Serendipity

Serendipity -- Chapter I

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Fudge's political agenda hasn't always been so dubious. He used to be the warm, comforting type, the one you're glad is in charge of your day-to-day well-being because you trust him innately. But all the You-Know-Who business as of late has stirred that deep, dormant power-lust. Now he's dangerous. And he has policies regarding certain freedoms that most people have been taking for granted for a long time. Everyone has to watch their step.

But his latest endeavor is, by far, the very worst. His personal distrust of a certain race has pushed him into making the very bad decision of invading their communities and forcing them into the open. They can no longer live in exclusive communes, because he can't help suspecting that they're up to something they shouldn't be.

Everyone has some qualm or another. Half the wizarding population of England is convinced that integrating vampires into normal society will make normal society more dangerous. The other half is just plain pissed off (not to mention a little shocked) that Fudge could so blatantly disregard human rights.

"HUMAN RIGHTS?" he'd thundered, when confronted by this very question at a press conference. "They're not human!"

"They used to be. Is it their fault they got bitten?"

Nothing is heard - save for the sound of quills.

Lately, Fudge has been greeting most confrontations with silence. This is taken by most people to be an affirmation of their belief that he knows he's doing something wrong, but will go ahead with it because he wants to. He's no longer doing anything for the common good. He's out for his own benefit - and such a man should not be in a position of such power.

---

Like most people, William Weasley is ticked off with the Vampire Policy. Unlike most people, he's got a personal reason. The reason sleeps beside him every night. The reason's name is Beck Beaumont.

Beck Beaumont is possibly the most complicated of all complex organisms that ever existed. To begin with, even before he was bitten, he was of a dying breed; he was a male Veela. Now, he still is. He's just a vampire, too. And a very powerful, very intelligent wizard who received his erudition at Beauxbatons before he turned fifteen, and became a Healer by the time he was eighteen. That was thirty years ago.

Now he's twenty-three by appearance but forty-eight as far as chronology is concerned. He's whiter than white, almost fluorescent, doubly pale -- maybe triply, if you would count his natural French appearance -- and he's very slender. He looks like he hasn't eaten in years. Technically, he hasn't.

Bill and Beck met in the London wizarding nightclub called Spellbound, where Bill had flexed his counter-societal "orientation" for the first time and struck out, but where he was determined to find someone. Or something. Whatever could make him happy with himself, because his family wasn't cutting it, and his friends weren't cutting it, and the wizarding society didn't know it yet but they didn't like him, either, simply because he didn't like women.

Beck Beaumont could almost have been a woman, when Bill first saw him from behind; Bill wondered if he might like women after all. Then Beck turned around, who, through his tight-ish clubbing clothes, was clearly lacking two things and possessing an extraneous one thing. Bill was disappointed at first. Then he realized... it didn't matter if Beck wasn't a girl, because he was attractive all the same. Screw Molly Weasley, and screw Ron (his shame-faced brother), and anyone who ever said this was wrong.

That was three years ago. Beck's still around.

Vampires have a touching sense of loyalty.

But Beck is now currently without a job, because St. Mungo's doesn't think a vampire should be caring for the common wizard. Bill is in danger of losing his job for consorting (at all, not to mention intimately) with a vampire.

"This is bullshit," Beck keeps saying. "I'm a Veela, first and foremost. I'm not allowed to work... because I don't eat solid foods?"

Bill doesn't know precisely why. He knows vaguely why, because Fudge said so, but it's not nearly an adequate explanation. He's hated Fudge since the prick took office. But now it's sincerely personal.

Bill wakes up before Beck this morning. Technically, Beck's nocturnal. But he's forced his supernatural clock to follow Bill's biological one - now how's that for loyalty? Not loyalty for Bill, necessarily (though that's certainly part of it)... Bill suspects Beck's clinging to his humanity and desperate to keep up with it.

