione said, “We’ve already had room service.”
“And damn good it was, too,” Bill agreed. “But now I want dessert.”
“So order some, then,” Hermione told him, not looking up from the book.
“I fancy going out. Thought I saw a good-looking place when we were walking through the Wizarding Quarter earlier.”
Hermione looked at her watch. “We’re supposed to be going to the museum in an hour.” Her hand covered her mouth as she yawned.
“You’re tired,” Bill pointed out.
“It’s the time difference.”
“Okay. So I’ll get the hotel to send a message to our contact. We’ll go to the museum in the morning before it opens.”
“But, Bill…”
“And tonight we’re going to go out, have dessert and a couple of drinks and then a good night’s sleep.”
Hermione scowled, but reached for her bookmark anyway. “I’m in no fit state to go out.”
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get ready,” Bill said, heading for the door. “I’ll just pop down to reception and come back for you.”
Returning ten minutes later, Hermione had changed into a dress and restrained her bushy hair into a plait down her back. “It’s too humid for robes,” she complained, the dress surprising Bill a little less when she said that. He had always taken her for a very practical dresser and, in this weather, the wrap-around dress was very practical. Bill wondered, though, if she were aware of quite how the soft red material clung to her breasts? Considering the eye-catching necklace that was framed perfectly by the neckline of the dress, he was fairly certain that she was.
New Orlean’s Wizard Quarter was just as busy in the evening as it was in the day. To Hermione, it seemed even more magical that Diagon Alley, though she supposed that she’d got used to the magical oddities of London after over a decade of living in the wizarding world. There was an Italian ice cream parlour not far from their hotel; Hermione watched with amusement as Bill ordered himself a rather large sundae. Had she not seen Bill or his brothers demolish large amounts of food in the past, she would never have believed that he could eat it all.
Hermione picked at her cannoli as Bill dug into the mound of ice cream. “I still don’t understand why someone would curse a painting like this. I mean, I can understand the desire to curse a priceless artefact or an ancient tomb. That’s all about protection and greed.” There had been plenty of that sort of thing about during the war, as her occasional need for a cane attested.
Licking his spoon, Bill nodded, indicating for her to continue.
“But this is just a painting. By an anonymous painter of an anonymous subject.” She sipped her coffee, thinking aloud and in mid-flow of her thoughts now. “It’s nothing special. It doesn’t even move. It just makes witches angry and Muggle men weak and prone to fainting.” Hermione frowned.
“You don’t like it when you don’t understand, do you?” Bill asked gently.
Hermione gave a reluctant shake of her head.
Bill stuck his spoon into his pile of ice cream, information starting to come together. Perhaps Hermione’s constant talking and encyclopaedic tendencies could be useful. “I think I might have an idea of what it might all be about.”
“What is it?”
He smirked. “You’ll see in the morning,” he assured her. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Bill held up his hand, not willing to listen. “Just enjoy your dessert and relax. It’s okay to have a little pleasure while we’re here on business.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
