What is a "traffic jam"? In this life I'd never once found myself in such a situation, so in a certain sense this was entirely new experience for me personally — even if I was merely a passenger at the moment.
I was sitting in the front passenger seat, my father to the right of me — wait, no. Father was driving, I was to his left. Behind us — Mum and Hermione, talking and sharing their expectations about the flight to Italy. Yes, Italy — that was where our parents had decided to take us. I was even curious whether we'd make it to Rome, to the Vatican, which would be rather amusing in its own way — a wizard in the heart of the Catholic Church.
For the moment, though, we were sitting in traffic on a fairly narrow street. One could glance towards the Thames — we were approaching one of the bridges. Though there was nothing worth looking at, and it was on the right side besides, awkward from where I sat.
— Did we absolutely have to come into London first? — I asked, looking out the window at the houses lining the road.
— That's just how it worked out, — my father shrugged; I caught it in my peripheral vision. — We got rushed off our feet, didn't buy everything.
— Right. Souvenirs for friends, I heard.
I didn't know precisely where we were flying, but some acquaintances of my parents lived there and lived comfortably. Hence the souvenirs.
— You'd better tell me, — Father didn't take his attention off the traffic, if one could call sitting in a jam traffic, — your phoenix will really be all right on its own?
— Of course. It'll fly around the forests, wherever. There's plenty to eat, and it doesn't particularly need to eat anyway. It seems to have stopped growing.
The I-phoenix would indeed fly around forests and meadows, but the bird's primary task was already underway — reaching Italy. Unfortunately, that instinctive method of movement, similar to Apparition, had essentially the same limitations — it required an exact visualisation of the destination and the surroundings. Ideally, one would have been there before. Which was precisely why the I-phoenix was at this moment flying along quite contentedly on a favourable wind of its own making, high above the British countryside, a few minutes short of the Channel.
I could, of course, have simply waited until our plane — which, incidentally, there was a very real chance of missing — landed somewhere in Italy and used images of the area to relocate the phoenix. But I'd decided the flight would be considerably more useful, since in doing so the I-phoenix would see an enormous range of territory, a whole catalogue of possible coordinates for future travel. One never knows what might come in handy.
— And Khrustik? — Hermione asked from the back seat.
— He's staying with Daphne. She was happy to look after him. Clever little scops owl, knows everything, understands everything — a delight of a bird, not a worry in the world, — I smiled, turning around. — And your ginger furball?
— The ginger furball has a name. You ought to be ashamed of not knowing it, with that memory of yours.
— I know it, I just don't particularly get on with cats.
— Probably why he always rubs up against you.
— At least I'm not allergic.
— When did you manage to see Daphne?
— Yesterday, — I looked at Hermione in mild surprise. — I thought I mentioned it.
— Oh, yes, you did. I was just absorbed in my book.
Daphne and I had simply taken a walk near her house yesterday, done a bit of magic, this and that. A few bits of silliness, a few magical flourishes — altogether quite pleasant, easy, and calm. I'd made two notebooks, applied Protean Charms, and handed one to Daphne — for us to write to each other.
We inched forward a couple of metres in the jam.
— Strange, — Father muttered, trying to see past the car ahead. — There's usually never any congestion here. Not a constant flow, but still.
— Should have bought the souvenirs in advance, — I grumbled. I dislike traffic jams. — Then we could have gone straight from home by taxi, got onto the motorway, and that would have been that — Heathrow in no time. What are you planning to do with the car, incidentally?
— All sorted, — Father smiled. — A friend's picking it up. He's probably already waiting at the airport.
— I could just shrink it with magic and we'd take it with us.
Father turned towards me slowly — quite slowly — and even Mum and Hermione stopped their quiet discussion.
— Now that I hadn't thought of, — Father looked thoughtful. — Hm... Possibilities like that — an absolute paradise for smugglers.
— Already thinking of something? — I smirked, though the smile faded quickly. — I'll go and see what's happening up ahead. Someone might have crashed, that would explain the standstill.
— Possibly.
Getting out of the car, I moved to the pavement. The turn onto the bridge was only a few dozen metres away — from there I'd be able to see what was going on. I covered the distance and turned right, looking out at the bridge. Nothing particularly remarkable — just a jam. Something on the far side, perhaps. And the congestion was only on the left-hand lane, our direction. Traffic going the other way was moving normally and was light.
I was just about to turn back and report the situation to the family — intending to suggest we simply Apparate under magical cover and stop torturing ourselves, since there was a genuine risk of missing the plane — when I felt faint magical disturbances in the sky. Faint only because they were at some distance; in themselves they were quite considerable, clearly wizards doing something, and not simple spellwork either.
Looking up at the overcast sky, towards the sources of magical disturbance moving rapidly across it, I saw black masses of smoke flying like slow, slow projectiles. Or at the speed of a fairly fast broomstick.
— Suspicious, — I remarked aloud, and caught in the corner of my eye, high up and some distance away, a skull taking shape from the darkening clouds.
Wizards don't usually behave so openly. Even the most hardened villains, as far as I knew, tended to act under the cover of secrecy.
These clusters — clearly wizards using some interesting method of movement — swept towards the bridge and began circling it, cutting through the cables and structural elements with magic.