Vampires, contrary to most myths, can be in sunlight. So the relationship that Beck and Bill keep is possible; maybe difficult, maybe impractical, but in the end, it's worth it for Bill to wake up beside Beck Beaumont and run his fingers through the long, soft, silver hair...

Bill's almost lulled into sleep again.

Beck fidgets a little. He must be awake. He sleeps like the dead, usually; so Bill leans over and grabs him by the waist and pulls him close.

"We're going to your mother's today," Beck says sleepily.

"What - "

"Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

"Bitter. We haven't gone in two years! And it's a second's Apparition away!"

"Apparition works both ways. I'm kind of glad she hasn't figured that out yet..."

"She's your mother, William!!"

"So? She hates me."

"Noooo," says Beck, rolling onto his back and nearly crushing Bill's arm, "she hates me."

"That's so much better."

Beck smiles and rubs his brow.

"I want to go to the rally."

"You don't rally."

"Well, I haven't," says Bill, "but that's not to say that I can't."

"Rally against what? Fudge's policy?"

"Yes."

"Why're you so upset about that? I'm already out in the open."

"His goal isn't just to make vampires come out in the open, Beck," says Bill, infuriated and looking it, "he wants to impose laws that make it hard for vampires to get work, to establish relationships with normal wizards..."

"So, in other words, he's very contradictory. He says he wants vampires and wizards integrated, but he doesn't want them inter-mingling."

"Right."

"That's such bullshit."

"It is. And besides, it's the principle. It's not right to single out vampires."

"It's because they're an esoteric race," says Beck, "they make people paranoid."

"Most of them don't even kill."

"In fact, most of them don't even feed off of humans," Beck says. "There are blood banks... unless Fudge is taking those away, too."

"Why would he?"

"To push us into desperation? Make us feed off of humans, and give him a reason to put us away?"

"I've never thought about that."

"He probably won't. I'm being needlessly cynical." Beck sighs and stretches, accidentally brushing Bill's long, flyaway hair in so doing. He starts to apologize but finishes the action by reaching out and deliberately running his fingers through it. "Knotty. Brush it out before we go."

"I'm not going."

"Yes, you are," says Beck, sliding out of bed and cowering instinctually from the stream of sunlight. Though daylight is essentially innocuous to vampires in general, it's still very common for them to be sensitive to it, or maybe even to crisp under it within moments. Beck's one of the moderately sensitive ones. He could probably stand in the sun for about five whole minutes without even tinting.

He dodges the triangle of orange morning on the glossy floor and makes for his closet. Bill has two sets of robes and about three sets of clothing: work, party, and formal. Beck, on the other hand, dresses well. He has a lot of Muggle clothes and needs space for them. So he's more or less commandeered the closet that's meant to be shared.

Remembering that the Weasleys usually prefer robes on a regular basis, he dresses neutrally in his silky black Beauxbatons robes, which are of such high quality that Beck could never bring himself to throw them out. He just charmed off the double-wand coat of arms.

Bill dresses in some black robes (they look morbid and depressing, the pair of them) and the two of them go to the kitchen to eat something before they take off.

---

"Bill, you're late."

"Sorry, Mum." Bill kisses his mother, and then his father, and ruffles some heads of younger siblings and thumps Charlie on the shoulder. Bill and Charlie become suddenly segregated from the rest of the family, because the Weasley matriarch has bustled over to the kitchen with hungry kids hot on her trail. Mr. Weasley has now engaged Beck in polite conversation in the other room. "How have you all been?" Bill asks Charlie, as they sit down in a couple of fluffy patchwork chairs by an unlit fire.

Charlie's been living at home since the war ended, for reasons that are still equivocal to Bill. "We've been fine," says Charlie, who's sliding glances periodically at Beck with overt, trying-to-be-discreet-but-failing-utterly curiosity, "but rather boring. Nothing worth discussion. How are you doing?"

"Rather well. But I'm in a similar predicament."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, there's nothing interesting to say. Mostly I just spend the day raiding tombs, then spend quiet evenings at my apartment."

