The Lewis House 37 страница

"You've ridden before," she complimented.

"No," Draco said, still smirking at Harry. "But I'm not afraid of an animal with a brain that's smaller than mine."

"Most animals must terrify you, then," Harry muttered.

"What's that, Potter? Can't hear you from all the way up here." Malfoy lifted Mordor's reins a bit higher and his gaudy ring glinted, infuriating Harry. "Up," he said with command.

"Just excellent," said Draco's trainer, as Mordor lifted smoothly into the air. "This is really something - I've never seen this breed behave so beautifully."

"Animals take after their masters," was the last thing Harry heard from Malfoy as his dragon moved out over the sea.

"Right, that's it," Harry muttered, and before he could think about it too much, he

took off into the air and aimed his Firebolt at Norbert's harness attachment, which was specially built to fit over the dragon's sharply ridged back. Harry dismounted, dropped into the seat, awkwardly found the stirrups with his booted feet, fastened his Firebolt to the front of the saddle, and reached down by his hips to grab the straps. The straps were heavy loops of flat, fireproof material, not unlike Muggle seatbelts. Harry pulled the right one over his head so that it rested on his left shoulder, and did the opposite with the one on the left so that they crossed him in an X and held him firmly to the seat. He reached behind him and adjusted the height of the seatback until it supported him fully, then leaned back to find the angle that was most comfortable. He locked the seatback into place and pulled another belt out of either side of it - this one he locked around his waist. When he was finished, he pulled on his gloves and snapped the wrists of his Ministry-issue dragon riding jacket around them. He adjusted his headgear - a heavy sort of hat with no visor, which came down over his ears and snapped across and beneath his chin. No part of him was vulnerable. He felt for his wand, which he'd slid into a specially protected, narrow pocket on the side of trousers, and pulled it out.

"Ready," he said, feeling much more confident. That hadn't been so bad. No wonder Malfoy had managed it.

"Very good," Burke said, strapping himself into place behind him. "You forgot this, however." He reached around Harry, holding a satchel. "You'll want it, believe me."

"Right - thanks," said Harry, strapping it into place beside his broom. It was his food, water, and emergency supply of chocolate.

"And you practiced the Hygienic Dehydration Charm," Burke said. "Right?"

Harry nodded, not really wanting to discuss the charms that made toilets unnecessary.

"Then let's go."

Harry grabbed Norbert's reins. "Up!" he commanded.

It was neither as thrilling as his first time on a broomstick, nor as unnerving as riding Buckbeak. It was... calm. Norbert rose into the air, breathing fire before him, and Harry raised his wand quickly, casting a Wind Charm to deflect the flames - more for his broomstick's sake than for his own. He hated that the Firebolt had to be strapped to the front of the saddle, and he'd cast the strongest Inflammable Charm on it that he could find. Still, he wanted to be careful.

"You don't even need me," Burke laughed, as the flames arched away from them. "Should've known. Harry Potter, and all that."

Harry pretended he hadn't heard that remark, and leaned back against his seat, steering towards Azkaban. The massive, steely-gray fortress came into view below him and Harry circled it, his heart pounding as he looked down at the prison's rotting turrets and rusting bars. Sirius had been in there for twelve years. Twelve years. There was no comprehending it.

A jet of fire shot up from behind one of the prison's walls, and Harry saw Viktor's dragon rise up from behind it. Viktor looked unafraid - he even seemed to be enjoying himself in conversation with Andras. Harry raised his wand in lieu of a wave, and Viktor waved in return, but stayed far back. They were to keep equidistant, each rider holding responsibility for a third of the island's circumference. Harry reflected that he'd have to look up a charm that allowed him to talk to Viktor from far off, or this would get boring pretty fast - there had to be a spell similar to a walkie-talkie. He'd write and ask Hermione.

"And there's our problem," Burke muttered. "See it, Harry?"

A Dementor was working its way across the water, gliding toward the shore as quickly as it could.

Harry pulled back on Norbert's reins and gave the short series of harmless jerks that let the dragon know it was time to descend. Norbert snuffled and dropped low, coming within feet of the Atlantic's surface. Harry raised the reins again and Norbert shot towards the advancing creature. At fifty yards' distance, the Dementor was supposed to be repelled by the dragon's enormous aura, and Harry was relieved to see that it really worked. Norbert's approach drove the Dementor back to the island at top speed. It slithered between the walls and disappeared.

"Success," Burke said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Nicely done. I don't think I'll need a week out here with you - just tell Charlie when you feel comfortable doing this on your own, all right?"

