Shortly after nightfall, the bricks of an alley shifted, and layers of one reality peeled away from another and Davydd ap Owain, founder of the family Weasley, and fairy king (with a difference) slipped between the stones. He's taken great care to avoid this place in the months following his transformation. In part, to avoid the quick and keen mind of one of the Weasley boys. In part, to avoid bringing additional darkness into this already troubled realm.
     But he owes a goblin a crown. And when one owes a goblin, one must pay, apprehension or no. He misses the butter beer, the wild games of poker with all manners of creatures, the simple pleasures of laughing in these secreted pubs with other Odd Things. There's a twinge of nostalgia. A bit of wistfulness.
     But not so much that he may linger.
     In the shadows of a building, for all buildings cast shadows even in evening, a large figure stands before a much smaller one. "I appreciate your service," the larger figure murmurs, his hand pressing a coin into the palm of the smaller's. The crown is golden, worth... much. Much indeed. The goblin neither frowns nor smiles, but closes his small and fat fingers over the single coin.
     "Your Majesty... I am at your call," the goblin gravels out, and the goblin.... smiles. Goblins never smile. This is why. It's absolutely horrid. And can't be trusted. Ever.
     Davydd smirks, turning his head to glance around. Most are in the pubs. None of the children are to be seen. It's just as well. "Yes, well... you are nothing if not efficient, Hrathir. Keep the change..."
     "As you wish... your majesty..."
     This is how they meet, this is how they part. Briefly. Quickly. Covertly. The goblin disappears, and Davydd himself turns, heading toward what some have come to call Weasley Alley. It's cheap, dingy, and has a foul-looking, old painting of a dragon at the end of it.

     Of course, there is a problem with being a friend of the Weasley Family, and in particular, of the Boy Who Lived. Hermione Granger, Muggleborn witch, is out and about. Not for mischief. Not on a (shudder the thought) date. But instead, sixteen years of age and caught up in a war, she is doing a little bit of ... resistance work, one might say ...
     "Why Harry couldn't have done this himself - oh, alright, I know why," the air mutters to itself, footsteps moving unseen. "He wouldn't no virocelipic nytixia if it reached out and bit him, nor would Ron." The footsteps move down away from the alley, sticking to shadows and unpopulated areas, then come to a halt. People? Well. One person - or what looks like a person, and one ... goblin? That's odd...
     Instincts take over at such times, and invisibility cloak or no, Hermione ducks back behind a fat water barrel. She's not close enough to see much, in shadow and without even a full moon to hang overhead on the nighttime-papered sky for light, nor to hear details. A word here. A word there. Majesty? The word is repeated. What's going on here?
     And what possible influence will this have on other matters?
     Hermione frowns. This bears more looking into. The goblin's gone already - and no point in tangling with them, they usually retreat to Gringott's vast caverns. But the man...
     Cautiously, the girl creeps forward - trying to be quiet, as best she can. How little she knows what she's up against. And cautiously, carefully, she draws her wand from her sleeve, still wrapping herself as best she might in the invisibility cloak. It's a hasty hand that reaches to shove frizzy brown hair back beneath its confines.

     He moves quietly but he's not exactly tip-toeing, so softer, quieter steps may be masked. And while his senses are refined, there are many who could be moving about here, his steps could echo between these buildings, there are many things not to think of. Particularly of a sixteen year old girl trailing him under an invisibility cloak.
     There is a moment of illumination, the brief flicker of a window light from a building nearby. It flashes upon a head of fiery bronze hair. For a moment, it makes the red-headed man pause. He turns back, green eyes searching the area behind him...
     He doesn't see you...
     He doesn't see anyone...
     Davydd smirks at himself, shaking his head. "It's not as if you were being followed. Honestly," he murmurs to no one but himself. Another shake of his head and he moves into the alley.
     Isn't it a dead end?

     A flash of red - green eyes. Charlie? It makes Hermione frown; it's only a hint, a glimpse, not enough for a definite identification, but it's definitely a Weasley - isn't it? Not one of the twins. Certainly not Percy. But there's no ponytail and dragon-fang for it to be Bill, which only leaves one option.
     The dragon-tamer...
     Despite her more cautious instincts, Hermione moves into the alley as well, having to see this for herself. "He can't be meeting a girl," she reasons with herself. "For one thing, why would he have to hide that? And besides..."
     There's no guarantee it's Charlie - even if it looks like it's got to be. Then again, it looked a little bit ... older ...
     Unaware of the constant presence of irony on so many levels, the girl follows the dragon who isn't the dragon-tamper, moving closer - too close, really. But she's cut off by the passage of a horse-drawn wagon behind her, sending her hurrying forward to bump into a stack of crates. "Ouch!" Some of the noise might be drowned out by the clatter of the wagon over the cobblestones - but is it enough?