"With...?" Charlie gestures with his head towards their father and Beck Beaumont.

"Yeah, with Beck."

"How's he doing?"

"He's all right," says Bill, biting his thumbnail and staring distantly at a shelf full of magic baubles. "He lost his job."

"Because of Fudge?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry." Charlie is, unsurprisingly, the one true person that Bill can count on to be understanding. He was as unfazed by Bill's announcement three and a half years ago as he would have been if Bill had told him grass is green in spring. "I figured it would happen."

"I hate Fudge."

"Yeah, Bill, so do I. But I'll hate him doubly on yours and Beck's behalf."

"Thanks."

They sit in silence for a little while before deciding, silently but simultaneously, that they'll probably be of more use if they're not sitting around on their arses.

In any case, Charlie goes to make himself useful; Bill meanders over to his father and illicit lover and the three of them settle down for discussion. Bill and Beck sit side-by-side on the couch. Arthur Weasley sits in a chair across from them, giving them the (possibly not so far off) feeling that they're being interviewed. Or given the third degree.

But Arthur is, on whole, a lot more tolerant than Molly, whose intolerance extends really only as far as making sure her son is living a full, rich life. Other than that, she doesn't care what two men might do behind closed doors, as long as the doors stay closed.

"Beck was telling me about his job."

"Or lack, thereof?" says Bill to his father.

"Well, yes."

"We're pissed off."

"No doubt. How's your job, son?"

"It's..." Bill forces some air through his teeth, which makes a slightly irreverent squelching noise. "Uh. It's all right, I guess. Jinx is -- "

"Jinx?"

"Jinkara, my boss."

"Hm. Sorry, go on."

"Jinx is fair, for a goblin... for a female goblin... so she doesn't like to assess her employees according to their relations... no doubt Fudge will rectify that soon."

Beck resists the urge to take Bill's hand.

Arthur puts his palms up. "I'd see what I could do about a job in the Ministry, Beck, but... well, it's rather close to Fudge. Even closer than St. Mungo's."

"I understand. You're well-intending, at least," says Beck.

"I wish I could be more. But as it is, Fudge doesn't like me all that much, so I'm lucky I've still got a job."

Bill doesn't like the inflection in his father's voice. "It looks like employment is bad everywhere."

"Fudge wants to surround himself with his kind. I'm not his kind, and Beck's the furthest thing."

Silence falls; the three of them are all thinking the same thing, something they don't want to say out loud. For the last few years, people had been waiting for Harry Potter to whack Lord Voldemort. Now that he's actually done it, it's nothing like anyone's expected. Not by a long shot. Fudge's tyranny is a million times worse; sure, nowhere near as bad as Voldemort's reign had been, but it feels close to it, mostly by virtue of being such a starkly negative after-effect of Voldemort's destruction that it was unexpected, thus has hit everyone harder than it normally would.

Bill looks at Beck, who's sitting upright with his hands folded on his lap. He looks no less composed than a Beethoven piece; he reflects none of the inner torment that comes with helplessness, though he must be feeling it in spades.

"Any word from Harry?" Bill asks suddenly; Harry (thus, Ron and Hermione) have been out of Hogwarts for a year already. No one's heard much from Harry at all. After he snapped out of his little three-month coma, he was off. No one knew where. No one knew how, because he didn't yet have an Apparition license. Everyone, though, knew why. But it was still a shock to watch Potter drop off the face of the earth.

"None," says Arthur, "your mother is having kittens. For nine months she's been harboring this insane hope that he'll come back. But I don't think he's coming back. We've all placed too much on him, and I think he needs to get away from all that."

"Poor thing. All that... and for what?" Beck says. "Mon Dieu. He should come back and get Fudge."

"You're not the first to remark on such a thing." Pause. Then Arthur starts to pontificate, but he's really just preaching to the choir. "Everyone thinks Fudge will be the next Lord Voldemort, but in actuality, he couldn't be further. He doesn't have the cunning or resourcefulness. He doesn't even have the brains."