"Sure." Harry directed Norbert back into the air. He didn't tell Burke that his skin was crawling beneath the protective gear, or that he felt cold to the bone. He didn't mention that he'd just heard his mother's death. It's not that bad, he told himself. It's only an echo. It's not like they're right up close.

But the second Dementor made the echo a little louder. And the third one brought back a strong memory of seventh year that made Harry dizzily depressed. "We believe that Mr. Weasley has been abducted," Professor McGonagall had said, looking white as a sheet. Harry felt, again, the plummeting, ice-cold horror - he shifted in his harness and tried to shake that day out of his brain, but the fourth Dementor brought it flooding right back in.

Professor McGonagall had broken the news to him in the hospital wing. He had stumbled back to Gryffindor and broken it to Hermione, and he hadn't known which was worse - fearing the loss of Ron, or watching Hermione fear it. She hadn't cried, or even trembled - she'd listened with an ashen face, walked up to her dormitory without a word, and come back wearing jeans and boots and a heavy coat, her wand clenched in her hand. "Give me your Invisibility Cloak," she'd said in a wooden voice. "Now."

"I'm going with you. But we don't know where -" Harry had doubled over in agony before finishing his sentence, his scar exploding with white-hot pain. The explosion had been followed by the sound of cold laughter - Ron's strangled yelling - the vision of a large, ornate room with a reflecting marble floor and massive wizard portraits moving on the walls - and then blackness. Harry had passed out.

"Harry - get up - please, please get up -"

Not sure how long he had been unconscious, Harry had pushed himself onto his elbows and Hermione had pulled him the rest of the way to his feet, already holding his Invisibility Cloak.

"I know where Ron is," he'd told her. "I saw the room - my scar -"

"Where. Tell me where." Hermione had brooked no extra words, no waste of time. She had been pulling her hair back into a tight knot and pushing up her sleeves.

"I don't know, but I know what it looks like - it's a mansion. Huge room, marble floors, wizarding portraits. I've never seen... it could be... where Voldemort killed that man - Frank Bryce. But not the same room."

"I don't know, but there are books of interiors - famous wizarding houses - Bryce didn't work in a wizarding house, did he, that was Riddle's house, that's not it. What color were the walls?"

"I... it's fading." Harry remembered his extreme panic as the wispy fragments of his vision had slipped irretrievably away from him... a little at a time...

"NO. DON'T YOU FORGET." Hermione's eyes had frightened him. "Hurry." She had rushed through the portrait hole and had fled toward the library, still calling out instructions. "Hurry, Harry - you have to show me which picture it is -" She had disappeared under a swirl of silvery cloak, and Harry had bolted after her.

It wasn't the most horrifying part of the memory, but it was bad enough, and it intensified with every Dementor's appearance. Harry cast a Patronus at one point, just to drive the demons out - he thought of last night, holding onto Ginny, and the silvery stag leapt full-force from the tip of his wand, clearing his mind for a long moment. Burke questioned him at once.

"You're not supposed to be feeling the Dementors' effects, through the dragon's energy," Burke said, concern evident in his tone. "Are they getting to you, Harry?"

"No," Harry lied. "I was just practicing."

The end of his shift was a welcome relief; Harry landed Norbert in the midst of the dragon handlers, dismounted, and listened dully as Mick and Charlie discussed something about scheduling.

"D'you mind if I switch to the day shift?" Mick was saying.

"What for?" Charlie seemed surprised; he paused with one sleeve of his jacket still dangling to his side and looked curiously at Mick.

"Oh... no reason," Mick said, turning away and quickly pulling on his headgear. "Just - you know, I was thinking it might make more sense to have one of us on that shift, rather than three new riders together."

"I guess that's true..." Charlie trailed off and looked to his right. Cho was standing a few yards away from them, pinning her fringe out of her face.

"Great." Mick grinned. "I'll talk to the day shift and ask who's willing to switch, shall I?"

"Sure," Charlie said absently. "But you can't switch till next week. This week we've got to ride the relief shifts."

"Right."

Harry stopped listening; he walked towards Cho, who was working her headgear over her hair.

"You're riding your own shifts and theirs?" Harry asked, jabbing his thumb at Burke.

"Just while you train," Cho answered. "And don't worry, Harry, fourteen hours is nothing for us. We got used to a lot worse, during the war." She snapped the chin guard into place. "I can sleep with my eyes open," she said with a smile. "Can't I, Charlie?"

