The Heiress

"How's the leg, Ron?"

"A bit sore still, but not so bad. There's barely even a mark around my ankle."

"Ah, the wonders of modern medicine, yeah?"

I looked sideways at Bill as we walked through the corridors to my office. Whenever he said things like that, I never knew whether to laugh or give him a long hug. This time, I decided to compromise with a half-grin and a squeeze of his shoulder.

It was always good and bad to see my eldest brother. The good: Bill was still a laugh and I loved talking to him as much as I could. That wasn't too often since he didn't come over to Britain half as much as I or Mum and Dad would've liked. He and Fleur hardly left France anymore: She had been teaching at Beauxbatons for the past five years, and Bill was hard at work on a set of books about the ancient wizards of Mesopotamia.

The bad: Everything else. Shortly before he'd died, Remus had told my parents that he was afraid Bill would have a tougher time as a partial lycanthrope than a full one, because he would never be allowed the release of a transformation with the full moon.

Remus turned out to be right. Bill looked at least 20 years older than he really was. He was grey and thin with pale scars crisscrossing his face and neck, and one of his eyes was watery, yellow and all but useless. His walk had a hitch to it and he had a nagging cough that was painful to listen to.

But his mind was still sharp as a pin, and I was glad of it. He'd been in London a bare hour after Warren had Firecalled him. Shortly after that, he'd had a team of the best Cursebreakers in place. Three days had passed since the disaster in the vault, and now Bill had an idea of what had happened.

As we walked to my office, Bill and I discussed his final report. I'd been able to understand it pretty well, but parts of it made me a good bit uncomfortable.

"... I understand all that, but it almost sounds as if the whole thing is Hermione's fault."

"That's not what I'm saying, Ron. She's as much an innocent in this as anyone."

"Right. Because the bloody thing was left alone for 10 years. If she'd known about it, she wouldn't have been mad enough to take that kind of risk."

When we stopped in front of my office, Bill gave me a long look out of his good eye.

"Hm. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you were sticking up for her, little brother. Have things smoothed out between the two of you?"

I decided that under the circumstances, keeping a cool head was best, so I ignored him and pushed open the door. I could hear Bill chuckling as we walked in, but that stopped when we saw how many people were there.

There were goblins, Warren and two crimson-robed Ministry blokes all crammed inside. The Ministry blokes' faces were pulled in tight, and I thought about sending for a few boxes of the twins' U No Poo. The people from Bill's team were scattered around the room, too. I squeezed in next to Warren while Bill conferred with his people.

"D'you think they'll buy all this?" Warren whispered, glancing at the chaps from the Ministry. "None of them look particularly open-minded."

"None of them look particularly stupid, either," I muttered back. "If Bill's right, then the only person to blame's been dead for 10 years. The goblins are let off, the Ministry's let off. Everybody wins."

"I suppose. How is Ms. Granger, by the way? Did she like the flowers? I think that Redstitch misunderstood me about the colour -"

"She hasn't been allowed visitors yet. The Healers are taking extra precautions until this is all straightened out."

"She's coming along all right, isn't she?"

"So far as I know."

And I did know more about Hermione's condition than I was letting on to Warren, anyway. Harry had loaned me his Invisibility Cloak and I'd been going down to St. Mungo's every night. I'd told Harry that I wanted to make sure reporters and the like weren't snooping around wanting a "scoop" before Gringotts could get its story sorted, and like a good best mate, he didn't ask too many questions.

The buzz in the room died down as Bill got ready to launch into his talk.

"Right, I think we're ready here. I'm passing out an itemized list of our findings," said Bill as his blokes did just that. "It's nothing new - just reiterates the basic points in my final report. As I said there, the curse seems to be limited to just the coins in Vault 787. And from what we could tell, those Galleons have been hexed using Iuncta Finitem."

I looked around and saw the Ministry gits mouthing the words. Bill saw them, too, and sighed.

"It's all spelled out in the final report in more detail, but in a nutshell, there are two forms of the Iuncta hex. Both qualify as borderline Dark Magic, and both ensure that a group of objects stays together. Usually, that group of objects is called a collection. If anything from the collection is removed, the person taking it away suffers lethal bodily harm.

"As you could probably guess, Iunctus Infinitio never wears off. Iunctus Finitem, however, is a bit different in that it ensures that the items stay together until someone does something to break the spell. We call that 'something' a tripwire. Most of the time, the tripwire is an actual time period in which the spell wears off, but sometimes it can be a set of conditions that needs to be met or even a counter-hex. In many ways, Iunctus Finitem is the more dangerous curse."

"How is that?"

"Well, there's no way to break Iunctus Infinitio," said Bill. "Once its there, you're stuck. There's nothing you can do. But the presence of a tripwire means that there is some hope of breaking Iunctus Finitem, and as long as there's hope, people try - and usually pay with their lives."

