The Lewis House 9 страница

"So, you're a Halloween baby, Harry?" he smirked.

Hermione hit him. "It's really not that funny, Ron. No point starting teasing him about it. You'd think you'd have worked it out before now."

"You mean you worked it out and you didn't say anything? We could have celebrated Harry's "Conception Day" along with Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday all these years..."

"I'm sure Harry would have loved that, wouldn't you Harry?"

Harry shrugged.

Mrs. Weasley came out into the garden, a large brown package hovering in front of her. She deposited it on the table. It looked as though it had been delivered by Muggle post - it was addressed very neatly to "Harry Potter", and had about fifteen stamps on it.

"This arrived for you today, dear," Mrs. Weasley explained. "I'd almost forgotten it. I've no idea who it could be from. It came by Muggle post earlier today, and the man who delivered it seemed very confused." But she sounded a bit too cheerful. Harry could think of only one person, or rather, family, who would send him something in the Muggle way, although he hadn't expected to hear anything from them on his birthday.

Slowly, he examined the parcel. The neat handwriting on the front definitely belonged to his Aunt Petunia. By the looks of it, she had wrapped it as well. The brown paper was plain and coarse, but the ends were taped very, very neatly and it appeared that no extra paper or tape had been wasted in wrapping this "gift."

Ginny appeared at Harry's side. "Go on," she urged, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "maybe it'll be another tissue - Mum could use one, look, she’s still all watery-eyed from the Kinolia."

"I most certainly am not," protested Mrs. Weasley, with a sniffle.

Harry grinned wryly - tissues were the Dursleys’ standard idea of a gift for their nephew. Harry doubted very much, however, whether the Dursleys would waste an entire box on something so small. The box didn't feel heavy at all. Harry picked it up and shook it lightly. "Maybe it's just air," he joked.

Harry unwrapped the parcel only to find an old, beat-up shoebox underneath. A piece of paper was taped to the lid. Harry ripped it off, pulling away some of the box with it, hoping desperately that the box did not really contain an old pair of Uncle Vernon's shoes or a collection of his oldest, smelliest socks. It read:

We were cleaning out our attic and found these. They belong to you. If you do not want them, please do not send them back.

Vernon and Petunia Dursley

Well, Harry thought, fine with me. He was sure that he was happier to be away from the Dursleys than they were to be rid of him. Curious, Harry lifted the lid to the box. Inside was a blue blanket. Harry touched it carefully, not quite comprehending what it was. Sirius had now appeared on his other side, and everyone else had gathered across the table to see what the Dursleys had sent. Harry looked over to Sirius curiously, wondering if he knew what it meant. Sirius was staring at the blanket with an empty look. His eyes were as dark and hooded as they had been the first time Harry had seen him in the Shrieking Shack. Remus placed a hand on Sirius's shoulder.

"It's the blanket that Hagrid wrapped you in before he took you to the Dursleys," Sirius said quietly. "I showed up and saw...saw the house, and realized what had happened, and I saw Hagrid there, wrapping you in these blankets."

Sirius stopped talking for a moment, and Harry did not speak either. Sirius took a small breath and continued. "When I saw Hagrid, I knew that Dumbledore must have sent him. He comforted me, he was wailing quite loudly himself - I thought he was going to drown you with those big tears of his. Then I told him to give you to me - that I was your godfather. But he said that Dumbledore had instructed him to take you to him, and I knew that something strange was going on, but I agreed."

Harry lifted the blankets out of the box. They were dusty and wrinkled, but as he lifted them, a small piece of parchment flitted out of them. Sirius picked it up with trembling fingers. "I had a feeling that you never discovered this," he said with a bitter edge to his voice.

"I'm surprised that the Dursleys didn't burn these like they did my letter from Dumbledore," Harry said angrily. "Why'd they keep these, I wonder?"

"Probably hoping they'd be able to send you back in them," suggested Ron.

"Ron," hissed Hermione and Mrs. Weasley simultaneously, but Harry smiled a bit and picked up on the bait. "Yeah, maybe that's why they kept me in the closet all those years, so that I'd fit into my blankets."

Sirius handed Harry the piece of parchment. "Before I gave Hagrid my motorbike, I scribbled this and stuck it into your blankets. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I had a feeling that I wouldn't be seeing you for a while."

Harry picked up the paper and read aloud:

Be safe, Harry. I'll come for you as soon as I can. It's probably better that Hagrid wouldn't let me bring you with me, but I would have, Harry. Know that I would have. Someday, you will understand.

