Chapter Text
The Chess set and visions
The stone of Meissen Castle didn’t just hold a chill; it held a grudge. As Bill stepped away from the collapsed runic perimeter, the "chained" magic that had bound the fortress for decades finally went silent, leaving a ringing void in his ears. His lungs felt coated in the grey dust of disintegrated curses. He didn’t linger to watch the junior scouts pick through the debris. He had done the heavy lifting—untangling the jagged, spiteful wards that had survived since the Grindelwald era—and now, his magic felt like a frayed wire.
He made straight for the Gringotts branch in the magical heart of the city. The German office was a brutalist spike of obsidian compared to the marble opulence of London’s Diagon Alley. Inside, the air was pressurized and sterile. Bill ignored the lingering stares at his long hair and fang earring, dropping a heavy cylinder of parchment—the finalized ward-maps—onto the goblin’s desk with a dull thud.
"Verified. Signed. Sealed," Bill muttered, his voice raspy from chanting counter-spells.
Before leaving the bank's secure zone, he ducked into the cursebreakers' hygiene chamber. He downed a vial of Cleansing Potion; it burned like battery acid and tasted of copper, but it did its job, flushing the oily residue of dark magic from his pores. He followed it with a series of brisk refreshment charms. The spells hummed against his skin like a cool breeze, lifting the fog from his brain and smoothing the weary edges of his exhaustion.
Checking the heavy gold watch on his wrist—the one he’d received on his seventeenth birthday—he felt a familiar tug of nostalgia. He could almost smell the rust and engine oil of the shed back home. He remembered the quiet weight of Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, his father’s eyes bright with a rare, fierce intensity. “Follow your own heart, Bill,” he’d said. “Your mother loves me because I never let the world tell me what was important. You do the same.”
That memory always tasted of the morning after he’d announced his apprenticeship. The Burrow had been a cyclone of screeching owls and his mother’s frantic, heartbroken protests about "dangerous foreign soils." But Arthur had stepped into the fray, drawing Molly into a quiet corner of the kitchen, his calm murmurs acting as a lightning rod for her storm. He had cleared the path so Bill could run.
Bill stepped out of the bank and into the bustling artery of magical Meissen. It felt like a distorted mirror of home. Instead of Flourish and Blotts, the iron-wrought signs read Bücher und Gebräue in ornate, gothic script. The cobblestones were narrower here, the timber-framed buildings leaning inward as if whispering secrets over the heads of the crowd. Witches in heavy loden capes brushed past him, their conversations a rhythmic staccato of German that Bill had learned to navigate over the last few months.
He bypassed the scent of heavy stews and rye bread wafting from the local taverns. A meal could wait; the dating life of a curse-breaker was too unpredictable to squander these rare moments with Arya. They had met through a mutual friend and hit it off from the start—bar two or three heated spats. She worked as an assistant potioneer, sometimes wielding her skill with stones and sight to gauge a patient's health.
He adjusted his dragon-hide jacket and navigated toward the grand transit hub at the end of the street. The massive, soot-stained fireplace loomed like a gateway to another world, its emerald Floo flames casting long, dancing shadows across the German signage. Wand in one hand, the other hovering over his pockets, Bill stepped into the green blaze.
He emerged onto her street and paused at the flower shop, stepping inside for a bouquet of cornflowers. The boy behind the counter grinned cheekily. "Die hoaßt dei Frau—mein Vati schenkt die der Mama, wenn se bös is."
("Those your lady'll like—my dad gives them to Mum when she's mad.") His mother, Maria, flushed pink-cheeked and shooed the nine-year-old away. As Bill handed over change, she fixed him with a concerned look. "Die Arya war heut nich zum Früstück unten, Herr Weasley. Gahn Se mal schaugn—lassen Se die Nonna se mit 'nem heißen Essen futtern. Merlin und Morgana, die nutzt ihr Gsicht zu viel!" ("Arya wasn't down for breakfast today, Mr. Weasley. Go check—let Nonna feed her a hot meal. Merlin and Morgana, she uses her sight too much!")
She shook her head, and alarm bells clanged in Bill's mind: Arya sometimes turned to her family's art with stones during those rare flashes of vision.
He climbed the clean flat stairs, pausing to pet the neighbour’s cat, "Merlin", before nodding to the elderly couple savouring their evening gossip on the second landing. He turned left toward Arya's flat, its door decorated in olive green with cliffside creatures—this week's addition an otter carved in wood. He knocked twice; footsteps hurried toward him, and the door swung open to reveal Arya. Her hair was dyed vivid purple, topped with a pink headscarf peeking from an olive-green frock coat, her makeup smudged, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. The cornflowers slipped from Bill's hand at the sight; he opened his mouth to ask what happened, but Arya silenced him with a palm over his lips and pulled him inside….
Bill reached his home quickly, frantically writing "I could see your brother, I suppose. When I used your chess set, it held many imprints. I could see him on a giant knight and two children, a girl and a boy. You should write your parents. I could not find more."
That was only what Arya had said, but Bill suspected there was more. Over the past months, Ron had smuggled a dragon. Hagrid had bought many monsters that would match the craziness of Newt Scamander, yet finding a dragon egg in a pub was rarely a possibility. On top of that, French wixen and goblins were scurrying for the favor of the oldest wixen couple. The Philosopher’s Stone would be at Hogwarts, of course. Pouring his thoughts and questions into letters, he wrote to his Uncle Ignatius, Professor McGonagall, and finally to Ron.