The Lewis House 38 страница

"Who wrote to you?" Hermione asked curiously, flushing with pleasure at the words. She needed to hear that she was smart, just now. She certainly didn't feel it.

"Your Headmistress. She thinks very highly of you - I've rarely read such praise."

Hermione swelled with pride. Praise from Professor McGonagall was a rare and treasured thing. "Did she by any chance mention my parents?" she asked quickly, hoping that the answer would be yes, sparing her a painful explanation.

"Yes." Delia drank from her goblet and breathed out; her dark eyes were gently fixed on Hermione's face. "But I need for you to tell me."

Hermione's heart sank. She pulled her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, noting absently how tan her skin was, against the loose white robes. Ron would like that. Ron was much too far away.

"Hermione?"

"Christmas of my sixth year," she said abruptly, deciding to get it over with. "I stayed at school to watch over Harry, and while I was having a snowball fight, Death Eaters were torturing my parents." Hermione's nose stung and her eyes watered. "I went home and there were these horrible scorch marks on the walls. The Christmas tree was burnt to ashes, my mother's china cabinet had been smashed through, and in the library... there were fingernail marks... in the arms of the chair where Mum used to sit and read. Deep fingernail marks." The ocean rolled in and out. Hermione followed it with her eyes, trying not to remember too clearly. "My room was obliterated, of course. Someone had burnt 'Mudblood' across my Hogwarts letter, not that I cared about it at that point." Hermione rocked back and forth in rhythm with the sea, pretending Ron was holding onto her. She wanted Ron. "My parents had already been taken to Muggle hospital, but I sneaked them out and raised hell until St. Mungo's let them in. They're still there. Their eyes are wide open and they don't respond to anything. I used to visit all the time, but this summer I could hardly make myself go once."

Delia sat perfectly still, listening, and Hermione was grateful. Questions would have made it impossible.

"I have a friend - Neville Longbottom - his parents were destroyed by Cruciatus long ago, but they were wizards and they were able to fight. Their makeup is different, somehow. They're quite mad, but they walk about and talk to Neville when he visits - they don't recognize him, but they... oh, I don't know what's worse. My parents just lie there with their eyes open." Hermione stopped fighting and let the tears fall. "They're still so frightened, I can see how terrified they were when the Death Eaters hurt them, it's in their eyes, and their eyes don't close, and no one can help them - but I thought if I could be a Thinker, then I could build a cure -" Hermione wiped her eyes and let out a self-deprecating laugh that quickly became a sob. "I can't even clear my mind for ten seconds -"

But she was finished talking. She gave up and sobbed into her knees, hugging her legs for comfort; Delia moved closer and placed a cool hand on the back of her neck until she had cried herself out. It took a long time.

"Better?" Delia asked softly.

Oddly, it was. Hermione felt wrecked, but free of some dark, awful pressure. "I haven't cried in a long time," she sniffled. "Not like that."

"Tears are a gift." Delia lifted her hand from Hermione's neck and offered her water. "Tears unblock, they cleanse and create space. Dry your eyes, child, and sit up again when you are ready."

Hermione did so, setting down the goblet and resuming her meditative position. She shut her eyes. And this time there was no Ron, there were no bodies. There was only open space.

"Let go, Hermione. Don't concentrate. Just let go."

Two hours later, after her first successful meditation, Hermione ate a quiet dinner with Delia. Her heart was lighter and she felt hopeful, not to mention properly hungry for the first time in three weeks.

"Sleep well," Delia told her, touching Hermione's bare shoulder before going to the opposite end of the enormous house. "And happy birthday."

Hermione blinked. She had completely forgotten. "I'm eighteen," she whispered to herself, watching Delia disappear around a column and down another corridor. Stunned that she could have forgotten her own birthday, she went into her bedroom and gasped in delight at the sight that greeted her.

By her bed there was a fantastic explosion of tropical flowers - Delia must have done that. There were also four owls - Hedwig, Pig, a Hogwarts one and one from the Ministry of Magic - all ruffling their feathers and fighting for her attention.

"Oh, Ron," Hermione breathed, cupping Pig in her hands and kissing his ruffled head. He cooed. She detached Ron's gift first, but decided to save it - there were others to open.