Charlie handed her a fireproof jacket. "You can, at that," he said admiringly.

Cho stretched her arms into the jacket; as she did so, her shirt came up a little, revealing a tattoo that circled her navel. Harry's eyes fixed on it for a second before it disappeared, and thought he'd seen a dragon, breathing blue fire.

"Swedish Short-Snout," Cho confirmed, following Harry's gaze and tapping her belly. "Enchanted. And don't let Charlie pretend that he started the trend. I had mine first."

She got easily onto her dragon and took off for Azkaban, flanked by Charlie and Mick. On Harry's right, Viktor was dismounting. On his left, Malfoy was complaining to the keepers about the condition of Mordor's trough. Harry didn't care what was happening. He let the keepers lead Norbert away, concentrated hard through his exhaustion, and Disapparated.

His bedroom appeared around him. It was dark. Ron wasn't there. Harry got out of his heavy gear and into comfortable clothes, and just as he finished dressing again there was a knock on the door.

"Harry, it's me."

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, his mind so muddled that he hardly felt relief at the sound of Ginny's voice. He could still see Hermione's ashen face, and in the back of his mind, like a reel had been looped there, he heard the dim echo of his mother's final screams.

"Harry?" Ginny called softly. "Are you asleep?"

"No, come in," he said quickly. He didn't want her to leave. He wanted yesterday to happen all over again - if he could just get the voices out of his head, and the weight off of his heart - he wanted that closeness.

The door opened and Ginny slipped in; her face was shadowed, but the hall light shone behind her, making the edge of her hair glow. She shut the door, came to sit beside him, and took his hands. At once, he felt a weight drop from his mind. This was better. It would be all right. "Did you fly today?" she asked.

Harry nodded, and let his forehead fall against hers, too drained to remember his shyness. Their noses brushed. "But I'm all right," he told her, shifting to lay his head down on her shoulder. "I'm all right." For once, it was true. He was feeling much better now that he had her close. Better wasn't the word, though... Harry couldn't place the feeling.

Ginny took one of her hands out of his, and used it to touch his neck, rubbing her fingertips into the hairline at his nape. He leaned more heavily against her, forgetting to keep a bit of himself in check. Against her body, Harry relaxed entirely.

"Good," Ginny whispered, and played her hand over his collar, down his spine. He made a noise to let her know he liked it, and pressed to get as close to her as he could. He found that the closer he was, the better he felt. He dropped her other hand and slipped both arms around her waist, then turned his face to her neck and drew a deep breath. Her hair smelled good. Like... pine, or something. Something steady and clean.

"You're cold," Ginny mumbled suddenly, feeling his neck with the back of her hand. "How close did you get to the Dementors?" But it seemed she already knew the answer. Her body trembled, and Harry held her tighter.

"Close enough," he muttered, realizing that he really was freezing - it was especially apparent in contrast to her body's heat. He tightened his arms around her, and she hugged him close, making him... Safe. That was the feeling he hadn't been able to name. Nothing could touch him here, except her.

"Charlie told me that they'd be knocked back from a distance," she said angrily. "You shouldn't have to feel them at all."

"It wasn't too bad," Harry said, but Ginny made a noise of disbelief.

"You heard voices," she said. "I know just how that feels. Don't try telling me it wasn't too bad."

Harry pulled away and gazed at her. He'd forgotten that Ginny had experienced Dementors, just as he had. He knew she had horrors in her past, just as he did. Some of them were the same horrors, and some were her own. Tom Riddle still got into her dreams, and Harry wondered just how deeply that diary was rooted in her mind.

"Lie down," she whispered suddenly, and pushed him towards the pillows. Harry glanced worriedly at the door, but didn't fight - Ron and Hermione had subjected him to their affection once or twice, and if Ron walked in, he could damn well walk right back out, because this was too good to stop. He stretched out on his bed and looked up into Ginny's face.

"Ron's at the pub," she said, as if reading his thoughts. She gave him a smile that crinkled the corners of her brown eyes, and Harry had to smile back. She had such pretty eyes, and they always seemed to be saying something that only belonged to him. Even in her childhood, her eyes had been that way. Something bittersweet pricked at Harry's heart; he reached up a hand and gently touched her face to be sure she was there.

Ginny's face lit up and she caressed his fingers, then took his hand and put it back down on the bed. "You have to lie still."