One of the Ministry gits, a tall, thin bloke with a face like a burnt scone, cleared his throat. "Mr. Weasley, I'm not sure I follow all of this. Why would someone want to curse items in either manner?"

"Well, it's a good way to prevent theft," said Bill. "We saw this a lot in Egypt in some of the tombs. Members of a family would be buried together with their valuables and such, and putting a Iunctus hex on the objects made it certain that the crypt wouldn't be robbed. If someone tried, they usually were dead before they took three steps out of the tomb."

"Why bother putting items hexed in such a manner in a vault at Gringotts if this curse ensures that the items can never be stolen?" asked the other Ministry git. "It seems a bit - forgive me, really - of overkill."

"You'd have to ask the person who did it. My guess is that the Galleons weren't always here in the bank," said Bill. "This person who left all the money to Hermione Granger might've been stuffing it under his mattress for all we know, and was afraid of some of it being pilfered."

"Pity we can't ask him - through the bars of a cell in Azkaban, that is," said the first one. "Dead, is he? What was the name again?"

Bill tilted an eyebrow at me. "Edward Whetwistle," I said.

The first bloke looked blank, but the second sort of wiggled in his chair. "The Edward Whetwistle? Of Whetwistle's Weatherproof Wizardwear?"

Every head in the room turned toward the second bloke, and his face went red. "Perhaps it's a little before everyone's time. Whetwistle patented a line of robes that had a replenishing waterproofing charm. They acted much like Muggle slickers and Wellies, only they were charmed to expand to cover the entire body - even the head. Quite stylish, actually. What does he have to do with Hermione Granger?"

"Nothing," I said flatly. The bloke goggled at me for a little while, but let it go and turned back to Bill.

"I was in Ravenclaw with Edward Whetwistle. I knew him well," he said. He was a practical sort, and he abhorred Dark Magic. He was rather useless in DADA class, in fact. Could this hex have been placed on those Galleons before they came into his possession? Without his knowledge, for example?"

"It's possible, but it doesn't matter now. The hex is there and Mr. Whetwistle is dead," said Bill. "I'm told that the Galleons in Hermione's vault are being transferred bit by bit from another vault in the bank, which is rather odd for an inheritance. That process could be the tripwire. The spell might be broken as soon as the transfer of money is complete."

"How long might that take?"

Warren spoke up. "From what we can tell, the transfer of 7000 Galleons a month has been constant since the vault was established. If it continues at that rate, Mr Whetwistle's original vault will be emptied in just under three years."

"Right," said Bill. "So best-case scenario here is that in three years, the charm's broken and Hermione can do whatever she likes with the money. But it's tricky - that might not be the tripwire after all. At this point, we have no way of knowing for sure."

"So what do you suggest, Mr. Weasley?"

"Waiting, pure and simple. Hermione's vault should stay untouched until the original one is empty. I'll be glad to come back and look it over when that happens. If I'm still around, that is," he said wryly.

A few people laughed, but I didn't and neither did Bill.

"It'll be pretty obvious if the charm's worn off," said Bill. "If it hasn't, then I'd suggest permanently sealing her vault."

"All that gold ... lost?" The first bloke looked a little sick at the thought, and the goblins' expressions weren't much different. "There would be no other way?"

"Without knowing exactly what the tripwire is? No," said Bill in a hard voice. "Hermione had too close a call. It's possible that she was saved only because she took only a small amount of Galleons and because the collection is almost complete. The spell loses a bit of potency as the conditions for the tripwire get close to being fulfilled. But she still could have gotten even more badly hurt. If she'd filled that sack she'd been given ..." He trailed off, coughing painfully into his fist.

"Well. I do hope your first hypothesis is correct as far as this tripwire business," the second bloke said with a sigh. "I shudder to think that more than one million Galleons would have to be put into indefinite quarantine, especially with gold being as scarce as it is at the moment. And you are certain that similar problems aren't waiting to bite us on the knee?"

"We would've known by now if there were," said Bill. "Hermione's vault and Whetwistle's old vault are the only ones that haven't been touched in years."

"Is there no way we can guard against this sort of thing in the future?"

"Afraid not. That's the tricky bit about Iuncta charms - you don't know that they're there until you do something to set it in motion, which is what Hermione did, inadvertently -" Bill gave me a quick glance "- by visiting the vault. This is the first known case of it in the history of Gringotts, so I think it's fair to say that the chances of it showing up again are very rare."

The Ministry blokes seemed satisfied with that and nearly tripped over themselves praising Bill and his team others. They pretty much ignored the goblins, which Bill noticed and rolled his eyes at. Warren looked pretty distraught.

"He never had a chance," he muttered, shaking his head. "Poor Grubby. He couldn't've known a curse was there even if he had checked and checked again."