Molly Weasley had sent mince pies, photographs of Leo, and a sun hat with a wide, straw brim: "Don't burn yourself to a crisp, dear. We miss you. Happy birthday." Professor McGonagall surprised her with a short card and a scroll from the International Cooperation of Magical Education, who had named Hermione their International Valedictorian of 1998. She squealed, jumped up and down, and wished that Ron were there to torment her about it. Sirius and Remus had sent cards with Hedwig, and Harry had sent a small tub of Fortescue's Ever Frozen Strawberry and Peanut Butter Ice Cream with the note: "Happy Birthday. I have no idea what you're doing out there, but if you're homesick, this might remind you of Diagon Alley. Miss you." Hermione took an enormous bite and reveled in the sugar-rush before opening a lovely, newsy letter from Ginny, which made her forget the ice cream altogether.

"It's finally happening with Harry and me," Ginny had written simply, "and you know how that feels. I haven't got the words."

Hermione's eyes filled with tears for Ginny, and she felt oddly proud of Harry. It was about time. She wished she could be home to see what it was like, with them together.

"In other news: Ron and Harry moved down the street to the Notch and now they fancy themselves stylish bachelors or something. No furniture and no dishes - it's not exactly style, is it? I stopped by last weekend, but there were clothes on the floor in every room, so I'm not going back until it's livable. Ron says they haven't had time to unpack properly. I say they're pigs."

Hermione rolled her eyes. She could only imagine what havoc those two were wreaking on their own space.

So we're all doing well. I'm rather tired, but I can't complain when I see what Harry does every day. Ron's been hobnobbing about London with Sirius, and every time he catches me doing my schoolwork he says he's reminded of you, and then he prattles on about you for two to six hours. Remus still trusts me with the Wolfsbane Potion, which I have been brewing all week. The full moon is tomorrow and he's not even nervous - I love having him for my teacher. Sirius is all right, I suppose - he skulks about the house, muttering on about Death Eaters and Dementors and dragons and Dark Lords and Draco and other things beginning with D."

Hermione laughed. "Dursleys," she added aloud. When she had finished Ginny's letter, she laid it aside and her heart gave an excited little leap.

Ron had sent something small and square... No, Hermione realized as she tore off the brown paper; Ron had sent three small, flat, square things, which were tied together. Picture frames. She picked up the first one and went into a laughing fit; Ron had got someone - Harry, most likely - to take a picture of him with Crookshanks in one arm, and Hogwarts, A History in the other. "See how good I'm being?" his note read. "All I do is pet the cat and broaden my mind. I love you." The photo-Ron waggled his eyebrows at her, making her giggle again. "I love you," she said back, as if he could hear her, and picked up the second photo.

Her heart melted. It was another one of Ron, but this time he was holding baby Leo, and his smile was tender and proud. The baby was sucking on the tip of his index finger, and Ron's ears were pink with happiness. "I really love you," Hermione whispered, kissing the picture. She couldn't help imagining Ron as a father, looking at him with his nephew. But that was a long way off, she supposed, because it was a bit more difficult to imagine herself as a mother.

When she picked up the third photograph, tears came into her eyes. It was a picture from summertime - Colin must have taken it. It was a black and white of her and Ron from the shoulders up, grinning. She was tan, and he was freckled, and they looked blissfully happy, with her head leaned against him, and his arm snug around her. When their picture-selves turned to each other and kissed, Hermione blushed to see how unreserved she was. She hoped her image hadn't done that in front of Colin.

She set the pictures up on her bedside table, gazed at them for a happy moment, then moved on and read Ron's card.

"Happy Birthday to my Head Girl."

Hermione giggled.

"If I told you how much I miss you, I'd sound like a sap. Of course, since it's your birthday, I guess that's in order."

Ron elaborated further, in a paragraph that made Hermione sigh, and blush, and sigh again. She read it a dozen times, and then continued on to more prosaic topics, her heart still fluttering.

"I've been giving Sirius a little help with his trials during the daytime, when I'm not at the pub. I don't help much, because I don't know enough, but I try to take the details off his hands. He's looking a little more rested, and I can tell Remus is glad I'm doing it, even if Sirius hardly seems to notice. He's insane. He might not be a madman, but he's still a mental case, I'm telling you. And speaking of mental cases, one Draco Malfoy can kiss my royal arse if he thinks he's got a thing to go on, in court. Sirius and I have been digging through our stuff for the trial, and it turns out that I could probably press charges in return, if I really wanted to, for a little thing called Defamation of Character. Ha! How do you like that! He's been defaming my character for about seven years, so if this law's retroactive, then I think I'd like to put him away for the next century. Or just until he's too old to breathe. Dirty wanker."

Hermione grinned in spite of herself, and was extremely relieved to hear that the trial preparations were going so well. It was hard not to be at home helping, but she was doing her best not to panic. And it was rather... interesting... to imagine Ron helping Sirius at court. She toyed with that image for a little while, lying down on her bed and curling on her side before continuing to read.