"He has the evil," says Bill.

"No, I don't think he does," says Arthur. "I think he's just selfish, and powerful enough to act on his impulses. He wants to be comfortable. There's nothing wrong with comfort, as long as the one bent on finding it isn't in charge of a populous."

"Like Fudge."

"Like Fudge. And, hey, sure. He deserves comfort, I guess, as long as he doesn't put it ahead of the good of his people."

"Dad, he doesn't give a damn about the good of his people..." Bill snorts and lets his head drop back; out of the corner of his eye, he sees Beck look over at him. Beck keeps looking at him with his deep black eyes. Probably, he's watching his throat. This doesn't make Bill even remotely unnerved. He knows Beck. More importantly, he trusts him. It's what Fudge should do. Instead of victimizing a whole race that he doesn't understand, he should come to understand them, and stop slapping Policies on them just because he's paranoid. Bill reaches over and takes Beck's hand to comfort himself. "I hate politics," he says, lifting his head up again. Beck's head snaps back forward.

Arthur smiles and shrugs. "Doesn't matter if you hate them. They're important."

"Unfortunately."

Beck's fingers interlace with Bill's.

Bill's pensive, though, so he registers no reaction whatsoever. "Dad, how's Ron?" It's rather sad how little Bill has seen of his own family.

"What do you mean?"

"Since Harry Potter left, how has he been?"

"Didn't you see him? He's heartbroken."

Bill and Beck lean forward a bit and look through a window in the partition between the dining room and the kitchen. Ron appears to be okay, which isn't surprising to Bill; but Arthur made it sound like he spent his days crying into his pillow.

"Hm," says Beck.

"Has Hermione been?" asks Bill.

"A couple of times. She's starting work at St. Mungo's, though, so her free time is spare."

"St. Mungo's?" says Beck. "What division?"

"She wants to be a psychiatrist."

"That's what I am."

"Really?"

"That's what my credentials say, at least." Beck's taken a turn for the bitter; Bill's been watching the resentment fall since the words 'St. Mungo's' escaped Arthur Weasley's lips. Beck doesn't look bitter, or even sound it - Bill's just come to know the very subtle signs. Beck's strangling his right thumb with his left hand. He's aligned his teeth behind his lips, getting rid of the small but natural overbite that makes him look at ease. Sure, his lips are sealed, but there's a subtle change in the way his lower jaw looks when he does this.

Bill figures he should stop watching Beck as much as he does. He feels kind of like a stalker.

"Well, how's Hermione doing?" Beck's asking now.

"She's fine. Lots of paperwork. She visits Ron whenever she can."

"That's nice."

Arthur nods and crosses his legs. He leans forward slightly, as he usually does when he's voyaging into uncharted territory. "How are you two doing? As far as... um... lodgings and... uhhh... pecuniary stability go?"

"'Pecuniary stability'?" says Bill quietly. "We're fine, for now. It's no big deal." Pause. "We live in Cairo, Dad, and our apartment's tiny."

"Is that okay?"

"It's perfect, actually. It's no big deal. Really."

"It is a big deal."

"In other words, it's a big deal to Mum, and she asked you to talk to us about it."

Pause. Then Arthur taps his nose. "She's worried that without one of your sources of income..."

"I'll get another job," says Beck reassuringly, "it'll probably some crappy little thing for a pro-human, homophobic, Francophobic bastard... But if it pays well enough, I'll do it."

"Work at Gringotts," says Bill.

"No, we've been over this."

"Jinx isn't pro-human, homophobic, or Franco... well, as far as I know, she's not a Francophobe..."

"But isn't Gringotts a government facility?"

Arthur shakes his head. "No. Well, technically. Of course, technically. But it's not actually run by Fudge. He has no control over it."

"Who does?"