Warren stumbled out of the meeting before I could say anything to comfort him, but I supposed it was just as well. My mind was full of thoughts about this Edward Whetwistle bloke. He'd been a war hero and a successful businessman, and had somehow been pretty adept at dangerous charms that bordered on Dark Magic. It put a whole new light on him being the 'philanthropic' sort.

I made my way over to Bill as the others filed out, and he led me into a corner for a private chat.

"I mean it, Ron. Not one knut can be taken out of that vault until the rest of the money has been transferred from that original vault," said Bill. "And maybe not even then. You keep Hermione away from it until it can all be checked out."

I flinched at the emphasis he put on 'you,' but I told him that I wouldn't let her near it. He looked satisfied for about a half-second, then frowned again.

"Are you going to at least tell me who this Whetwistle bloke was to Hermione that he'd leave her a million Galleons?"

If it had been anyone other than Bill asking, I wouldn't thought twice about throwing out a line of rubbish that didn't even come close to answering the question. But looking up at my ruined, scarred big brother, I couldn't do it. Merlin only knew what it had cost him in strength and in dignity to come down and run around like he did and answer the stupid questions of those Ministry gits, but he'd done it and all just because I'd asked him to. He deserved the truth, and in as few words as possible, I gave it to him.

"The father of one of them?" He looked astonished. "Why the bloody hell would he do that?"

"I don't really know. At first I thought that it was because Hermione spoke up for his dead boy, but he told her that the whole thing might've been 'for the best.' He was just a strange git, I suppose."

"And how do you feel about her taking this money?"

"I told her she should. I wouldn't have if I'd known there was something wrong -"

"- Ron, I know that. I wasn't accusing you of anything," said Bill in a gentle voice. "I was asking you what you feel."

"I don't feel anything. It's none of my business." I ignored the little eyebrow waggle he was doing. "But why shouldn't she take it? The bloke's dead. His son's dead. According to the Compendium, Whetwistle doesn't have any other relatives. And he told Hermione that she had 'pluck.'"

"'Pluck'?" Bill grinned. "That's true enough."

"Whetwistle was a war hero - twice. Before this hexing business, he seemed like a decent-enough bloke. You saw how those Ministry prats acted when his name was brought up," I said. "His son was shite, but sometimes you can't help how that turns out."

"I reckon that's true, but it makes you wonder a bit, doesn't it?" Bill was deep in thought for a second or two. "Anyway, remember what I said. Steer clear of that vault, the lot of you. Keep her safe, Ron. I know you still have it in you."

I scowled at him. "I'm not going to have to do anything. I'll tell her, and that'll be that. This is Hermione we're talking about. She can be mental sometimes, but she's not daft."

"Right. But this is you we're talking about, Ron. And I'm not daft."

There was a little sly laughter behind his good eye that dared me to contradict him, but like the cool older brother he'd never stopped being, he gave me a nice slap on the back of the head so I'd have something else to think about.

~*~

During my nights under Harry's cloak, I'd discovered a lot of things going on behind the scenes of St. Mungos. Some of the Healers played a Muggle card game called 'Blackjack' in the backrooms at seven sickles a hand. The house elves there didn't like having to make treacle pudding. The biggest patient in the history of St. Mungo's was a giant who'd stubbed his toe. It seemed like an interesting place to work, actually, though to hear some of the Healers talk, nobody who actually worked there seemed to think so.

I'd learned all this because I'd gotten rather close - literally - to Gurda Gincrack, the Mediwitch taking care of Hermione. Every night around 2 a.m., she'd check in on Hermione, reengage the wards on her door and head toward the back for an hour or more.

And every night, I was Gurda's shadow. I never did more than look in to make sure Hermione was all right, and getting better, and not being disturbed. I'd thought that maybe I should stop doing it, because I could get into a lot of trouble if I were caught, but the meeting with Bill earlier had shaken me up a little. It didn't make sense that Whetwistle, a decorated hero, would leave behind that money knowing what it might do to Hermione.

I wondered if we had been wrong again and Whetwistle had wanted it to happen. Maybe he'd blamed her for not being able to save his son and wanted to get at her in a way that didn't look suspicious. Like that story Hermione had once told me about a group of angry Muggles who hid in a wooden horse and kicked the arses of the gits they were fighting.

And Bill had said something interesting before his Portkey had gone off earlier that afternoon; He brought up the letter that Harry was still trying to trace and pointed out that instead of a threat, it might've been a warning. Hermione did touch the money and she did nearly die because of it.

It seemed a strange way to warn a person, though. Why not just come out and say the bloody things were hexed instead of mucking about and calling names and that? Bill hadn't had an answer for that one.

