The Lewis House 20 страница

"About the Thinker?" Ginny didn’t look surprised. "Well, he hasn’t burnt the place down, so I sort of figured. It’s all right, Hermione," she corrected quickly, and Hermione realized that her anxiety must be evident on her face. "He’ll get over it. You just tell him. And if he acts like a prat, you tell me, and I’ll use these on him." She held up the small bag of whatever horrid thing it was that Fred and George had given her, and Hermione tried to smile. "Spider eggs," Ginny giggled. "They hatch. The spiders disappear in a matter of seconds, of course, but all the same, they’ll be nice to have handy."

Hermione did laugh, at that, and shook her head. "Don’t, he’ll lose his mind."

"Oh, and look who’s talking," Ginny retorted, snickering.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Hermione, if anybody’s been doing a bang up job of making Ron lose his mind for the past seven years, it isn’t me." She smiled. "I’ll see you at home. Good luck, and by the way –" Ginny set down her bags and hugged Hermione tight "– I’m so happy for you. I think you’re making a great decision."

Hermione watched Ginny leave, wishing very much that she could have her hand to hold while she broke the news of her departure to Ron. Though, she reflected briefly, if he was any kind of boyfriend at all, she should be able to hold his hand for comfort, when she was through telling him her plans and goals. A pang in her stomach told her she was setting her hopes rather high, but she ignored it. Ron was an adult. They were out of school. He’d manage to see reason... eventually. Hermione screwed up her courage, shut her eyes, and Disapparated.

Once home, she set down her bags, and spent more than a necessary amount of time unpacking her new dress robes. She performed an ironing trick on them, then stood back and admired their color – she hoped that scarlet wasn't too daring, after all, it had been the color of Gryffindor Quidditch robes – then smoothed them with her hands several times before finally hanging them on the hook inside the closet door.

Tapping her fingers on her hips, Hermione looked around her room for something else to do. But the beds were made. The bookshelf was organized in alphabetical order. The clothes were all hung up, Crookshanks had been fed, and even the shoes in the closets were in straight lines. Hermione made a move to organize Ginny’s desk for her, but stopped with a sigh, knowing that she was only cleaning in order to avoid talking to Ron, and that it was stupid to wait. Stupid, and not very brave.

Taking a deep breath, she left the girls’ room and strode purposefully downstairs and into the sunroom at Lupin Lodge, where Ron liked to relax before leaving for his shifts at pub. Sure enough, he was sitting in Remus's father's old armchair, his long legs stretched out and his feet crossed, reading one of his old comic books and nursing a glass of cold pumpkin juice.

Hermione had entered the room quietly, and he didn't notice her until she was standing directly in front of him, blocking the light coming in through the window. He looked up with a grin and turned the comic book around to show her the page he was reading. "Tell me," he joked, "is this how Muggle women typically dress? No wonder Dad encouraged us all to take Muggle Studies."

Hermione pulled up a chair next to him and leaned in to look more closely at the woman that Martin Miggs seemed to be rescuing from a supermarket. She laughed and answered truthfully, "I'm sure that some Muggle women do dress that way - but no one in my family."

He laughed as well and turned the comic book back around to give the page another appraising look. "Pity," he said wryly. Then he threw it on the table, punched her lightly on the arm and asked, "So, what are you doing now?"

It was an invitation. Ron was smiling at her, and looking at her in that way he had. It was smiling and serious, and entirely focused on her, and it made her feel warm all over. Hermione wanted nothing more than to climb into his lap and tell him that she wasn't really doing anything and did he have any good ideas?

But she couldn't. For a moment, she thought she might be sick and she opened and closed her mouth several times before speaking. Finally, she summoned her Gryffindor courage, took one of his large hands in both of hers, and said evenly; "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something."

She could see him tense a bit, but held onto his hand, stroking the top of it lightly with her fingers. Speaking one sentence didn't make it any easier for her to begin a second one. Still, she attempted a joke. "It's all right," she said lightly. "I'm not running off with Martin Miggs or anything like that. It's just – well – I've decided on a career. I know what I want to do."

"Really?" Ron sat up in the chair and looked eagerly at her. "You've chosen something? So what is it? Department of International Magical Cooperation? That one sounded perfect for you, and Dad'll be thrilled - he's been hoping you'd join the Ministry."

Hermione laughed shortly and shook her head. "Your Dad's really nice to me," she said and held onto Ron's hand a bit more tightly. "But I'm not going to be working for the Ministry - at least not yet." She stared at Ron, trying to communicate with her eyes, and he stared back blankly, as though purposely not getting what she was on about. He was going to make her spell it out.