Your godfather,

Sirius Black

"Well," said Harry after he'd finished reading, "if I'd had that, it would have cleared up quite a lot, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, I dunno," said Ron cheerfully, "we still would have thought he was a Muggle-killing lunatic and he still probably would've broken my leg."

Everyone laughed at this and Harry gently folded the blanket and placed it back in the box, laying the note down on top of it. Although anger at the Dursleys was making his stomach churn, he couldn't really feel upset for long. He was too full and exhausted, and anyway, the blankets had belonged to him, and he'd seen moving pictures of his mother and father - he'd heard them laugh, heard them speak...

One by one, party guests started to leave. Fred, George, and Angelina departed first, after much fuss from Mrs. Weasley. Ron, Hermione and Ginny excused themselves to go help Remus rearrange things inside. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley stood in the garden for quite some time, talking with Harry and Sirius. Mr. Weasley was just in the middle of telling Sirius that he might be able to find his old motorbike, when he stopped talking suddenly and his mouth turned grim.

Harry turned his head so that he could see what had caused Mr. Weasley's sudden change of mood and saw Draco Malfoy in the distance, standing on the balcony of his uncle's house. Malfoy's silver-blond hair reflected in the moonlight and glowed. Mrs. Weasley gently placed a hand on her husband's arm and said softly, "Shall we be going now Arthur?" Mr. Weasley nodded, and the two of them said goodnight and Disapparated.

Now only Sirius and Harry were left in the garden.

"Did you have a happy birthday, Harry?" asked Sirius. Though he was smiling, the gravity in his voice made Harry think of the letter that Sirius had sent him a month ago. "You know that I have had my doubts as to whether I would ever be free to do my godfatherly duties by you. But Harry, now that I am, it’s going to be the way it should have been all along. I promise you that."

Harry glanced up at Malfoy, who was still standing on the balcony alone, and reflected that living with the Dursleys all those years might have been worth it after all. It was better than being indulged as a child and ending up a lonely adult. Harry rubbed his hand absently where Ginny had touched it, and thought of the messages and gifts that had been piled up in his honor. At least he wasn’t lonely.

Realizing that Sirius was still waiting quietly for an answer, Harry shook himself out of his thoughts and looked at his godfather. "This was the best birthday I’ve had," he said simply.

Sirius grinned, unable to hide his relief. "Good. Now, tell me what’s happening with the Cannons. I haven’t heard anything yet."

Together, discussing Harry’s favorite subject, they strolled back into the house.

Chapter Ten

Echoes of War

~*~

Fleur Delacour was bored with men. She stood before one now in the Paris conference room of Charismatics Spellcraft International, bored out of her mind. She rested one hand on her hip and gazed disinterestedly out the window as Mr. Craftsworthy, the Staffing Specialist from the London office, spoke to her about employment opportunities.

"...there are more assignments than we can possibly handle," he was saying. "Too many places where the Protection Enchantments have been destroyed by Death Eaters. Whole staff is busy - supply and demand, you know - Camille Jaloux has given us your name, and I do hope you'll consider..." The man trailed off and looked at Fleur. He had to be sixty at least and the ardent way in which he stared at her would have made most young women uncomfortable.

It bored Fleur.

"Just tell me what it is zat you want me to do. I want to leave 'ere," she snapped. And though many superior business partners would have fired her on the spot for her cheek, the man at the table continued to gaze at her worshipfully, utterly unaffected by her tone.

It had used to amaze Fleur, when she was a child, the level of pettish cruelty she could inflict on men without their even minding. After it had ceased to amaze her, it had amused her - she'd made a game of it. How cold could she be before they would dare to contradict her? How selfishly could she act before they would give up? But no matter what she said, or how horribly she behaved, it didn't matter. They never noticed. They always gazed at her glassily, always nodded and accommodated and fetched and were boring. Terribly disappointing creatures, men.

"Never listen to them, darling," her grandmother had said firmly, again and again. "Never trust them. They are all far too easily distracted."

Fleur remembered the hard bite with which the words had always been spoken. "You are fortunate, little one, to be only part-veela. You may use the magic only at your will. But I, who will never know that freedom, have learned not to believe a word they say. And neither should you."

Fleur's mother had regarded that advice as somewhat harsh - she had told Fleur that though it was true most men would be weakened by her, one would surely happen along who was less easily impressed by beauty. There were honest men in the world, she had always averred. Fleur's own father, after all, had been such a man.