"All right. But what are you -"

"Shhh." She knelt up beside him and reached her hands over him, resting one palm on each of his shoulders. Harry looked up at her, dazed; when she leaned forward like that, her shirt gaped slightly from her body, and he was surprised to see that her freckles continued their light pattern down beyond the V of her neckline. He realized he was staring, and tried to look at her hair, instead - the way it fell along the sides of her face. Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Shut your eyes, Harry."

Harry did so, glad of the reprieve. His breath was quick and shallow. It was hard to believe that they'd waited so long to touch each other; he couldn't remember why it had seemed so hard. It was easy. Her hands were on him... moving... he shuddered when she stroked the sides of his neck in a deliberate, almost studied manner, and drew her fingers across the expanse of his shoulders, to the tops of his arms. She hesitated, then brought her fingertips lightly across the top of his chest until they rested just under his collarbone.

Harry realized his hands were in fists. He uncurled them on the mattress, feeling compelled to open up. "Ginny," he whispered, and forgot to shut his mouth. It stayed parted in shock and pleasure as she continued to touch him, moving her hands along his torso. His day at Azkaban was slipping away - this was driving it out - there was nothing in his head now but sensation... and a feverish desire to reciprocate. He had to touch her like this. One of Ginny's hands paused just over his heart; she pressed down, took a ragged breath, and Harry felt the sudden pressure of her face against his neck, her mouth pressed on his skin. She murmured his name and her voice broke.

Sheer, unbearable heat shot through Harry. This was entirely different to what he had felt last night - this was not gentle - he had to get her as close as possible. He tunneled his fingers into Ginny's hair, curled his hands around the back of her head, and brought her mouth to his. Her lips parted uncertainly, but last night's hesitant kiss was not what Harry had in mind. His tongue tangled needfully with hers. She moaned and dropped her weight onto his chest, and he rolled her onto her back with athletic speed, pinning her beneath him. This was instinct. This was flying. All the darkness of the day was long gone; Harry couldn't remember ever having felt so light. He made a low noise straight into Ginny, pressed harder against her mouth, and began to move his hands on her in the way she'd moved hers on him.

Ginny cried out against him and turned her face away with sudden violence. Harry opened his eyes, stricken.

"What is it?" he demanded, terrified that he'd pushed too far. He rolled instantly off of her, giving her space, feeling like a total ass.

Her face was white and she held herself around the middle with both arms. "I don't know," she answered, wincing. "I think - I'm sick -" She rolled onto her side and contracted into a tight ball, and Harry scrambled to his feet in alarm.

"What do you need? I'll get someone -"

"No - no." Ginny managed to straighten out, though it looked like painful work. "Don't go, I'm fine - I'm fine." Her eyes were shut tight, and it seemed she was forcing herself to take long, slow breaths. "I'm fine."

But Harry was an expert in being fine, and he knew that Ginny wasn't. He also knew that whatever was wrong with her, he'd somehow brought it on. "I'm sorry if - if I - hurt you -" he stumbled, embarrassment flooding him. He pushed up his glasses. "I shouldn't have - I didn't mean -"

"It wasn't you," Ginny said vehemently, opening her eyes. "I'm sick, that's all. I'm...dizzy." She tried to get up, and Harry went to her at once, putting an arm under her shoulders and guiding her to her own room. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done this to her - she'd been perfectly healthy until he'd jumped on her so uncontrollably. "It's not you," she repeated, before dropping down to sit on her own bed, still holding her stomach. "Really, Harry, you didn't hurt me..." she faltered, looking very much as if she wanted to explain something. "That is, I started it - I shouldn't've thought - but I was only trying to... and then it just... oh, never mind." She gave up explaining and blushed deeply. "It was nice."

Harry went red at the implication, but was otherwise extremely relieved. "I'll get you some water and bring your dinner up here, all right?" he said, needing to do something for her.

"All right," she agreed, still looking very pale, but also rather pleased at his offer. Harry fumbled around in her dresser before leaving, trying to find her pajamas for her. He wanted to take care of her properly - but slammed the first drawer shut as soon as he opened it. Those hadn't been pajamas.

"Bottom drawer," Ginny said, her eyes bright. She sounded like she was trying not to laugh, and Harry envied her for being so unembarrassed.

He found a nightdress and put it in her lap. "Be right back," he said, feeling half-stupid and half-wonderful. More than half-wonderful. It was amazing how an hour with Ginny cleared his mind of everything else. He kissed the top of her head on impulse, and though she didn't let go of her stomach, she gave a little satisfied hum. "Be right back."

