hand in glove
we can go wherever we please
and everything depends upon
how near you stand to me
- the smiths, hand in glove
hand in glove, by verity
I
Anyone would have said Bill Weasley’s apartment was unprepossessing. This was true.
It was off a busy street in Cairo that was on most days host to a bazaar, and Bill was woken early in the morning by the sounds of Egyptian merchants setting up shop and chattering nonstop in Arabic. After a few days of accustoming himself to the noise and the heat, he had decided he liked it. The loud, amicable voices at dawn reminded him of the Burrow during the summer; breaking curses for a living was quite fun; and it was rather pleasant to have a room of his own for once.
Bill had lived in the apartment for almost eight years. Its two rooms were ample space, the landlord didn’t ask for much, and there hadn’t been rats since the dreaded summer of ’93. If asked, he would have reassured the questioner that it was homey enough; he checked the wards every six months; it would suffice.
And, for almost eight years, he was right.
Bill awoke that morning to the scent of Ali the spice-seller’s wares in his nose and the pressure of cold, sharp metal against his neck. “I wouldn’t move, if I were you,” a voice purred into his ear. “I would also replace your wards and security devices with something a bit more up to date.”
“Claws?” he asked, after the blade (wickedly curved; it must have been a new toy she’d picked up at the bazaar) was removed.
“Who else?” she answered, walking away from the bed – he heard the heels of her dragonhide boots click against the wood, followed by the soft thump of her cane. Charlie had given the boots to her nearly a decade ago.
“There isn’t anyone.” It was not, perhaps, the question she’d asked, but he could read between the lines. “Did you change your mind?”
“Eight years is a long time.”
“Yes.” Eschewing the cotton sheets and woefully hard mattress, Bill got up, following her into the sparsely furnished front room. “Coffee?”
Claudia Teasdale raised an elegantly arched eyebrow at him. Her green eyes were as still cool and pale and capable of expressing contempt as he remembered. “Bill.”
“Claudia.”
“I’m still Claws.” And she was. Volatile, crazy, but at the same time a presence, like an unexpected blossoming of tiger lilies on the smooth green of a pastoral hill.
“It’s something we do here. For bargaining.”
“Is that what you think I came for?”
“That’s what you always came for. In the end,” he said, moving to the small collapsible card table that held the hot plate. He filled the kettle with water from the small bathroom sink and set it on the small burner to boil. “Do you mind Turkish? I’m afraid I’m not equipped for any other kind.”
“I don’t mind.” She sat down on one of the two chairs, propped her chin on the dragon’s-head tip of her cane, and regarded him with a sort of frank, open curiosity that reminded him how much he missed England, strega (so rarely seen in the Islamic portion of the world), and Claws herself.
“I believe you have me at a disadvantage.” Bill kept his tone light, and friendly, as he removed several strands of carrot-colored hair from over his eyes.
“Oh-” she languidly waved a hand in the direction of his bedroom- “By all means, do freshen up. The coffee can wait.”
She had a flair for drama. He had forgotten that, at least, and made a mental note of it.
When he had combed his hair and performed his morning ablutions, Bill joined her in the front room to find she had already mixed the ground beans in with some spices – “Cinnamon?”
“Yes, and ginger,” Claws said, handing him his cup. “Mum makes Turkish that way. With Columbian beans, though.”
“Not terribly authentic, I suppose,” he said, sipping the brew. “It blends well, though. With this.”
She nodded, and he took the moment of silence to study her. Her facial features had always been too strong for prettiness but, in the years that had passed, they had subsided into a harsh beauty, untamed and wild, all too fitting for her occupation. “I spoke with Cousin Severus,” she whispered, after a while. “And Blaise Zabini…”
“Blaise? Claire Zabini’s daughter? Did something…?”
“Happen? Yes. You could say that. Something did.” Claws looked down, her brown hair falling into her eyes, shielding them from his view. “Malfoy’s son tried to rape her. Severus found her in the same bathroom.” And then, unexpectedly, she looked up at him through the curtain of hair, a wicked smile on her lips. “She blasted that son-of-a-bitch and his two friends.”
“She’s all right?” Bill’s concern for the Zabini girl (whom he’d met, once, years ago, when she was little more than a toddler) led to unpleasant parallels with the past and other injured strega.
“Now? I think so. I talked with her. But… I spoke with another girl, as well.” She seemed deep in thought, as if she were, perhaps, recalling that incident as well. “Do you remember why Severus and I quarreled?”
“Yes. You’re not saying he’s – mistreating students, are you?”
“Oh, no, no, far from it, he…” Claws sighed. “He saved the girl. From the likes of Malfoy. And I talked to her, and – how can she stand not to be bitter? How? I don’t understand. So I came to you.”
“You could always have come to me. I promised you that.”
She sat her coffee mug on the floor between them. “I was afraid to give up my anger. I still am.”
“No one ever asked that much of you. All I asked – was that you let yourself heal.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re shivering.”
“I don’t know if it’s safe to do anything now, Bill. Voldemort’s back, whether the Ministry will believe it or not. The fight’s coming again, and I – I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
He stood up, and, gently, lifted her to her feet. “I am,” he said, softly, just loud enough for her to hear. “And I can be strong enough for the both of us, for a while, if you’ll let me.” And he opened his arms to her.
Claws clung to him, desperately, her cane falling to the floor with her thoughtless movement. Bill barely registered the noise. After a while, the sound of muffled sobs reached his ears, and he stroked her hair, murmuring calming endearments in her ears, until she looked up at him, her face wet with tears, but her eyes smiling. “Damn Gryffindor gestures,” she muttered, ending with a choked-up little laugh.
“Damn Slytherin guile,” he replied, thinking of a knife against his throat in the early hours of the morning. And he bent to kiss her, wiping the tears from her lovely jade eyes. He found himself remembering a nocturnal expedition their first year at Hogwarts, and how beautiful the sky had been.
That evening Bill got dinner from Ali the spice-seller’s nephew, Daoud, who ran a small dining establishment a few blocks away: lamb, rice, and ful nabed, a rice-and-bean soup redolent of onions and garlic. It was delicious; they both had seconds before putting the scraps in the trough of the goat in the downstairs courtyard.
“Are you coming back to England?” she asked him as they lay curled up on the bed together that night, her hands idly fingering his earring.
“Yes. Of course. It might take a week or so to tidy up affairs, but I’ll come.”
“Oh. Good.” Claws wrapped her arms around him, snuggling closer. “We were a good team.”
“What did I tell you about the coffee?” he replied jokingly.
“We were,” she said, her voice playfully stubborn.
“If I’m going to work for anyone besides the goblins, it’d be Dumbledore. You of all people should know that.”
“He sent me here to offer you the job of Defense Against The Dark Arts. Next year.”
“Claudia–”
“Because he knew I was coming. And I’d be willing to work with him. I didn’t exactly give him an answer about teaching Quidditch, because I wanted to know…”
“If I would come?”
“Yes.”
“I would follow you,” he said slowly, “To the ends of the earth.”
Her laughter rang in his ears, joyful and sweeter than any fruit Eve ever offered to Adam.
________________________________________________________________________
Claws & co. and other
borrowings from the plot of Pawn to Queen should be accredited to their
rightful owner, Riley, who kindly let me play with them. However, the
conclusion of this story should in no way be taken as a cookie for further
installments of PtQ. *grin*
-Verity