But, harsh or not, by the age of eleven Fleur had been grateful for her grandmother's warning. In her first year at Beauxbatons Academy, the boys had come at her in droves. All of them, through to the seventh years, spent their energy trying to commandeer her time; Fleur quickly found that if she wanted to study at all, she would have to isolate herself in her room. And as if all of that was not disconcerting enough for such a young girl, Fleur had also been only eleven when a boy had first attempted to kiss her. Really kiss her. It had frightened her to death.

After a letter to her mother and a tearful interview with the Headmistress, Fleur had become more careful, and more isolated - and much more cunning.

Time and experience had made her almost diabolical about it. If there was anything she wanted, she could have it if there were men about. And if she wanted to be kissed - which, eventually, she did - there was no shortage of candidates for the provision of strong arms, a mouth, and a lot of promises. She more or less knew the speech by heart: they liked to tell her how beautiful she was, that they loved her and would die for her. At first it had been interesting to hear it, in all its versions. But in recent years, whenever they used the word 'love', Fleur had to suppress a snort. How could they possibly love her? Not a one of them had bothered to know her. And even though, in the past, it had been rather entertaining to kiss them and then watch them run in circles for no reason at all, that had now become boring as well.

Fleur had honestly begun to wonder whether there were any other men in the world like her father had been. She wondered if any of them would ever stop looking at her hair long enough to listen to her speak. She wondered if any of them would ever stand up to her. Because the way it stood now, things were just as her grandmother had warned her they would be. Fleur found it absolutely impossible to believe a word that any of them said.

All but one. She admitted that there had been one.

"...to London. Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Delacour, are you listening to me?"

Fleur opened her eyes, annoyed to be interrupted from her reverie. She looked down at Mr. Craftsworthy disdainfully and told the truth. "Non. I 'av not 'eard a word you 'av said. Can you not sum up? I am sick of standing 'ere."

He smiled indulgently. Of course. Fleur let out a breath of impatience.

"Gringotts Bank," he said, tapping his notebook with his quill and not taking his eyes off of her, "is in need of extra help - many of the Protective Enchantments have been destroyed."

Fleur shrugged loosely. A bank? Fine. She didn't really care. "I was under ze impression zat Gringotts employed curses for protection, not Charms," was her only reply.

"Well, yes - in the vaults. But then there are personnel chambers, you know. International Services rooms, Muggle currency exchange experts, curse breakers' offices - that sort of thing. The human employees would rather have their quarters enchanted than cursed. Not everyone is as comfortable with curses as the goblins are."

Fleur nodded. She wouldn't want to work surrounded by a lot of curses, herself. Dark magic of any kind was the last thing she wanted to be near now. Dark magic was only a reminder of the past, and she wanted no reminders, not now, not this autumn, when the war was finally beginning to lose its razor's-edge hold on her. The war had been over all summer.

Not that time had brought Gabrielle back.

Fleur felt tears sting her eyes immediately, as they always did when she thought of her sister. She tried not to dwell on it, tried not to imagine the things Gabrielle might have suffered after she had been taken from Mont Ste. Mireille. Fleur hated to imagine any child at the hands of a Death Eater, but the acute, writhing sickness it caused to think of Gabrielle - the sheer terror that her sister must have felt, and the pain... It was a horrible thing, to have to hope that a loved one had been killed quickly and mercifully. But Fleur did hope it. She hoped that they had killed Gabrielle on the spot, from behind and without warning - that she had been an unsuspecting victim - that her last memories had been happy ones. That hope was all that had given Fleur any comfort since January.

"...in the morning. Mademoiselle, I think you are, perhaps, not quite listening?" Mr. Craftsworthy beamed at her, as if she had done something wonderful. "Come, come, hear what I am offering you. There is a transfer available -"

"To Gringotts of Paris. I was listening, Monsieur."

"Ah - no -" he looked extremely nervous to have to contradict her " - to Gringott's of London, Mademoiselle Delacour. I do beg your pardon, but it is Gringotts in London that needs you - I have several senior Enchantment Experts staffing the Paris branch already."

Fleur's eyes narrowed. "You are saying zat I am not qualified to work 'ere in France?"

The man immediately began to apologize profusely. "Good heavens no! I didn't mean it in such a way - do forgive me - that is, you are very young - but so talented, of course!"

Fleur waved him off. It was unimportant to her what he thought of her work. She knew that she was brilliant. She had only wanted to make him suffer a little bit, for underestimating her.

"I accept," she said briefly, in the manner of a queen pardoning her page.