"The Union," says Arthur. "The Ministry Union. Fudge can't place hiring regulations on it without a consensus among his fellow Ministers. After all, Gringott's is not exclusively England's, is it?"

Beck still looks squeamish.

"It's not a crap job, either," says Bill.

"I don't know."

"Bill," says Arthur, "it's not your decision, ultimately."

"I know," says Bill...

Beck looks at him. It's a very meaningful look that Bill's seen before. Several times. Vocally translated, it means: Get off my case, Bill; I love you, but that's basically all that keeps me around.

Or, so Bill interprets. Bill knows he doesn't have much to offer. Bad salary-to-hours ratio. A full-size bed in a small bedroom in a small apartment in the middle of Cairo, which is about as essentially contrasting as one can get from Beck's childhood home of a manse on a sweeping lawn of perfect, unblemished green, and intellectually-stimulating parents and a Very Sophisticated lifestyle in the City of Lights itself. Of course, to be placated, Bill has to keep reminding himself that all of Beck's rich standard of living went to the dogs the day he told his parents he liked boys. So he can't get it back anyway, unless he earned it all himself. Which is a hard thing to do when you can't get hired.

"You know," says Arthur, sensing tension, "I think dinner's ready. Shall we go?"

---

Molly tried to get them to stay afterwards. Bill hates to eat and run, but he had spent the evening battling sexual frustration whenever he looked at Beck, whose morals (and desire to be accepted by the Weasleys) prevented him from agreeing to a quickie in the broom closet.

Bill also really misses Cairo. He's spent days out of it before. But there's something about hanging around in his mother's house that feels final. Definite. Eternal.

So he and Beck Apparate back to their small apartment.

Bill's about to jump out of his robes, but Beck suggests, suddenly, that they go out this evening. He has the look of a caged tiger right now. Bill feels that way at the Burrow, too, so can't help understanding...

"Where do you want to go?" he asks with resignation.

"Anywhere they have alcohol."

"Well, they have alcohol at my mother's house, doesn't mean I want to spend the evening there... so you'll have to be more specific."

"Spellbound?"

There's a thought. Bill agrees, then says they should drop by Fleur's place and see if she wants to go.

Fleur Delacour lives on the floor beneath them; she lives alone, but is frequently visited by their best friend in common, Salim Fahrad, who is a Squib and currently the head archaeologist of the dig Gringott's is doing (rather irreverently) on some ancient wizard pharaoh's tomb.

Beck and Bill head down the stairs and down the hall to Fleur's apartment door; Apparating is much easier... no one's denying that... but this is a Muggle building, and any magic is unlawful unless practiced behind closed doors where no Muggles can see.

For this reason, they're a bit surprised when the door opens and no one's behind it.

"Come in," says a voice that is unmistakably Fleur's; she's sitting on the floor in a massive pile of designer clothing - both Muggle and wizard, probably from old shoots - and smoking a cigarette in a long holder, wearing nothing but a long button-down tuxedo shirt. It's her nightgown, probably stolen from Salim at some point. She's totally in vogue... or at least she would be, if this was 1920. She looks over her shoulder and smiles. "Come in," she says again. She has a book open in her lap. Written in French. Beck could read it, and might even be doing so from here with his sharpened eyes.

She closes the book and stands up. Her shirt is shorter than Bill and Beck had initially figured. They both look away.

She laughs. "Lucy," she says, taking the cigarette out of its holder and putting it out, "get three Butterbeers, please. Warm."

"Lucy?" says Beck.

Fleur points. Sitting by the door is a small pile of rags; Bill had noticed it on his way in, but of course it makes sense that it would be a house elf. How else could the door have opened, without Fleur violating wizard decree? Besides, there probably wouldn't be rags anywhere in Fleur's apartment if they didn't belong to a servant.

"Her name is Lucy?" says Bill. "Unorthodox for a house elf."

Fleur shrugs and crosses her arms over her chest. The three of them watch Lucy hobble into the kitchen. "She's sweet. A little wayward sometimes, that's what happens when you give a house elf liberties."