Knowing that she was moments away from an argument, Hermione was surprised to discover that the knot in her stomach had disappeared and instead she was nearly trembling with anger. He wasn't going to support her decision – she just knew it – and it was selfish of him. Somehow, the anger gave her much more confidence than the fear had. She straightened and smiled brightly. "I'm going to apprentice with the Thinker."

The hand that Hermione was holding slid away from her grip and Ron used it to run his fingers through his hair. After a long moment, during which Hermione sat breathless with anticipation, Ron said, "So you've heard from her, then?"

Taking this to be a sign of encouragement, Hermione shook her head and explained, "No, I haven't. I mean, I'm not even sure that I'll be allowed to do it. I'm just going to show up and see if she'll take me."

"Really? So there's a chance that she won't take you?" The hope in his voice was about as subtle as a Howler. Hermione felt her face grow warm and even her legs were shaking. He didn't want to know about the Thinker. He didn't want to know why she wanted to do it. He didn't care what was involved in the training or what she might be able to accomplish for her parents when she returned to England. He wanted her to stay in England so that she could come home every day from some boring Ministry job and snog on the sofa. Deep down, she told herself that she should be flattered that he didn't want her to go away, but that wasn't helping her mood.

Hermione crossed her arms and answered in a voice that she knew sounded snippy, "There's always a chance, but I think it's very unlikely that I'll be turned away."

The hopeful look on Ron's face faded away and was replaced with an expression that Hermione had never seen before. It was neither angry nor sad – just blank. Hermione wasn't sure how to react. They sat in silence for what seemed like forever; she could handle Ron-in-a-rage, Ron-visibly-sulking, Ron-cracking-jokes, and Ron-hurling-insults, but this new, silent version was difficult to interpret. She thought carefully about what she wanted to say, and tried to figure out a way to word it that wouldn't sound as though she were being entirely self-centered and annoyed.

"Ron, you realize that this is something that I have to do – "

He turned to face her, and she felt a surge of relief to see anger in his expression. "Must be nice," he said coldly.

"What must be nice?"

"Knowing what you want to do with your life."

So that was what was bothering him. Hermione snorted derisively – he was the one who was self-centered, not she.

"Ron, I don't know what I want to do with my entire life, but this is an opportunity that is presenting itself now and I'll never forgive myself if I don't give it a try. I'm doing this because it is the only way that I see fit to try to help my parents. I can't very well help them if I'm off trying to improve relations between Bulgaria and Morocco, can I? I understand how you feel –"

"You have no bloody idea how I feel!" Ron erupted, jumping out of the chair and looking down at her furiously. Hermione stood as well, but he continued to boil over, pointing at her. "You’ve always been in control, all the time! You’ve always had drive, and ambition, and ability. You have NO idea what it feels like to work in a pub and not know where you're heading. NONE." Lines of anger appeared on Ron's forehead and his fists were clenched at his side.

Hermione was so stunned by his outburst that for a moment, she couldn’t say anything at all. He was jealous of her? "Maybe..." she finally managed, her throat very dry "...maybe it's a good thing that I'm going away." She shook her head and moved to the door, knowing exactly what jealousy brought out in Ron, and wanting nothing to do with it. If he wanted to act like a little boy, then fine. She didn't need him, she thought angrily. She didn't need anyone but herself, and her parents. She knew it was an unfair way to think - Ron had been by her side through everything, but Hermione felt trapped by his reaction, and motivated to fight back.

"Maybe I'm stifling you by being here," she stopped and turned to face him, not bothering to disguise a bitter tone in her voice and unable to believe the direction that this conversation was heading.

"Oh, so what are you saying?" asked Ron sarcastically, crossing his arms in front of him.

She said the first words that came to her. "I knew you wouldn’t want me to leave, I knew you were going to make this hard on me – I didn’t know you were angry with me just for having opportunities. If I misunderstand you so much, and you can’t be happy for me, or at least just support me, and if you don't want me around, then I'll make it easy. I don't have to wait until September – I can go back to the Burrow tonight." Hermione winced, realizing how silly she sounded. The threat was a bit weak; returning to the Burrow was hardly escaping from Ron's life, but what option did she have at the moment? She didn't have anyplace else to go, unless she wanted to set up permanent residence in her parents' room at St. Mungo's. Or at her old house. Where the walls still had scorch marks.

Ron's face was so pale that every freckle stood out like a tiny pinprick. He opened his mouth. Thinking that he was going to yell, Hermione took a step back and waited, but he did not speak. He only stared, then turned and walked steadily out of the room without another word. He slammed the door so hard upon leaving that several of Remus's books toppled from their shelves.