Mr. Craftsworthy was clearly relieved and grateful to her for not having chastised him further. "The - the transfer? You'll accept the position at Gringotts?"

"Oui." Fleur studied her nails and sighed.

"Excellent!" Mr. Craftsworthy clapped his hands together. "I will forward the appropriate papers to Madame Jaloux, regarding the transfer, and I'll have your identification to your desk by the end of the month. You will begin in the second week of September. Is that an acceptable amount of time in which to make your plans?" He gazed at her imploringly.

Fleur nodded once, then turned and left the conference room without another glance, feeling almost pleased for the first time in months. She had an assignment. Something new to focus on. Mont Ste. Mireille was nothing but a daily, living reminder of Gabrielle, and Fleur was grateful for an opportunity to move away from it. London... well, it certainly wasn't Paris... but it would be different, at least. The men would not be different, of course. Fleur snorted softly. They never were. But a change of scene was actually welcome in any case. And also, Bill Weasley was British.

The thought came to Fleur suddenly before she could stop it, and along with the thought came an odd flutter in her heart. He had stood quietly and watched her working without interference. He had held her differently from any other man. Not as if he'd wanted something from her - but as if... as if he'd known her. She remembered the pressure of standing against him - the strange, immediate relief of it. She stopped in the corridor for a moment and shut her eyes, forgetting where she was. Yes... he had been British. And he might be in London; it wasn't impossible, was it?

Of course, it was equally as likely that he had lost his life in the war. Fleur flinched at the thought. She didn't want to think about that.

Shaking off all ideas of that nature, therefore, Fleur returned to her desk and sat. She pulled out her wand and organized her papers briefly, realizing as she did so that she wouldn't miss this office in the slightest. London, in September? Well, good. Perhaps, at the very least, it wouldn't be horribly dull.

~*~

The day was a bit cool and cloudy for early August, with some light drizzle misting everything. Perfect, thought Hermione, as if this weren't hard enough to deal with already. She spent some time trying to control her hair, which was bushier than usual due to the weather. After about fifteen minutes, she threw down the clip that she was using to try and pull some of the curls off of her face and murmured in frustration, "What's the use! They're not going to notice anyway."

"I think you look lovely dear," answered her mirror. Hermione managed a weak smile, before grabbing a ribbon, securing what she could of her hair at the bottom of her neck, and heading downstairs.

In the kitchen of the Burrow, Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Ron were already seated at the table. Penelope must be sleeping in, thought Hermione, and she couldn't really blame her - it must be exhausting to carry all of that extra weight around. She had stayed up quite late the night before talking with Penelope about the Imprisonment Charm that Percy and Penelope had begun work on earlier in the year. Mr. Weasley was pressing Penelope to come up with something soon, so that they would have options available to alleviate the situation at Azkaban and Culparrat. Working on it without Percy seemed difficult for Penelope, and she was very frustrated. Hermione wondered if it was the type of thing that a Thinker could help with and found herself feeling even more excited about the prospect of leaving in September.

Mrs. Weasley Summoned a cup of tea and let it land gently in front of Hermione on the table. She smiled gratefully and sat down next to Ron, cradling the cup of tea in her hands, feeling its warmth, but not drinking. While everyone else ate, Hermione stared off into space, trying to prepare herself for the day ahead. As her mind wandered, her eyes rested on Bill Weasley's hair, which was not yet pulled into its customary ponytail. It was fascinating. When worn loose as it was this morning, it fell to his shoulders and reminded Hermione of a soft, full paintbrush soaked in red color. It was equally as pretty as Ginny's hair, but as she watched him eat his eggs while reading the Daily Prophet, she decided that it didn't make him look feminine at all. In the two years that she had been coming regularly to the Burrow, she had never heard him mention a girlfriend, although she supposed that it wasn't so odd seeing as he'd been fighting in the war. And anyway, she didn't know him very well. Perhaps he was the type to go out with lots of different girls.

Taking another sip of tea and trying to wake up, Hermione cast a somewhat bothered look at Ron, who was also eating eggs and sitting in a posture similar to his brother's. She narrowed her eyes, wondering briefly if he ever thought about other girls, and then tried to imagine what he would look like with long hair like his brother Bill. George had seemed to be growing his hair when she'd seen him at Harry's birthday party. She smirked a little. No, she definitely couldn't see it. Ron was a short-haired type of boy. The expression on her face must have been odd, as she stared, because Ron stopped mid-chew and demanded, "What?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Ron," admonished Mrs. Weasley, rising and dusting off her robes. "It's bad manners."