"So I'm doing fine, I suppose. But you sound sad, in your letters. You think you've got me fooled with your 'I'm learning SO much and it's SO lovely and I could just write TEN papers about it', but I'm not as stupid as I look, Miss Granger. Your assignment: one letter, on my pillow, tomorrow morning. Three feet of parchment, and ten points off for every inch it's missing. And no fair writing really big - that's my trick and you can't have it. Keep Pig till it's done."

He really knew her. Hermione shut her eyes and sighed, vainly hoping that Ron would Apparate into her room and hold her, just for a minute. When he didn't, she read the last of his letter.

"Send all future correspondence to The Notch, though, because as of last weekend, Harry and I are officially bachelors. Well. We live alone, anyway.

I love you more than is strictly decent.

-Ron"

There was a postscript, so tender in nature that it made Hermione want to Apparate home - she felt a full sort of warmth as she changed into a light nightdress and sat down at her desk with Ron's letter. She would write everyone else back tomorrow - but tonight, as a birthday gift to herself, she would only write to Ron.

She read the loving parts of his letter again several times, glancing over at the pictures on her bedside table to watch as Ron's image nuzzled hers - Hermione closed her eyes, craving the actual sensation. Three more months without him seemed impossible. Not for the first time, she let her mind travel back over the details of their last night together and, when she could no longer stand it, she picked up her quill and began to write.

She lay down the quill an hour later, hot in the face and breathing rather heavily. She couldn't reread what she'd written, or she'd never send it. It was totally honest and so full of adoring, intimate remarks that Hermione was seized by a fit of nerves after tying it to Pig's ankle - she snatched it back and very nearly tore it to pieces. But in the end, she let Pig have it, and when the little owl was irretrievably gone, Hermione climbed into bed feeling scarlet all over - even though it was Ron, it felt weird to put such personal things on paper.

But it was also strangely exciting. Hermione hugged her pillow, her pulse racing as she imagined him reading what she'd written. Would he be shocked? Would he write back?

Oh, he'll write back, said a knowing voice in the back of her head. Hermione fell asleep, grinning a bit wickedly.

~*~

Ron sighed and stretched and wrapped his arms and legs around Hermione, who was doing something terrific to the spot just under his ear. He muttered something fairly indecent to her and she laughed and pressed against him. He could feel the whole shape of her through her clothes, but it wasn't enough - the clothes were unacceptable - he trailed his hands down her sides and over her hips -

"Hey, get up."

Ron groaned, and swatted at the hand that was shaking his shoulder. "Geroff," he mumbled to the unwelcome intruder, trying to get back to Hermione - but she was quickly slipping away.

The intruder shook him again. "Come on, last week you said you wanted to go to London early for this. You told me to wake you up on my way out." The voice paused, and then its owner gave Ron's arm a swift thump.

"Ow - damn!"

"Get up. I've got to go and I want to be sure you're awake."

Ron gave up on finding Hermione again; she had disappeared into a lost dream. He opened his eyes and glared blearily up at Harry, then glanced at his clock. "It's five bollocking thirty..." he moaned, unable to believe there was such an hour. "Go away. Go back to bed."

"Can't. I have to go to Azkaban now and put in half a shift so I can get out early and give you moral support at the trial."

Trial. Ron sat bolt upright. "It's today," he muttered. Between his night shifts at the pub, his daily work with Sirius - and the incredibly distracting letter that had come from Cortona yesterday afternoon - Ron had rather lost track of time. He swung his legs out of bed and waited for some pre-trial nerves to hit, but perhaps it was just too early for nerves. All he could think about was what Hermione must look like - all tan in that white thing she'd described. He wondered if he was allowed to show up at the Thinker's house and find out. He had to reply to Hermione’s letter and ask. He really had to write back...

"See you at the Ministry." Harry's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Oh - right. Hey, thanks for coming."

Harry snorted softly. "Like I wouldn't," he said, and Disapparated.

Ron had half a mind to go right back to sleep and try to find that dream again. But even though he didn't have to be in Diagon Alley until the afternoon, he knew there was a good chance he'd sleep right through his trial if he went back to bed. He glanced around his new room and considered that he could spend a few hours making it look respectable - there was a mess of books at one end and a mess of clothes at the other, and a few simple spells would organize all of it. There were also about a thousand Chudley Cannons posters to hang... not that it would be much fun to stare at those, this season. Frowning, Ron decided to ignore the disarray of the Notch, for the time being. It was his. He was paying for half of it. And he'd make an enormous mess if he felt like it.