"You're a softie," says Beck, granting her a closed-mouth smile. For obvious reasons, he never parts his lips unless he's talking. Even then, it's only a little bit.

Fleur kisses his cheek. "So, to what do I owe this honor, hmm?"

"We're heading to Spellbound. Wanted to know if you'd come with us."

"Salim, too?"

"Of course," says Bill.

"Certainly, I'm in... Salim's sleeping in the back room. He's a little hammered, so I think I'll give him some potion before giving him any more alcohol. Excuse me a moment. Make yourselves comfortable... pull up some clothes..."

"Yeah," says Bill, "just wondering... why are they out here?"

"I was sorting through them. Cleaning out my closet, deciding what to toss. You want any of it?" she jokes.

"Not that gay, Fleur."

She looks mildly incredulous.

"Why sit on it, though? Don't you have any chairs?"

"Look around, William. The only piece of sitting furniture in this room is that love seat; and as you'd expect from a piece of French parlor furniture, its purpose is strictly aesthetic. And I was too lazy to perform a Cushioning Charm. Anyway. Excuse me a moment, please..."

"Sure."

Grinning, she disappears.

Momentarily, she returns fully clothed in a black gossamer dress with bell sleeves, over black satin pants and a sleeveless black shirt. She has Salim in tow.

"Hey," he says, wiping his eyes and looking uncomfortable.

"It's nine at night," says Beck. "You're already drunk?"

"My girlfriend just broke up with me. Give me a break."

"You had a girlfriend?"

"Yes," says Salim grimly, "'had' being the operative word..."

"I'm sorry."

"Ah, I'm over it," he says, clearly not over it at all. "And I'm ready for singles' night. Are we going now?"

Fleur gives him a pouty face. "Aw, mon ami, it's not singles' night tonight."

---

Beck's already procured a line of people who want to dance with him. So has Fleur... Bill's convinced it's a Veela thing. And he's very jealous, but not in the way one might expect; he trusts Beck implicitly, but doesn't think it's right that he's nabbed what appears to be every willing man in the place, and Bill is stuck with a very unwilling Salim.

Salim is taking his heartbreak well. He's a scholar, though, so knowing him, Bill can't help feeling he's not very heartbroken at all. He's probably even relieved. Using the incident as an excuse to get drunk.

The slow song finishes and Beck parts ways with his dance partner, assuring the next man in line that he'll be up by the next slow song. He doesn't do fast dancing.

He picks his way to the table and slides into the seat beside Bill. "William, don't be upset."

"I'm not."

"You're jealous?"

"Sort of... But of you, not of them."

"You're sweet," Beck gripes quietly, looking away and lifting his Firewhiskey to his lips.

Bill watches Beck's Adam's Apple bounce as he swallows his drink. This might be a little weird. So he turns and starts to watch other people, most notably the little Gay Crusaders in the corner that have given up on Beck at the moment and are now concentrating on each other. Bill remembers trying to hang out with them three years ago. It didn't work, of course... he's just not that way.

Neither, thankfully, is Beck, who's happy at the moment to imbibe and sit next to his Numero Uno.

"Forget them," Bill says suddenly, "next slow dance is mine."

"Hmm?"

"I want the next dance."

"Well, okay," says Beck. "Took you long enough to ask."

"I didn't think I had to!"

"Technically not. But if someone else asks, I'll do it... our relationship is not preemptive against dance invites. You know? But of course I'll dance with you, since I'm sure now that you're interested."

Bill takes Beck's hand under the table and brings it up top. Sometimes you've gotta be proud, even if not Crusader proud, and he figures any kind of societal torment is utterly worth this small, meaningful act. Their fingers are interlaced; Beck's are smoother than satin. Bill kisses his knuckles distractedly, pausing periodically to sip at his drink.

"You're romantic when it's on your agenda to be so," says Beck.