     Words...
     Another language...
     Whispers are interrupted, the shining swirl of blue dragons disturbed, as a voice is heard along with the wagon and the falling crates. Davydd moves his hand, and the dragon ceases spinning, ceases shining and becomes faded and dingy once more.
     Davydd pivots toward the crates, attentive eyes on the empty space that is not so empty. There is a thud on the air, electric shock and static cling -- that'll be hell on frizzy hair -- as he turns to face whomever is following him. Albeit badly.
     "May I help you?" His accent is thick and lilting, from the mountains. Flavored with Romanian perhaps? Isn't that where Charlie normally is? If it is Charlie, Charlie is huge. Broad shouldered, fine-faced, tall (they're all tall, but aren't they all a bit reedy? He's not reedy), dark eyes. The shock of hair is about the same, if shorter to control those unruly waves.

     Hermione winces. Oh, that's torn it...
     She's ducked behind the crate, trying to hide as she pulls off the cloak. There's no point in pretense, after all - but she doesn't want to have to try to tell Harry that she's lost him his cloak! It's bundled, and reluctantly she steps out from behind the stack of wooden boxes, hair all in a tangle, frowning with a hint of suspicion and wand held in one hand at her hip.
     "...Charlie? No, you can't be Charlie. But you're obviously a Weasley." The words are presented accusingly, aimed with suspicion that's matched by cinnamon eyes, chestnut hair that might someday decide to be wavy but right now could inspire sincere awe in some of the wilder aboriginal peoples. She bristles with wariness like a proper English hedgehog.
     Her chin lifts, eyes widening a moment, and then her eyebrows draw together as she takes another reluctant step out from behind her protective shelter. "...Ron? Don't tell me - you didn't." Hermione Granger has put two plus two together and come up with eighteen. Exasperated, the wand is lowered the rest of the way. "Honestly! Did you really think that those stores wouldn't protect themselves legally one way or another? I know the twins dared you to do it, but adult shops have Age Lines around them for a reason, you know! And now look at you. You're stuck, aren't you? I'm going to have to fix another one of your messes!"

     What? You've caught him peering at you in your whirlwind of accusations and assumptions. Looking at your wand, he lifts his hands. "What? No... wait... you don't understand... I'm not stuck... I'm me... I mean I'm not him...Charlie or Ron. And don't point that at me." He's not Ron? But he sounds like Ron.
     Davydd smiles suddenly, a bright thing in the darkness. "Let's start over. What are you doing following me with an invisibility cloak past your curfew?" Yes, let's talk about you. Not me. "And... let's lower the wand, eh? It's just a ... friendly if unexpected meeting in the alley between two strangers. Nothing to get ...excited about..."
     Not that he's worried, but... still...

     "Tuh!" It's amazing how Hermione can fit a wealth of disbelief in that one-syllabled sound. Nor does she lower her wand any further than it already was; in fact, at the statement of not being Ron, it comes up a little higher than it had been. She advances another step, turning her head in order to regard you sidelong as she edges in.
     "If you're not Ron, then you're being awfully tolerant," Hermione declares suspiciously, "and you act just like him. Sound like him too. And you look like him - well, aside from being an awful lot older. I thought you might be Charlie, but I can see you're not - you're too old, and Charlie wouldn't get caught trying to sneak past for adult papers, he's old enough for one and for another he doesn't need them and for a third only Ron would actually get caught." She pauses. "Or possibly the twins," she adds out of fairness.
     Is it a little like being accosted by Fiona? The bird-bright gaze, the sharpening of attention, the stiff pride that draws her upright into an energized bundle? But she isn't Fiona, no. Sixteen if she's a day, dressed in the red and gold of Gryffindor; the lion roars silently from her jacket, a reminder of Wales' influence in minutiae. Of course, she'd have to be a Gryffindor, wouldn't she...
     "I'm staying in Diagon Alley this week," Hermione says a bit huffily, "and I am sixteen. That's old enough to be an emancipated minor and over the age of consent for Britain, even in the wizarding world! But alright. You're not Ron." That question appears to have decided her, even if the wand isn't lowered. "You're obviously a Weasley, though - aren't you?"

