The Girl Who Saw Tomorrow II » Harry Potter

2.60 | Knowing Your Enemy

BOOK 3 SNEAK PEEK AT THE END!

-x-

They had landed in a sitting room in front of an immensely plump old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig twice the size of her head and dressed in brilliant pink robes that flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. She was looking into a small jewelled mirror and dabbing rouge onto her already scarlet cheeks with a large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house-elf laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers.

"Hurry up, Hokey!" says Hepzibah imperiously. "He said he'd come at four, it's only a couple of minutes to and he's never been late yet!"

She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf straightened up. The top of the elf's head barely reached the seat of Hepzibah's chair, and her papery skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet she wore draped like a toga.

"How do I look?" says Hepzibah, turning her head to admire the various angles of her face in the mirror .

"Lovely, madam," squeaks Hokey.

"Must be in Hokey's contract to lie," Harry whispers in Margaret's ear. "She looks... something, but it's far from 'lovely'."

Margaret snorted into her fist, trying her best not to laugh.

A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf jumped.

"Quick, quick, he's here, Hokey!" cries Hepzibah and the elf scurried out of the room, which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at least a dozen things.

The house-elf returned within minutes, followed by a tall young man.

Voldemort was plainly dressed in an all-black suit much like the kind Draco Malfoy preferred these days; his hair was a little longer than it had been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all of this suited him; he looked more handsome than ever. He picked his way through the cramped room, with an air that showed he had visited many times before, and bowed low over Hepzibah's fat little hand, brushing it with his lips.

"I brought you flowers," he says quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere.

"You naughty boy, you shouldn't have!" squeals old Hepzibah. "You do spoil this old lady, Tom... Sit down, sit down... Where's Hokey? Ah..."

The house-elf had come dashing back into the room carrying a tray of little cakes, which she set at her mistress's elbow.

"Help yourself, Tom," chirps Hepzibah, "I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I've said it a hundred times..."

Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered.

"Well, what's your excuse for visiting this time?" she asks, batting her lashes.

"Mr Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made armour," says Voldemort. "Five hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair-"

"Now, now, not so fast, or I'll think you're only here for my trinkets!" pouts Hepzibah.

"I am ordered here because of them," says Voldemort quietly. "I am only a poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told. Mr Burke wishes me to inquire-"

"Poor assistant," repeats Margaret exasperatedly.

"Oh, Mr Burke, phooey!" says Hepzibah, waving a little hand. "I've something to show you that I've never shown Mr Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won't tell Mr Burke I've got it? He'd never let me rest if he knew I'd shown it to you, and I'm not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you'll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it."