"Um. Thanks?" Bill's ears perk up when the quick-paced number melts into a gentle, waltzy kind of thing. Not quite Bill's cup of tea. But it's an excuse to get up really close to Beck - in public, no less - which is his cup of tea, thankyouverymuch. So he grabs Beck's hand and the two of them zip onto the dance floor.

Fleur and her dance partner of the moment sidle up. "Bill, you know, I think this one's a keeper!" she says. She's sweating like mad... but of course. She's been on the floor for the last hour and a half.

And she's off waltzing again.

Bill's exuberance is suddenly subdued... This song is one of those real seventeenth-century things, or whatever era it's from; maybe it's nineteenth century... in any case, it's not the squeeze-up-real-close-and-sway songs. There's a one-two-three, one-two-three tempo going on that makes Bill nervous at the onset of it.

Beck smiles. "Do you waltz?"

"Sure... I learned from my mother." Which is true.

"Ahh."

"That doesn't mean, however, that I'm any good." Which is also true.

Beck pushes on a little notch that's sticking out of his belt - it's Muggle attire night - that is in actuality the end of his wand. He's aiming in the general direction of Bill's feet. He mutters something. Perfecto, it sounds like. "It's the Perfection Charm," he says, "now you can't mess up."

"That sounds too easy to be true."

"It is. I made it up. Well, mostly... It's really just supposed to trick your psyche into being perfect."

"That sounds too easy, too."

"It's not. It really works."

"Even though you told me?"

"Well... okay, maybe not now," says Beck. "But it doesn't matter. It was a joke. Come on now, we're holding up a bunch of people..."

And they're off, with Beck cinched against Bill, his one hand on Bill's shoulder, their hands clasped in midair, Bill's hand against Beck's hip. Bill can't help noting that this is possibly the sexiest thing in the world, despite how it might look to spectators. It looks boring. Okay. But it's not boring at all. There are actually a lot of parallels to be drawn between waltzing and sex. (Dress code notwithstanding.) He did this with only one other person (his mother), and he was thirteen at the time, so this experience is rather different now than it had been then. It's easy now. Beck's maneuvers them flawlessly across the dance floor; it's obvious that he's leading, which makes Bill paranoid at first, but he sinks into it after awhile.

Beck's knee is pressed into Bill's shins; since Beck is quite a bit shorter, this endeavor (waltzing, that is) is not the easiest thing in the world. But it feels nice, anyway.

Beck smiles. Open-mouthed, too, which Bill finds touching because he doesn't show his teeth to anyone else, even supporters of the vampires' plight.

"I'm curious," says Bill suddenly, "where did you live before you met me?"

"You never asked that question before?"

"Not to my memory. Perhaps I just forget."

"I lived in a... community," he says cautiously, looking around the dance floor, "down Knockturn Alley."

"You lived in Knockturn Alley!?"

"Sh. No, I lived in a community that you can only get to through Knockturn Alley, not the same thing."

"Ah."

"Have you ever been down there?"

"A few times; Mum always caught me in the act."

Beck snickers. "Well, how far did you get?"

"About two meters in..."

Laugh. "You're mum's scary."

"I know it."

"Well, I assume you never saw that shop, Dominus Silentii?"

"Nope."

"Didn't think so... it's very far down. Further than even most people who frequent the Alley will go. Dominus Silentii is kind of an occult shop - surprise, surprise - and in the back room, there's a Portkey."

"Oh?"

"Takes you to Nachtmagicke."

"The school?"

"The town, William. It's near the school."

"In Germany, right?"

"Yes."

"You're German?"

"I'm French, William."

"What were you doing in Germany?"

"Friends," says Beck, as though this should be obvious. "I had friends Nachtmagicke. And I had a lot of enemies in France."

"You have enemies?"

"Who doesn't?"

"But you're so... uh... congenial."

"I'm also a vampire, Bill," Beck says almost inaudibly.

True enough.

"I want to see Nachtmagicke. The town."

"You can't."

"Is it secret?"