Cheered by the thought of never having to clean anything again for the rest of his life, Ron got dressed and made himself breakfast, rehearsing in his head the many questions and answers that he and Sirius had planned for his defense. Sirius had also played devil's advocate during their preparation by antagonizing Ron with pointed personal remarks, as Malfoy's representative probably would. Oddly, Ron had rather enjoyed all the practicing, and he was going to miss hanging out with Sirius during the day. There was something satisfying about helping with the really big trials, even when Sirius asked him do really mundane searches of huge piles of parchment.

At eight-thirty, when he was dressed and nearly ready to leave, Ginny showed up with rings under her eyes, and hugged him. "It's going to be fine," she said fiercely. "I'll be up there. I think the twins are coming, too."

Ron hugged her back, and tugged her ponytail. "Thanks," he said, noting how pale she was. She'd been looking tired a lot, lately. "You look like someone hexed you right in the face."

"Oh, thanks. I need more sleep, that's all."

"Harry been keeping you awake?" Ron taunted. Lately, Harry had made very little effort to hide his regard for Ginny, and he'd spent more of his evenings at Lupin Lodge than at the Notch. Ron hadn't felt quite comfortable taunting him about this, but Ginny was another matter.

Ginny went red, and smacked his arm. "No. It was a full moon last night, if you didn't notice, and I had to take care of Sirius."

"Don't you mean Remus?"

"No, Remus was fine. When are you leaving for London?"

"In a minute. Bill wants to give me an early pep talk, or something."

"Oh, I wish I could go."

"Too bad you have school." Ron grinned. "Though I can't imagine Remus is up to teaching today."

"He's not, but I promised to study independently," Ginny groaned. "I'll see you up there," she said, and when she had left the Notch, Ron Disapparated, still feeling perfectly at ease.

It wasn't until Diagon Alley appeared around him in a rush, full of loud noises and colorfully dressed wizards and witches, that he felt the first onrush of fear. Ron peered in the direction of the Ministry, his heart pounding a bit harder than usual. The trial would really happen today. And Malfoy was really out to get him. Ron dropped down to sit on the Gringotts steps, and dangled his arms over his knees, waiting for Bill and trying not to panic.

“Got a Knut?”

Ron’s head swiveled toward the voice, which sounded very odd. It was young and clear as a bell, yet twisted somehow. Hardened. But he didn’t see anyone.

“Who said that?” he asked, and peered left towards the disembodied voice. Behind a massive white column on the side of the steps, Ron could barely see a small figure with sandy hair. It half-emerged to glare at him.

Ron gaped. The voice belonged to a boy. But the boy was dirty and disheveled and the gleam in his eyes was unnatural for a child of his age. He gripped the side of the column with one grimy hand and jerked his head at Ron.

“Spare a Knut, I said.”

“I...” Ron reached for his moneybag. But something stopped him from offering change; he felt a compulsion to do something else. “Where’re your parents?” he asked, looking around.

“Dead.”

Ron felt pity pierce him like an arrow. “Voldemort?” he asked softly.

The boy tossed his head and his blue eyes flashed. "I wasn’t there, was I? I wouldn’t know. I was at school, and then people tried to stick me in that dirty Children’s Home, so I ran for it. Damned if I’ll let those bastards tell me-”

“Hey, there,” Ron heard himself saying gently, getting to his feet, “watch the swearing.” He smiled inwardly; Hermione would faint if she could hear him say that.

The boy, however, did not smile. He was backing away from Ron. “Don’t you tell me what to do - and sit down, don’t come near me.”

“How can I give you the Knut, if I stay over here?” Ron asked casually, holding one out between his thumb and forefinger.

The boy stopped, obviously thinking hard about this. “You’re going to give it to me?”

“On my honor. If -” Ron paused. “If you sit here a minute first and answer some questions.” He held the boy’s gaze, not knowing why he didn't just give the kid some money. He only knew, looking at the orphan before him, that his own troubles suddenly seemed very far away. As a child, he’d always felt conspicuously poor - but to live on the street, to be covered with filth, to have to ask strangers for money enough to eat... it was unthinkable.

The boy was considering him, calculating. “On your honor?”

Ron crossed his heart.

The boy smirked. “Like that means anything anymore,” he muttered.

“It does with me,” Ron said seriously. He waited, watching the boy’s expression change from bitterness, to disbelief, to defensive curiosity. He took one, then two steps closer.

“How many questions do I have to answer?”

“Well, let’s say three. Here’s one - how old are you?”

“Twelve.”