Left alone, Hermione let out a sob. She ran to the window, pushed the curtain aside with trembling fingers, and peered out. It took all of her willpower not to race after Ron; she could see him heading into the forest behind Remus's house, along the well-trodden path. He had a large stick in his hand and was mercilessly banging on trees as he passed them. Anger and compassion fought for the strongest hold on her emotions. Why couldn't he be happy for her? Why couldn't he just embrace her, and tell her that she was doing the right thing, and write her letters while she was gone? It was so silly. She'd be back by Christmas. It was just like being apart over the summer holidays.

Hermione watched Ron disappear into the trees without looking back once, and she felt her anger return. It wasn’t her fault if he didn’t like working at the pub. She would go to the Thinker. She would leave the day after Lavender’s wedding, she would do whatever it took to become the next apprentice at Cortona, and she would find out everything that she could, in order to help her parents. No one was going to stand in her way, not even a tall, lanky redhead who happened to make her head spin.

Giving another sob, she leaned her forehead on the glass and closed her eyes.

~*~

Ron didn't think he'd ever been so angry in his entire life. He hit another tree with his stick and kicked at a large rock as he walked. He was wearing his summer shoes, and it hurt a bit when he did it, so he kicked it again, harder, and winced.

He knew that there was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could say to persuade Hermione not to go to Cortona. He also knew that her reasons for going were good ones. It still hurt, however, that not two months after the defeat of Voldemort – two months that had been pretty much wonderful for them – she was already planning to leave him.

"Every ruddy time it starts working out, it all goes to hell again," he muttered, stumbling into the clearing by the lake and leaning against the trunk of a large tree on the perimeter.

There had always been tension where he and Hermione were concerned, he thought, wondering briefly if it was really worth it. A fleeting image of her face in his mind, however, and he knew the answer. She meant everything to him, and always had, ever since he'd met her. Ron bent over and searched the soft ground for a smooth stone, and then, finding one to his liking, hurled it out into the lake, where it skipped three times before finally sinking into the water. That was about where he and Hermione had been standing the day before. Standing, gripping onto each other for dear life – Ron had hardly been able to hold back from everything that he wanted to try. But he had held back. She’d wanted him to. And he’d always been willing to do anything for her.

He didn’t even mind their silly rows – in fact, he started many of them on purpose. What had it been yesterday? Something to do with how they might rebuild the protective wards that had surrounded Hogwarts. Hermione had told him that it would require several months of precise Arithmancy calculations and perhaps the employment of several mathemagicians to make sure that everything would work together and Ron had said that it wasn't really necessary – now that Voldemort was gone, who needed protective wards? Hermione’s eyebrows had shot up accordingly, and she had launched herself into a totally unnecessary History of Magic lecture; Ron knew what the wards were there for. But he had let her rant along for a good ten minutes before finally silencing her with a kiss. She always looked so good when she was fighting him.

But today was different. This was a real fight and they hadn't had one of those since Ron had accused Crookshanks of eating Scabbers in their third year.

He hurled another rock, enjoying the burn in his shoulder. It took his mind off the thought of Hermione taking off for Greece. Ron stooped and grabbed a third rock, but he couldn’t really distract himself. Couldn’t she learn from somebody closer to home? Did she really need to be so far away? Didn't she remember what it had been like for seven years? Evil and war had continuously interrupted their romance since before it had even begun. And now that there was relative peace in the wizarding world, now that they could be normal, and happy, and together – she wanted to leave?

Ron sat heavily against the tree trunk, suddenly exhausted, and began to pick at the weeds and sparse grass around him. Loss and disaster had marked everything good that had happened with Hermione, since the very first time they’d kissed. Ron shut his eyes, trying to remember.

He had waited until the end of their fifth year. The tension between them had been almost unbearable, but both of them had been so worried about Harry and Voldemort that there had been no time to deal with their feelings for each other. Ron had mustered the courage to hold her hand a few times, usually perfectly timed with the arrival of bad news so that it had seemed somewhat innocent. He'd even feigned a sudden interest in doing really well on his O.W.L.s so that he could spend as much time as possible studying with Hermione. Ron let out a short laugh, remembering how he’d used to try to get to the library first for study sessions, in order to choose the smallest table – that way his knees might bump ‘accidentally’ against hers. He remembered how flushed she had used to get about it, and how every once in awhile, she’d even forgotten the answers to simple study questions. Her lost expressions had always made his heart beat faster.