     His hands remain up, like your mugging him in the ally, Muggle Witch. Clearing his throat, Davydd settles a look on you -- a look that speaks volumes about his amusement with you and with himself and in the situation. "Well, to be honest, the Weasleys are... me... but... that's getting a little ahead of things. The name's Davy... a...distant relative... I'm really only here for a moment, paying debts. We're...awful gamblers..."
     Foresty eyes peer at you and he smiles. "I rather guess you know that already. Really... could you lower that thing? I'm unarmed, you know... " Not that it matters much with wizarding and witchcraft. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to point. It's rude," his voice rumbles.
     "As is pointing out the obvious age of an elder. You know... I'm not insulting you in the middle of a dark alley, out-weighing you by a hundred pounds." He grins now. He can't help it. I'm being held up in an alley by a sixteen year old witch. Nice.

     "Ron's never mentioned any distant relations named David," Hermione says clearly, still suspicious. She casts the briefest of glances back over her shoulder, the wand coming to a more comfortable - but still drawn and pointed - position. "You're ... MALFOY?"
     Wild accusation, perhaps, though with some rationale behind it. However, the cinnamon eyes narrow in patent disbelief. "No, that's illogical; first of all, Malfoy's got no reason to be here this time of night and if he were, he wouldn't disguise himself as a Weasley again, he'd think it beneath him. He's also not old enough and he wouldn't have that approximate build even with an Age Line being involved," she reasons out quickly, "so ergo, you're not Weasley. Most disguise spells - other than Polyjuice, which technically isn't a disguise spell at all but an alteration of the target - are subject to dispellation over time or alternatively create some sort of residue which I would've seen through or noticed thanks to the cloak. So you're not in disguise, although you mightn't be being entirely truthful. However, you're visibly related to the Weasley family."
     She expels what little breath is left in her lungs, and lowers her wand so the tip is pointed downwards, but does not put it away. "The Weasleys might be gamblers of a sort," Hermione adds a moment later in retort, "but they also haven't got money to gamble! So you're obviously a distant relative, and not contributing towards their upkeep at all, which considering how difficult it is, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! But I suppose that is none of my business," she sniffs. Her free hand goes to her hip, cinnamon gaze locked on you challengingly. "Fine. So you're Davy - David ..."
     There's a pregnant pause in which she obviously expects a last name to be filled in, though she then adds with that matter-of-fact fairness, "I'm Hermione. Which, if you were at all close to your family, I'd imagine you to know."

     There are several points during the ...examination wherein he opened his mouth to speak, but by the time he did that you were already off on an entirely different tangent. In the end, he folds his arms across his chest and simply stares at you, waiting for you to finish.
     "I know all about you Miss Granger. The legend of your... mental and magical prowess, not to mention your extensive vocabulary, precede you." Is he on? An eyebrow cocks up. "I am a distant relative," he nods and confirms, "...in fact... the only one I've really been in contact with is young William." Bill. "He and his rather dour, yet lavishly bangled friend." Sabine. "But that was a while ago and as it turns out I didn't really need his assistance."
     Davydd bites his lower lip for a moment of thought. "They make do, don't they? A son out dragon-taming, another a breaker, the twins and their entrepreneurship." That's a word for it. "And who's to say I have any more resources than they?" Well, his shoes are in decent shape and his clothes aren't cheap, though they are off the rack. "You really shouldn't judge people you barely know."
     His hands finally lower and he smirks. "So ... what did you see and hear and how long have you been following me? I should tell you that I'm already spoken for...."