Instantly assessing the number of cars on the bridge, the people inside them, and the obvious conclusion that this would bring the bridge down, I concealed myself with magic in one motion. The passers-by nearby had already noticed the snapping cables — the sound was very loud and unmistakable. Even some of the passengers in cars on the bridge had begun climbing out and running for the nearest bank.
Moving quickly to the very edge of the bank — practically beneath the bridge — to get the best possible vantage point, I focused properly and, drawing my wand, began firing Reparo at the elements the magic was destroying. The black masses swooped around, making noise, clearly furious, but every piece of damage they caused was undone almost immediately. It did require casting Reparo at something approaching machine-gun pace, and the concentration needed was considerable, but I seemed to be managing. Could the wizards see me? No — I'd hidden myself not only from ordinary people.
The standoff went on for about five minutes, the bridge shuddering and creaking horribly and loudly the whole time, people abandoning their cars in panic and rushing to get clear of the potential catastrophe. A crowd of spectators had apparently gathered as well — as it would. Bread and circuses. That concept had lived, was living, and would go on living.
Judging by the way the black masses of smoke had begun circling far more aggressively and apparently searching for something, the wizards were furious — their plan to destroy the bridge and kill several dozen people had come to nothing. I found that particular attitude towards innocent lives deeply objectionable, but engaging in combat with wizards of unknown capability, in a place full of people who could become collateral casualties, was not the most sensible course of action.
Having achieved nothing, the black masses of smoke departed, and I Apparated to within a metre of my parents' car. I conjured a Muffliato-style Notice-Me-Not around the car, opened the door, and sat down, becoming visible again.
— Whoa, easy, — Father was startled by my rather abrupt reappearance. — Wizards. So what's going on up there?
— The bridge nearly collapsed. We're definitely not getting through that way.
— Good lord, — Father said, drawing it out in surprise.
Questions followed — what, how. I gave a broad account of it while Father turned down another side street, intending to cross by a different bridge; there was no shortage of those.
— Hector, — Hermione leaned forward from the back seat and touched my shoulder. — We need to warn people. It looks as though the Dark Lord has begun to act openly.
— I'm working on it, — I nodded, already opening the notebook to write to Daphne.
— What do you need the notebook for?
— Protean Charms.
That was sufficient for Hermione to understand the notebook's purpose — she knew the Charms perfectly well herself.
— Won't your friends find out about incidents like this from your newspapers? — Mum's voice was worried.
— That will take time, — Hermione answered for me. — And given how mobile wizards are, every hour can matter.
— I don't think this was a planned operation, — I shook my head. — More likely something spontaneous. But it's obvious that the Dark Lord has given the signal for open action. I'll Apparate from the airport to the post office and send letters, then come straight back. Will we have time?
— Well, — Father considered it.
The new route was clear of traffic, but it wasn't particularly fast.
— We should.
We reached the airport on time — even slightly early, thanks to the foresight. Father wanted to wait for the friend he'd planned to hand the car to, but the man was nowhere in sight, so I simply conjured Notice-Me-Nots for everyone and everything nearby, shrank the car, and put it in my rucksack. My parents and Hermione headed for check-in while I Apparated directly to Diagon Alley. Yes, rather improper — but I couldn't bring myself to care about such niceties just then.
On the way, I Transfigured the letters with the relevant text in my pocket — in the jacket of a light windbreaker, since one can't wear a suit for everything; there's a time and a place — and stepping into the post office, sent them off to the relevant people, paying a small, purely nominal sum. Leaving the post office, I walked past the twins' shop — I'd wanted to tell them in person, but they didn't appear to be there at the moment. No matter; the letters would reach them regardless.
Flouting etiquette once again — and quite possibly triggering some detection charm somewhere — I Apparated back to the airport and went to find my family, having first removed the Notice-Me-Not charms from myself.
I located my parents and Hermione quickly and joined them in the check-in queue. The process was straightforward and familiar, and before long boarding was announced. My rucksack — the one genuinely suspicious item in the proceedings — attracted absolutely no attention whatsoever from any member of airport staff. Magic.
It was only when the plane had taken off that Hermione relaxed. Our seats were next to each other, so I had a clear view of her anxiety throughout. How my parents were faring I couldn't say — their seats were in a different part of the cabin.
— Worried?
— Not exactly, — my little sister shook her head. — I'm not sure. Yes and no. Only a couple of my friends and acquaintances live in the ordinary world. But even so... The threat is everywhere. And aren't you worried? About Daphne, at the very least? Even Malfoy could be in danger.
— What does Malfoy have to do with anything?
— Well, you two do talk, don't you. Strange as that is.
— For both of us it's not entirely voluntary, — I made myself more comfortable in the seat; the climb was still ongoing, which was one of the less pleasant parts of flying, thanks to the pressure changes. — His parents see value in me as a wizard. For the future. Draco didn't accept that perspective immediately, but he came around to his parents' view. That doesn't make us friends.
— A rather strange arrangement.
— It is what it is.
The flight was to be a short one — about two and a half hours. And yes, we were flying to Rome. At least, that was what it said on the ticket.
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