Ron’s heart ached. This boy should be starting his second year in school, yet here he was. Ron remembered the summer after he had turned twelve. He had returned to the Burrow and complained about how hot it was, and how boring. He had spent most of the time telling Ginny about Harry, and then telling her to shut up about Harry, making fun of Percy, and fishing tadpoles out of his soup, courtesy of Fred and George. He’d busted Harry out of the Dursleys’ in a flying car, and he’d written Hermione taunting letters. They'd gone back to school in that car - crashed into the Whomping Willow - got in horrible trouble. It had been wonderful. This boy, on the other hand, looked as far from wonderful as it was possible to be.

“All right,” he said, forcing his voice to stay even. “Where have you been sleeping?”

The boy blinked, and his face closed off again. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll turn us in.”

Us. Then there were more of them. Ron shook his head. “I never would.”

Something about him must have been convincing. The boy crossed his arms. “You do and I’ll get you.”

“Fair enough.”

“Cellar down Knockturn Alley. That’s all I’m saying. And you’ve only got one more question.” The boy leapt down three steps at once, swaggered insolently up to Ron and held his hand out, palm-up. “Ask it,” he said.

Ron was reminded fiercely of two people. The first was Draco Malfoy; this boy’s attitude could have doubled for his and Ron was tempted to ask if the Malfoys were any relation. But the second was Harry. The boy’s demeanor was as self-sufficient as Harry’s - he was twelve, frightened, and parentless because of Voldemort. Ron thought hard about his third question, wondering how much he could make of it.

“I trust you,” he said, crouching down to look the boy dead in the eyes, “so I’m giving you this now. But I know you’ll stay for the third question, and I know you’ll answer it honestly.” He put the Knut in the boy’s hand, where small, dirty fingers gripped greedily around it.

The boy gave a narrow laugh. “Slow, aren’t you?” he spat, and before Ron could say anything, the boy raced nimbly down the steps and sprinted toward Knockturn Alley.

"I've seen him before." Bill had appeared on the stairs; he pointed at the boy's disappearing back. "Poor kid."

"Yeah," said Ron, feeling rather stupid. He should have asked the boy's name first, not his age. And he shouldn't have trusted him when he'd looked that desperate. "Damn."

"I know, but he won't be helped. He's run away from St. Mungo's - there are a bunch of them that won't stay in the home. It's awful to see." He looked Ron up and down. "Did you bring a change of clothes for your trial?" he asked bluntly.

"What's wrong with these?" Ron gestured defensively to the brown robes he was wearing - they were good enough for work, they were long enough, and they bore no visible stains or patches. At least he wasn't Harry, going about in Gryffindor robes.

"Well, they're not very formal, are they?"

"Malfoy's not my date to the ball," Ron muttered. "I'm not dressing up for him."

"No, but you'd better dress up for the Council," Bill advised in a knowing-elder-brother voice that made Ron want to hit him.

"Fine. I'll go home and get my dress robes."

"Not dress robes, Ron. Formal robes. For professional occasions."

Ron snorted. "For your information, I wear these to work - sorry if they're not professional enough for your tastes. And you're one to talk, going to work in dragon hide and vests - and keeping a ponytail," he added for good measure.

Bill raised his eyebrows, but didn't retort. "Look, I'm just trying to help," he said, less demandingly. "Want to stop by my flat and grab robes of mine?"

"I'm too tall for yours," Ron said, mildly pleased that this was true. He would always be the youngest brother, but he had grown up the tallest.

"So we'll go to Madam Malkin's," Bill said easily. "I'll get you some."

"I can get my own." Ron fingered the money pouch in his pocket. His bank vault was much emptier since he'd paid his first month's rent, but he wasn't letting his brothers buy him robes forever. He followed Bill to Madam Malkin's, where he was surprised to see an unfamiliar shopkeeper bustling about between the mannequins.

"I'm Madame Mbaye," the woman said pleasantly, coming towards them. "Don't be shocked, boys, my sister's on holiday and I'm helping her out. Now... what color to put with that nice red hair..." She looked them both over as if contemplating eating them, and Ron blushed. "I've got just the thing," she purred, and disappeared into the back of the shop.

Ron nudged Bill. "She fancies us," he muttered, but Bill wasn't paying attention. His eyes were fixed on something across the shop, and Ron followed his brother's gaze to where it rested on a brilliant, pale sort of light. But it wasn't light at all - it was a sheet of hair. A very beautiful, very familiar sheet of hair.

"Holy crap," Ron mumbled. "Fleur Delacour."

Bill turned on him. "You know her?" he demanded.

"You want an introduction?" Ron asked slyly, and went into a fit of immature laughter. Fleur had that effect on him, he supposed. "Hey," he called out, when he'd got control of himself. "Fleur - hi!"

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04