~*~

Hermione sat with her legs crossed and her eyes shut, hands resting palms-up on her knees. A soft, warm breeze played in her hair and she worked to clear her mind of every thought - every impulse. I miss Ron. I wonder if Harry's all right. I wish I had my books at night; I've hardly been able to sleep. I haven't seen my parents in almost a month... I wonder if they even miss me...

"My mind keeps wandering," she said, opening her eyes in frustration. Delia sat across from her in trance-like silence, hardly even breathing. Her yoga pose reminded Hermione of a mid-morning New Age exercise program she'd often seen while flicking through the telly channels over the summers, and she'd always found New Age to be more irritating than fascinating. Delia was much more normal than, say, Professor Trelawney, but Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that Thinking was really just an offshoot of Divination, in disguise. "Honestly, how am I supposed to think of just nothing? It's all we've done for three weeks, and you still haven't told me the point."

Delia didn't answer right away - she rarely allowed interruptions to faze her - and Hermione shut her eyes again with a little growl. She was sick of sitting still. It was one thing to sit in a chair with a stack of books to thumb through or a diary to write in - that she could do nonstop. But this endless quiet, devoid of concrete information, was driving her out of her mind. It had taken her a week just to learn to sit properly, and her hips were still sore from the effort.

"Your mind will fix on thoughts," Delia finally said, and Hermione opened her eyes to find her mentor smiling serenely at her. "With practice, you will learn to acknowledge thoughts, and let them pass. Teach your mind to stay free - not to linger."

"I'm trying," Hermione muttered, shutting her eyes again and seeing Ron, as usual, followed by the prone bodies of her parents. "But I can't."

"Can't means won't," Delia answered.

"No," Hermione snapped, "it means can't." She uncrossed her legs and stretched them out in front of her on the great, tiled patio that served as a meditation space. It was a perfect day; a lovely wind whispered between the pillars, and beyond the covered patio and the sunlit garden, Hermione watched the sea roll in and out.

"Perhaps a break," Delia said, after a tense pause. She reached for her wand and Summoned a platter heaped with fruit and goblets of sparkling water. Hermione eyed it dubiously. She rather missed plain old boring English tea. Delia smiled a little, raised her wand once more, and a second tray landed between them; this one bore a teapot, cup and saucer.

"Thank you," Hermione said, feeling a little guilty. She reached for the cup, wishing she had kept her temper. "I keep waiting for you to send me back," she said, glancing up at Delia.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I've got a mundane aura," Hermione muttered unthinkingly, and was startled when Delia let out a clear, free laugh.

"A what?"

"Oh nothing." Hermione blushed. "A teacher once told me that. I just haven't got this kind of..." She gestured around at the beauty of the day and the emptiness of the space, painfully aware of the lack of library. "I don't know. I guess I'm just book-smart." She fidgeted. "I think I might be wasting your time."

"How?" Delia picked up an orange and began to peel it, looking unconcerned by Hermione's self-doubt.

"Well... I'm sure there must be someone who has a natural aptitude for this. You could have a much better-suited apprentice."

"Perhaps," Delia agreed, offering Hermione an orange segment. "But you are here. There's very little I can do with a talented student who chooses to pursue life elsewhere."

Hermione shook her head at the offered fruit, and turned the teacup around in her hands, swirling the tea, and watching the little leaves drift into shapeless, meaningless patterns. "I may be here for the wrong reasons," she said softly. "I have to admit, I don't really understand what it is we're doing, and the longer we do it, the more I want to give it up."

Delia nodded. She put down the orange and folded her hands. "Are you ready to tell me why you've come?"

Hermione looked away. Delia hadn't asked that before, and the truth was, she didn't want to answer. But she had never had such a difficult time learning anything - not since Divination had she felt so powerless - and it was much harder on her spirit than she was admitting. What did it matter if she'd always made top marks, when she was failing at the one thing she needed to learn? Even in her letters to Ron, she didn't confess the truth: since arriving in Cortona, she'd become convinced that she had made the wrong decision. The fact that the island was paradise only made her more depressed. Everything worthwhile was a thousand miles away. Perhaps... if she told Delia everything... then Delia could tell her whether or not it was right to continue on as her apprentice.

"I had loads of job offers," Hermione said, not sure where to begin. "I wouldn't have had to apprentice, and there were a couple of positions I would have been very right for - I could have worked almost anywhere in England's Ministry." She cleared her throat, embarrassed. "I don't say that to be conceited. It's partly because my boyfriend's father is the Minister." She laughed a little.

"I've had a letter about your abilities, Hermione. I'm aware of your intellectual achievements, and I know what avenues were open to you."

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04