I dogged Gurda's steps, making sure not to get too close. She couldn't see me, but that time of night everything was dead still and I had to be as quiet as I could. We walked a path that had become familiar to me now: Left, right, down the centre of the hallway and then a sharp turn of another corner. The door sprung up almost before I realised it. Gurda disengaged the wards and I budged just close enough so that I was right behind her before the door closed.

The room was small, tidy and lit by a few glowing spheres that were hovering around the bed. Gurda fussed about the bed for a bit, all the while touching parts of Hermione with her wand, and checking the readings on a yellow square she held in her other hand. Looking satisfied, she patted the blankets and then bustled out. As the door swung open, I could hear a clock somewhere striking the hour. Two o'clock on the nose. Cheers for consistency, then.

I waited until I could hear her footsteps melt away, and then I crept up to the bed. This, too, was a familiar sight: Hermione was on her back, eyes closed, the blankets rising and falling with her breathing. Her head wasn't bandaged anymore and her hair was wound in a thick plait that trailed over her shoulder. Her face looked better - much less puffiness than had been there in past days, though there were a few fading bruises on her forehead.

I stared down at her for awhile, feeling a bit silly, being invisible and all. Even if she were to open her eyes, she wouldn't have been able to see me, and gawking at her while she was sleeping was a bit too intimate for my comfort. That was something I'd done when we were together. She'd caught me a few times and had teased me about it, but I hadn't really minded.

I couldn't really imagine what she'd say if she could see me now, though a bit of me was curious about that. I suppose that deep down, I'd sort of hoped that she would come out of it while I was there, and talk to me or yell at me, whichever. But I let it go; I'd only come to see that she was all right and getting better, and it looked like I didn't have anything to worry about on either point. I knew that I could leave.

I didn't.

I stood there like a sot just watching her breathe. She looked weak and fragile, but seeing her looking so much like her old self did a lot to dislodge the Merlin-awful image of her I'd been carrying in my head since what had happened in the vaults.

"Hermione?" I was speaking in a shade below a whisper. "Hermione, can you hear me?"

I held my breath and waited. She made a soft, whuffling sort of noise but that was about all. I started to call to her again, but changed my mind and smoothed the blankets around her shoulders. I hesitated and then put my hand to her forehead. Her skin was cool and dry and soft - a sight better than what it had felt like when I'd last touched her. I moved my hand down her face and cupped her cheek. She didn't stir. I pulled away, feeling a bit like a prat taking advantage.

"Crikey. When did my life get so bleeding stupid?" I muttered, dragging myself over to a chair near the door - just as I had been doing every night I'd come down. I tended to wait for Gurda to come back around before I left. That way, I could sneak out with her the way I'd snuck in, with no one being the wiser - still.

Using the cloak as a sort of blanket, I curled up in it and dozed for a good while. But I must have fallen fully asleep somewhere along the way, because when I next opened my eyes, we weren't alone.

There was a man at Hermione's bedside, and I could tell at a glance that he wasn't a Healer or a Mediwizard. My first clue was that he was wearing Muggle clothing. And my second clue - he was bending close to her head and didn't have a diagnostic wand in his hand. From where I was sitting, it almost looked like he was about to snog her.

I was out of the chair in an instant, the cloak falling at my feet. But as quick as I was, I wasn't as quiet as I ought to have been. He turned his head, saw me, and froze.

"I -"

Before he could get another word out, I had him up against the wall, my wand pressing into his throat.

"You have three seconds to tell me who you are and what the bloody hell you're doing here, or your head and the rest of you are going to leave this room in two separate trips."

"P-Please - I only wanted -"

"One ..."

Tears were leaking out of his eyes. "You've ... you've come to kill me, haven't you? Please don't! I'd give you the money if I had it, but I don't! She does!"

"Two -"

But I stopped at the mention of 'money.' "Hold on; what are you talking about? Who are you?"

"I - I'm Gregory Whetwistle."

His eyes were huge, and he brought his hands up to his face. He had what looked like a tea cup in one hand and he was holding onto it in a death grip.

"Surely you know that - unless ... oh god ... you aren't the person threatening me, are you? You were hired by him, weren't you? You're a ... a ... hired gun! This is a ... a contracted killing! Like in the newspapers! Oh my god -"

"-- Whetwistle?" I looked him up and down. "Your name is Whetwistle? But -"

There was a creaking noise and then a sound that made my entire body go numb.

"Ron ...? Ron, is that you?"

I turned my head in shock. Hermione was sitting up in bed, peering right at me.

A long second of silence passed. I'd been preparing for this moment, but I couldn't think of a bloody thing to say just then. My heart was pounding a rhythm against my ribcage that probably would have drowned out my voice, anyway.

Hermione frowned and then passed her hands over her eyes as if she were just discovering that they were there.

"It is you. I thought I was dreaming." Her gaze followed the line of my arm. "Why are you pointing your wand at the wall?"

I looked around and jumped in surprise. The bloke was gone.