milliways_bar | (no subject)

Head scarf tucked beneath his arm but still clad in his galabayya, Bill opens the door entirely absorbed in Al-Ahram Weekly. The letters on the newsprint would be unrecognisable to most, but he's worked in Luxor for a long time and knows the language almost too well. He doesn't really seem to register anyone at the bar or even the fact he's back at the bar: he's fixated on the paper. Stumbling into the nearest table, he curses beneath his breath but sits in the closest available chair, drawing out his wand.

He uses it as a pen; it highlights the article he's reading. He sets that paper aside and takes out another one: he's got a whole stack. Next up is Cairo Live, and after that it will be the Middle East Times. He'll finish with the Egypt Daily News and that will be enough. His face falls as he reads; he finds himself highlighting more and more news stories that by themselves might be entirely insignificant but when they're read as a series... they start to fall together like pieces of a puzzle.

Fuck. These are not random acts, he thinks. No: on 12 January in Siwa, a house was set afire and all the camels' throats slit. The family who owned the property were never found. A week later at the Dakhla Oasis near Mut, a woman was found dead but no cause of death could be established. On 3 February, three eleven-year-old children were found stoned to death on the banks of the Nile near Sohag. In mid-February a family disappeared from Mallawi and another from Minya. And on and on it went: in none of these cases was motive ever established, and no perpetrators were ever caught.

"Fuck!" Bill says it out loud this time, hand wrapping unhappily round the end of his wand. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck." He flags down a passing wait-rat. "Bring me a large glass of Ogden's. In fact, make it the whole bloody bottle. They're heading straight towards Cairo."

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Glancing at the newspaper, he weighs the matter in his mind, finally deciding that it can't hurt to tell the truth. That's usually the best policy, at any rate. "A woman was murdered outside of a small oasis in Egypt. She was very young, and they haven't found the responsible parties. My wife and I live there half the time and things like that trouble me greatly."

Bill shakes his head slowly. The big difference between Fleur and the murder victim is obvious: the murder victim couldn't turn into a green bird and fly away.

She bites her rather ragged bottom lip.

"Understandable, then. A, ah, magical murder? Or...?"

"Perhaps." He gives her a more appraising look as the rat comes by with his bottle of Ogden's. "I'm not certain, and it's not my... part in things to investigate it more closely. I'm more just the messenger this time around."

He wonders what exactly she knows about the nature of things in his world, so many centuries later. But she's Morganna. She may not be hugely powerful yet but she will be, and as such, she demands special attention. "But tell me about yourself. You're far more interesting than I am."

He may or may not believe that.

"I am not of your world, exactly. A different one, but still Morgan. Half-fae, half-human. My father was killed when I was barely walking." A little shrug. "What else do you want to know? I teach myself how to use magic, most of the time."

She has the power now, just not the skill.

[ooc: bah! parents kicked me off, ever so sorry!]

"You're self-taught? That's impressive."

He's known non-humans before, ones with their own brands of magic. He found it bewitching in a totally different way. His own wife is only part human: clearly, it's something that he finds fascinating if not entirely attractive.

The other things about her he might want to know... well, he can't ask. He's a gentleman and would never pry.

"Thank you. Read from books, whatever comes into my head...no school like your Hogwarts at all, see."

It's an innovative approach, to be sure. "I've always found that when one has no teacher, we become our own best instructors." He thinks back: Dover. The cell he was in before that. The way he survived, the way he helped Tonks and Anthony to survive: those weren't things he was taught. They were pure instinct, based on other knowledge.

"And you know of Hogwarts. I very much enjoyed it there."

He wonders about Morganna: she seems old. Old as the stars.

"Talk to people from your world - friends with some." A little smile. "It comes up."

"Friends from my world? Do tell."

Now, he's curious. There are good people from his world at this place, and not-so-good people. And some who are simply more neutral; then again, perhaps she's traveled to other places where she's met people from his world.

"I like Tonks. Tom is interesting. Others...I'm afraid you would not approve. Draco, you see. Doesn't act so proud with me. Barty Crouch. Talked to Rabastan, once. He's not well, not here," and she taps her temple.

Bill lets out a wry laugh: no Death Eater is well in the head. How could they be, and still follow Voldemort? He swallows back the words fighting to get out, though, saving them for another time if it's ever more appropriate.

"It's not mine to approve or disapprove; I'm sure you really don't care whether or not I do, am I right?"

"Sometimes I care, other times...not so much."

He shrugs.

He cares that she talks with Rabastan Lestrange and Barty Crouch and Draco Malfoy. He cares because now he's on guard, and he'll be a lot more cautious with her than he would have been otherwise. He does this because he's trained to do it, because he took an oath to the Order, and because friends of theirs can't necessarily be friends of his.

And really, he can't see how his opinion would matter to her in the least; they've only just met. But he can keep things on the level of two people sitting at a bar talking for as long as he needs to. He's good that way.

"All that aside, my dear, tell me what things you've found most interesting about this place. I think we've all got our lists of possibilities."

She cares because, amoralness aside, she's just a girl. Shy and uncertain and still wanting to please the adults.

"Most intersting?" She bites her bottom lip, thoughtfully. "I...cannot say. It's fascinating - all these different worlds and people, some close to mine and others so very different...Interesting, the books. Being able to learn futures and change them. That kind of thing."

He sits up sharply. "Change them?"

All he does is blink rapidly. "You change peoples' futures?"

"Mine." Then, more softly, "My son's. My brother's. I read about May Day, dreamed it...saw it. Can't build a dream on innocent blood, so I went into the Dreaming."

May Day - Arthur's answer to Merlin's prohpesy. A child born on the first of May would bring about Arthur's downfall, his own son, gotten on his sister. So in world, in many worlds, he had all the children born on May Day killed.

Morgan saw blood for months.

Bill swallows hard: he remembers that from his Arthurian studies. When he was a student, he never thought of it as anything more than a story, a legend. But here she is, and clearly pregnant, and very real.

He would apologise, but he's got nothing to apologise for except circumstance and fate. He can only say what makes sense.

"I think I would be doing the same thing, love."

A little smile.

"He's my son. And Arthur's an idiot, so." She shakes her head. "Anyway. I guess I should be going...I hope you and your wife will be okay." And, she does mean it.

She might be in love with Barty Crouch, might soemtimes agree with him and generally be amoral, but murder is a cowardly way to fight a war.

"I should be going home as well." Standing, he helps Morganna to her feet. "And thank you for the well-wishes. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

He thinks she's one to keep an eye on, though. He definitely will.

"Take good care of yourself." It's not a demand and it's not a question: it simply is. Gathering up his newspapers, Bill heads to the door. There's so much he wants to tell Fleur.