"Not exactly. But if a human enters... trust me," says Beck, "they won't leave as one. Vampires hate when humans invade their space."

"They're going to be flushed out, though. Soon. Because of Fudge."

"I know that. They know it, too, but they'll maintain their solidarity as long as they can." Beck's face falls. He's sad. He has a right to be, of course, so Bill lets him have it and doesn't say anything.

They stop waltzing and just wrap their arms around each other, standing on the dance floor and ignoring the music when it turns fast again.

Fleur comes over eventually and persuades them to sit down; they're depressing her with their melancholy.

"Anyway, we need some more drinks."

"Pour quoi?" says Beck.

"Pour quoi?' 'POUR QUOI?' What a question!" Fleur laughs. She's probably not in her right mind, either, which causes Bill to wonder why they're taking suggestions from her right now.

"How much have you had to drink tonight?"

"Not nearly enough."

Salim is properly drunk by the time they sit down. His face is pressed into the table, and he's surrounded by empty flasks.

"Not again," says Fleur, pulling out a little bottle from her purse and tossing some down Salim's throat.

Bill thinks it rather pointless - this probably won't be the last time Salim's drunk tonight, so why make him sober just to let him imbibe prolifically again? It can't be very healthy.

But he doesn't get that far.

On their third round, a voice is heard shouting authoritatively over the masses - this is not an easily accomplished thing, due mostly to the fact that most people are yelling or finding some other lurid way of making themselves heard. The fact that one can be distinguished is surprising. Also worrisome.

When the music stops and the crowd silences, it makes Bill (and everyone else present) want to run.

Three suited, official-looking men are crowding the doorway. All are brandishing their wands.

Bill notices a fourth making his way over to the bar. "What...?" he begins, but Fleur grabs his hand and digs her nails into it.

The fourth suited man hands the bartender a notice inscribed - magical ink still glistening - on a large but rather non-descript piece of parchment. The title of this article is visible from all corners of the room.

DECREE 27 (or, the VAMPIRE DECREE)

"Shit," says Salim, whose tongue is still rather loose. Fleur gives him a quelling look.

Neither they nor Bill chance looking at Beck; the three men in the doorway are now stalking around the room, twirling their wands around their fingers and looking very frightening in general - which is no doubt their intent. Bill would place money on the fact that they're probably rooting out perps.

The fourth man stands on the bar, while Harold the bartender takes off his apron and goes to put the Decree on the bulletin board by the doorway. Another one, Replicated, goes in the window.

"Now that I have your attention," Suit No. 4 says, sounding polite but looking otherwise, "I have an announcement to make. As of this evening, the fourteenth of November, year two-thousand-and-four, vampires are hereby banned from public facilities that do not cater specifically to them. We are here to find violaters and to clear out any and all public places in the wizarding state of England."

If possible, the silence deepens. Rather, the silence changes: it is as quiet as it had been since the men appeared, but where it had then been about curiosity, it is now about horror. The types that congregate in places like Spellbound are types that probably a) have friends or associates (or maybe family) that are vampires, b) admire the vampire culture, or c) are vampires themselves. So the four Ministry men are very out of place.

They seem to know it. The nearer they get to Bill, the easier it is to see the wariness in their eyes. They're expecting chaos.

But none is forthcoming.

The three men stop by a group of three men; one of them is asked to open his mouth, which the man trepidly does.

"Fangs," says one of the Ministry suits.

"You know," says one of his fellows, "they could be fake."

"Breathe onto the mirror," the first one says to the victim, who breathes heavily and looks terrified. "No breath. Sir, could you please step out..." A statement worded like a question. In other words, this is not an option.

Beck shrinks away a bit as the vampire and the Ministry man leave. He'd been dancing with that one earlier... he's waiting to get ratted out.

The two suits that are left start patroling again, inspecting mouths.

The man on the counter clears his throat. "Everyone, form two lines by the door. Once you are inspected, you'll leave - in some form or another."