     "Well, I suppose if Bill is willing to vouch for you..." Hermione still doesn't tuck the wand away, though it remains safely pointed downwards. "Not that he's here to do so, but." She is the sort to demand cash on hand, or payment otherwise only with a guarantor or credit check, isn't she? She has her gaze focused securely on you as if you might try to vanish if she looks away - and you not even a leprechaun.
     To the notion of Sabine, Hermione waves a hand dismissively. "I don't know who Bill's taken up with - probably one of the other Breakers. For now, I'll take you at your word," more or less, "and get on with it. Though," she adds primly, "I'm glad to know that you're not Ron."
     Sneaking into porn shops in Diagon Alley isn't something Hermione could by any stretch of the imagination approve of, after all.
     "Considering what you're asking me," the girl adds, one toe-tip tapping absently, "you must be up to something. Because you wouldn't be so worried about what I've seen and heard or how long I've been following you, otherwise." The wand wobbles, but doesn't get brought back up; instead, Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Ugh! That's perverted," she declares. "First of all, you're at least forty to my sixteen. Second of all, I wouldn't date a Weasley - that would practically be incest. Third of all," her glance scans up and down you skeptically, "your clothes are alright, but frankly, you seem a bit of a shady character to me. That'd be like Mundungus Fletcher going for Ginny - only worse. I'm sure your girlfriend or boyfriend hasn't any competition in me."
     Hermione's chin lifts in that characteristic little jerk, her arms folding over her chest - wand still held, though not as if she's about to hex you. "As for judging people I barely know," she says reasonably, "I've had people I barely know try to do an awful lot of horrible things to me. You can hardly blame a girl for wanting to be careful. So what are you up to? Tell me that and then I'll tell you how much I actually know."

     He can't answer your questions, he's too busy laughing. Probably at you and not with you. Davydd clears his throat and puts on a half-serious face. "Look, I appreciate your concern, especially for your friends, I'm sure they appreciate it even more than I do, but there's simply nothing exciting to tell, Miss Granger. And while I realize you're not the sort of girl to take anything at face value, I am asking, as a long lost...relative of Ron, to trust me. I'm not here to lure strange young girls into the alley...and I'm not up to anything illegal."
     Immoral? Maybe. Illegal? Never.
     Your chin lifts and his lowers as he peers down at you. "And for your information, I'm only thirty-six." Hands come up. "And not after anyone less than twenty-three. I'm an honest man. Just trying to... take care of some business and head home..."
     Home. In an alley that dead-ends...

     "Riiiiight." Hermione's expression of the day : skeptical. She looks pointedly past you to the wall on the end, then to Davydd. "Business and home. I could perhaps believe the travel aspect if you either had a wand for Apparating - though by now I'd almost think you'd end up Splinching yourself - or a Portkey. Really, you're lucky that I'm neither a Death Eater or an Auror! The Ministry of Magic would think you suspicious just on general principles these days, and I'm not so sure that all your Weasley looks and connections would dig you out of that hole, Mister ... David 'Weasley'."
     Being laughed at doesn't tend to improve her mood, does it? But it isn't as if she can stop you, short of stunning you or hexing you. And that would raise a few questions, wouldn't it?
     She scowls at you, then turns abruptly, sliding her wand into her sleeve. "This had better not be a mistake," Hermione says darkly. "But alright. You're thirty-six instead of forty, you're Ron's long-lost relative, and you're not up to something illegal. So. What sort of business, exactly, are you pursuing in a dead end like this?"

     Now you threaten. You know, you really are a pip. Course, if I were you, I'd be threatening me, too. Arms unfold and he smiles. "Yes... well.... I'm used to ...shoveling, Miss Granger." As you'd imagine he'd have to be.
     "Paying a debt, Miss Granger... that was my business. And now that it's done...I should be on my way. I'd just as soon not be followed, if it's all the same to you. So," he motions you to turn your back and be on your way. "This is where we should say our farewells..."
     "Oh, and if you see William Weasley, tell him Davydd ap Owain sends his regards. I shan't require his assistance further..."

     "As you're just going home, you won't mind me watching. I don't intend to follow," Hermione says carefully, "but it's always good to have someone watching your back, right?" She smiles too sweetly, but leaves her arms folded, taking a single careful step backwards. "Besides, I do have other things to be doing this night."
     Such as getting rare and possibly illegal ingredients for a much-needed potion...
     One eyebrow lifts. Davydd ap Owain. A name - it seems it almost should ring a bell. "I'll tell him," Hermione says guardedly. "Do you have a number at which you can be reached?"

     "If you insist, Miss Granger..."
     The air fills with static to wreak havoc on your hair. It pops and the man becomes a bird and flies out of the alley...
     An animagus?
     Or the dreaded were-falcon?
     He didn't leave a number but there floats down a single feather. When it hits the cobble of the street it lets out a sigh: 'You're a very smart girl, Miss Granger.'
     And then it dissolves...

Posted by rowan at February 14, 2005 09:48 PM