Bill was up to something; George just knew it. He’d be home for work when he wasn’t out of the country, but sometimes was out of the house for unexplained hours, when George knew he wasn’t at the bank. Fred voiced similar suspicions, though he was more distracted by pranking Percy than Bill’s mysterious ‘work’ hours. With the arrival of their O.W.L. results, their mum was less concerned with how they spent their summer hours. George was determined to find out.
Ginny would have been good to recruit for his snooping, but George wasn’t willing to get her involved in spy work that wasn’t inside the Burrow. (He hoped Bill was just spending time with a paramour, and not up to shady business, like vampires) Ron was busy with dueling Neville and cooking with their mum, and wouldn’t be that interested in tailing Bill. So George set out by waiting outside Gringotts (Bill’s hand on the clock was firmly on ‘work’, but other times it said ‘other’, which this ‘other’ was what George really wanted to know,) until Bill left the building for lunch. He followed Bill down Diagon and into Knockturn Alley, glad that he was disguised by a Notice-Me-Not-charmed hat and cloak; he and Fred’s invention prototype (to see exactly how long the charm would last on articles of clothing, the charm was long lasting on jewelry and other accessories but had issues on woven and knit fabrics).
Bill entered Borgin and Burkes, somewhere George refused to set foot into. Was Bill going dark? Was he selling items? Buying items for the bank? Buying items for himself?
Some ten minutes later, he left the store and headed deeper into the alley. George took a moment to consider if knowing Bill’s secrets was worth being potentially mugged or pick pocketed. Or even just having his entire view on Bill being flipped on its head. But no, he’d already invested in being out for the day; Fred was covering for his absence. He was going to follow Bill until it actually got dangerous or it was nearing supper, whichever came first.
Bill walked for some time with his unknown shadow until he came to the Dancing Phoenix pub. George followed as well, figuring a pub couldn’t be the worst place to visit on a lunch break. He took a seat at a back table, where he could keep an eye on both Bill and the door, because while George might be a Gryffindor, he wasn’t an idiot. Bill had seated himself at a table near the center of the dining hall, where a few folks were already in discussion. Bill ordered a shepherd’s pie, but George packed a lunch, so he only ordered a butterbeer.
A sudden swell in noise had George looking up from his lunch. A tall and tanned youth had walked in from behind the bar, triumphant expression beaming, as he announced, “Swift has failed to dethrone me, yet again!” Cheers went up, and the youth walked around the tables, shaking hands and promoting his celebrity with the room. After a lap around, he seated himself at the table Bill was at, and a dusty (and freshly beaten, George assumed,) man sat with them as well.
George spent his lunch people watching. It was an interesting sort who frequented this place, where the bare wooden beams and whitewashed walls added to the charm, not unlike the Three Broomsticks. There were folks who looked like tradesmen and women, with aprons and soot and burns and muscles. There were obviously shady individuals, who appeared to have recently crawled out of a gutter somewhere. Children too, would run in and out, usually either the bar to grab an order and then rush out, or they would go directly to the youth near Bill, speak with him for a few moments, and then also sprint away.
It was certainly lively in a way that George hadn’t expected from this place. He supposed this was the infamous Lower Alleys that Dad had mentioned occasionally. It was…cleaner, than George had previously believed. And not quite as lawless as Dad had made it seem.
George looked over to Bill’s seat where both Bill and the youth were getting up to leave. Bill clasped forearms with him, nodded to the rest of the table, and brusquely left the pub. George packed away his lunch and reached to chug the rest of his butterbeer when the youth grabbed the mug first.
“That’s a pretty fancy hat and cloak you’ve got there,” the youth leaned back in his chair, stretched out like a kneazle in the sun. “It’s not often we get a patron who brings their own food.” George kept eye contact, though the youth was giving him a firm side-eye. There was too much of a challenge behind that, and he was too Gryffindor to ignore it.
“I wasn’t expecting to stop for lunch,” he said gruffly, a lame attempt to disguise his voice. Why didn’t he think to wear more of a disguise? “But I got thirsty.” At that admission, the youth slid the mug back to George.
“Are you sure it wasn’t because your quarry was the thirsty one?” George narrowed his eyes. The youth laughed, almost a bark of a laugh. “I know you don’t mean harm; your aura is all off for malicious intent.”
George raised an eyebrow, and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. “And what do you know about auras?”
“Well, I know that yours feels like it’s missing the final note to its chord, and the music its playing is of adventure, and not revenge. What do you know about auras?”
George hummed and closed his eyes, concentrating on the aura before him. It was much harder to read anyone who wasn’t Fred, but this one was both louder and softer than the usual ones he’d come across. It was a coiled blue, a gradient between slate and robin’s egg, curled around a powerful core. Likely fire, he thought, and there was kindred feeling, one of protect and defend and curiosity.
“I know that yours is whispering of suspicion, but there is a brighter part that wants to know if this humble stranger means harm to those under your protection. And that you really do like my hat.” He added with a smirk.
The youth’s appraising look felt satisfied. George removed his hat, handing it over for inspection. He felt exposed with his fiery mop exposed, but his cloak was still working, as no one looked their way.
“You, humble stranger, need not keep that moniker with a hat like this. Are you in the business of millinery? I know a fair few folks who would love to sport your brand.”
“Ah,” George wasn’t expecting his hat to gain that much attention, seeing as it was designed to not gain attention. “It’s still in the workshopping phase, unfortunately. The imbued charms wear off far too quickly for practical use.”
The youth handed back the hat. “That certainly is unfortunate, my good man. Allow me to introduce myself,” He stood into a sweeping bow. “Lionel Hurst, at your service, milord.”
George matched his pose, “Allow me, your highness, to congratulate you on securing your throne, yet again.”
Lionel rubbed the back of his neck, “You heard about that, did you?”
“Hard not to, when you announced it for all and sundry to hear.” George placed the hat back on his head. “I am afeard that the chiming of the bells beckons me to leave your exalted presence, and beg my lord to grant this plebian a leave of absence, so that he may labour away in his modiste craft, to perfect that which his most noble of heads does so desire.”
Lionel laughed, “At ease, my good sir, for your work is granting of its praise. Go forth and perform your self-imposed duty, and should you see fit to return, bring he who harmonizes your most sacred of songs.”
They bowed a final time before George left the building, hoping he could figure his way back to the Leaky Cauldron.