The evening after their last O.W.L. exam, they had been sitting up late in the common room, engrossed in a particularly fierce game of chess. Everyone, including Harry, had gone upstairs. Hermione had been sitting across from him, hair wild over her shoulders, pursing her lips and contemplating her next move. She'd been concentrating on the board for so long that her chess pieces had begun to taunt her. Ron had rearranged himself in his chair and reached out a foot under the table to kick her softly. She had looked up at once, forehead wrinkled, but he hadn’t moved his foot from where he had positioned it on top of hers.

"Why'd you do that?"

"To make you hurry up."

"Oh, and kicking me will make me hurry up? That's excellent logic Ron." But though her tone of voice had been cutting, she had bitten her lip and fidgeted.

He had held up his hands in mock protest. "Fine! Take your time. I'm not worried about me - I'm worried about your pawns, that's all."

Hermione had finally made a move, and it hadn't been a good one. She'd known it too; her face had been quite red and she'd averted her eyes from him and the board as soon as she'd made it. He'd noticed, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, that she hadn't moved her foot either. He could have sworn that he'd been able to feel heat rising up through the soles of his shoes. Ron remembered looking down at the chessboard and, for the first time in his life, not being able to figure out anything that was going on. Several of his pieces were vying for his attention, and Hermione's pretty queen was blowing kisses at him – he’d looked away from it, only to find Hermione's own brown eyes watching him intently. Ron had quickly returned his gaze to the game. Hermione had done the same, making a soft tutting noise as her queen lifted her skirt to reveal a shapely pewter ankle.

After a moment, Ron had all but gasped to feel the pressure of Hermione's toes nudging at his other foot.

"Are you going to make a move?" she'd asked, her voice half-joking, and slightly nervous.

Ron had felt a delicious chill shoot up his spine at the meaning behind her question, and he’d looked up to see an expression on Hermione's face that had never been there before. She hadn’t been looking at the chessboard. His heart had skipped a beat. He'd nodded slowly and then, in what he still counted as one of his braver moments in life, he had placed his hands on either side of the table. He'd pulled himself slightly out of his chair and leaned over the chessboard towards her. Hermione had blushed, but she'd looked at him with such an open, trusting expression that despite the fact that he'd been able to feel his heart pounding in his chest, it really hadn't been too difficult to press his lips to hers. And to his utter shock, she’d pressed right back...

A movement in the lake jolted Ron back into reality and he opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight. That first kiss had seemed to last forever. If he could go back and repeat it, he wouldn't have let Hermione go upstairs that evening. He would have kept her on the common room sofa all night long, enjoying the feeling of holding her close and the sensation of her lips moving against his. He would have prolonged the euphoria for as long as he could.

Because it hadn’t lasted. Life had stepped in and interrupted. Death, rather. Hermione had gone upstairs that night, looking backward over her shoulder at him the whole way, and Ron had run up to the boys’ dorm and thrown himself into his own four-poster to dream the most fantastic things he’d ever dreamt.

And the next morning, Dumbledore had died.

Ron tried to shake off the memory. He stood and paced to the sandy bank of the lake, attempting to stay focused on Hermione, and the problems at hand – but as he looked out across the lake’s smooth, glassy surface, it was impossible not to remember what had happened at the end of fifth year.

He’d woken up with that kiss on his lips. He and Hermione had grinned stupidly at each other all through breakfast, making Harry roll his eyes, and then all three of them had gone down to the lake and stretched out on the grass to relax in the sun. Lazily, Ron had commented that the past year had been relatively uneventful, despite their extra Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons. "I’ve got my wand though, just in case," he’d joked. But he hadn’t been thinking about magic. He’d been holding Hermione's hand, playing with her fingers until she’d given up trying to read the massive book that she had dragged outside. Together, the three of them had started discussing plans for summer and ways to make Harry's stay with the Dursleys as short as possible. Ron had been thinking about asking Hermione to come and stay for the whole summer. Everything had been perfect.

And then a scream had disrupted the warm silence of the day. All three of them had been on their feet in an instant. Wands out, they had stood rooted to the spot as other students had run past them in the direction of the castle. Something – or things – had risen up out of the lake and towards the banks where Harry, Ron and Hermione were standing. There had seemed to be hundreds of them. Tall, and dark, and seeming to glide rather than walk.

Dementors. At Hogwarts. Ron had glanced anxiously over to Harry and noted that though his friend's face was tense, his body was poised for fighting. A handful of Gryffindors who had been enjoying the afternoon sun – Angelina, Lavender, Fred and George, Ginny – and one or two students from each of the other houses had hovered nearby, clutching their wands out in front of them.

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry had been the first to act.

Ron had watched with amazement as the silver form of a large stag had shot out of Harry's wand and charged towards the lake, making several Dementors recoil. Some first and second year students, who had earlier been too frightened to move, had fallen to the ground just feet from the terrible creatures, whimpering. Ron hadn't had time to think twice - he'd only tried the Patronus spell twice before in class, and both times, his wand had produced little more than a fine mist. But he’d caught a glimpse of Hermione's hair out of the corner of his eye, taken a deep breath, and summoned the happiest thought that he could.

"Expecto Patronum!" he had cried, pointing his wand in the direction of a group of Dementors. They were closing in on a small boy who had been swimming and was now curled up very close to the edge of the lake.

Something had shot out of Ron’s wand. He had squinted in astonishment, trying to understand what he was seeing. It had appeared to be... some sort of man... Ron had not been able to discern who or what exactly. Even more astonishing – his Patronus had worked. The Dementors had backed away from the boy.

Hermione had run around to attempt to drive off others from another angle. Several other students had been shouting and sending an array of silver mirages out of their wands, some fully formed, and others, light, white clouds. The Dementors had fled from the counter-attack to congregate in the center of the lake. The boy who had crawled out of the water sat up on the bank, rubbing his head – Ron had recognized him as Colin Creevey’s little brother, Dennis.

"Here comes Dumbledore!" someone had shouted. Ron had swiveled to see the Headmaster, flanked by Professors McGonagall and Figg, hurrying across the grounds. He had exhaled with relief, certain that if Dumbledore were present, no further evil could befall the school.

Most of the other students had seemed to agree – they’d stopped in their efforts to drive off the Dementors, and had retreated to the castle. Hermione had crept up behind Ron and taken his hand. Everything had gone still again, and warm, and calm. Colin Creevey had hurried toward the lake, reaching for his brother.

Then the ground had begun to shake.

It had been slight at first, just a tremor, but enough to force Ron and Hermione apart – enough to cause Colin to tumble backwards and fall. The Dementors had slowly begun to glide back out towards the edges of the lake, though this time, they had attacked no one. This time, they had seemed content to sit and wait.

"Why would they wait like that...?" Hermione had barely whispered, looking at Harry.

"I don’t know." Harry’s voice had gone hard. Grim. He’d held out his wand and advanced slightly, as if already certain of what he was about to see.

Ron had just noticed that his own hand was shaking when a loud, terrible, shattering noise had permeated the silence. He and Hermione had barely kept their feet as the earth had begun to tremble more violently. Harry had been standing next to Dumbledore, who had advanced ahead of McGonagall and Figg.

Meanwhile, Dennis Creevey had begun to disappear into the lake, as the earth around the water had crumbled beneath him. Dumbledore had raised his wand with a powerful cry, but the ground vibrations had suddenly increased tenfold and thrown him sideways – the Headmaster had stumbled. Dennis Creevey had slipped beneath the lake’s surface. Ron had raised his wand to do something, as had Hermione and Harry, but none of them had been powerful enough to Summon a living person from such a distance. Colin had screamed, scrambled to his feet and run helplessly to the water’s edge, dodging Dementors and shouting his brother’s name, and the trio had followed him, trying to stay on their feet, ready to jump in, if they had to.

And then had come the explosion. If it were possible for water to burn, Ron would have sworn that the lake water had turned into fire and rolled towards them. To his horror, Ron had seen the bodies of several Merpeople rise, lifeless, to the lake’s surface, where they bobbed among grimy stone chunks that must have belonged to mer-village huts. Something in the water itself must have been exploding, knocking other, smaller life forms clear out of the lake. A Grindylow had hit Harry on the shoulder. Ron had seen a shiny, pink and grey mass break apart and drift towards them, until he’d recognized with disgust one of the tentacles of the giant squid.

The lake had then appeared to be drying up, although Ron could not have said how the water was disappearing. Dumbledore had fought his way to his feet and taken aim at the evaporating water, no doubt attempting to rescue Dennis, wherever he was. His fellow professors had assisted him; Harry, Ron and Hermione had followed at his heels.

But before any spell could succeed, something tall and terrible had emerged from the pit of the lake, soared forward, and landed on its feet in front of the headmaster.

At once, the vanished water had rushed back into its place, and Ron had heard Hermione give a fearful cry next to him as Dennis Creevey’s body had surfaced among those of the merpeople. Colin had given a strangled shout – Ron had seen Professor Figg step forward and drive the Dementors away from Colin with her large, catlike Patronus. Keeping one hand on Colin’s shoulder, she had sent a cord shooting from the end of her wand, which had wrapped itself around Dennis’s waist and then retracted, bringing Dennis’s body to shore.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04