Ron rolled his eyes and Hermione cracked a smile. Bill looked up from the newspaper and said with a deadpan face, "Yeah Ron, hasn't Hermione ever told you that?"

Hermione felt movement as Ron kicked Bill under the table, the tips of his ears quickly turning pink. Mrs. Weasley hadn't seemed to hear what Bill had said and a burning sensation crossed Hermione's face as she realized the meaning of Bill's joke. She really was part of the family now. Bill obviously had no problem including her in the jokes aimed at his siblings.

Ignoring Ron, Bill piped up, "Hermione, you'll need to work at controlling your boyfriend. He's a bit useless right now, but you've caught him young so I'm sure he'll improve under your influence. " Bill winked at her and Hermione gave him a weak smile, unsure of what to say. She wasn't used to having brothers.

Ron was just about to respond, though - Hermione could feel his whole body grow tense - when Mrs. Weasley walked around behind Bill, poked him in the ribs with her wand, and said gently to Hermione, "Aren't you hungry, Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head. "No."

"Come on now," Mrs. Weasley pressed, placing a plate on the table in front of her. "Best not to go on an empty stomach."

Nodding, Hermione slowly began to pick at a piece of toast. Ron's mum was always watching out for her, just like Ron did, and she was grateful for Mrs. Weasley's support, but she couldn't help but be reminded that her own mother was currently unable to act in that capacity.

Ron and Hermione had always spent the night at the Burrow before visiting St. Mungo's - somehow it made things easier to leave from there. In the beginning, Ron had purposely planned their visits to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries on days when Harry was somehow unavailable. They both knew that he'd want to come with them, and both of them thought it better that he stay as far removed from places like St. Mungo's as possible. Also, selfish as she felt about it, Hermione didn't really want Harry there. Visiting her parents was always extremely difficult for her, and she didn't want the extra worry of watching Harry withdraw further into himself. She knew that somehow he blamed himself for her parent's situation and seeing that blank look in his face in addition to seeing her parents was too much to handle for one day.

Besides, Ron had been the one to visit with her every week since the beginning. It had all happened the day before the Christmas holidays in her sixth year.

After their last class, they had all ventured outside with Ginny for a snowball fight. It seemed for a moment that they were just ordinary students, enjoying ordinary lives, in a time of peace and not of war. Hagrid had come outside to join them, along with his new assistant, Meg Castellwild, a recent Hogwarts graduate who was exceptionally good with animals.

Hermione had returned to the castle just before dinner flushed, wet, tired, and strangely happy. Twice, Ron had crept up behind her and, instead of shoving a snowball in her face, had surprised her with quick kisses while Ginny and Harry weren't looking. That had been enough to make her warm and content for the rest of the evening, although she had wished that they had more time for that sort of thing. Mrs. Weasley and Professor McGonagall were waiting for them in the otherwise empty common room. Mrs. Weasley's eyes were rimmed with red, and Professor McGonagall's throat seemed to catch as she said quietly, "Miss Granger, might we have a word with you in my office?"

Hermione remembered freezing. She remembered everything about that day with unusual clarity. She had just stood there, and felt some relief as Ron instantly reached out and grabbed her hand. She had looked from Professor McGonagall to Mrs. Weasley, with a terrible, terrible sinking feeling in her stomach, and it had been Ron who spoke first.

"Whatever you have to tell her, you can tell all of us - here."

Professor McGonagall had nodded, and had begun to speak again, slowly and distinctly.

"Miss Granger - I'm sorry to inform you - I have to tell you that - " Professor McGonagall had seemed to be searching for the right words and not finding them, "your parents - "

Hermione had breathed a barely audible wail of grief, and her legs grew weak. Ron caught her before she fell and immediately helped her onto one of the sofas.

"Not - dead?" she had asked finally, looking her teacher in the eyes, grateful for Ron's hands on her shoulders. Mrs. Weasley came over and sat down next to her, placing a hand on her arm.

Professor McGonagall had shaken her head, her gaze not leaving Hermione's. Hermione had known that the professor had delivered news like this to many other students, but had noted that her voice was uncharacteristically unsteady as she spoke about the Grangers.

"They are alive, but barely. They've been taken to a Muggle hospital. They were - tortured. Death Eaters. They performed the Cruciatus Curse on them repeatedly, from what we can gather."

Hermione had been about to ask, "Why? Why them?" when she heard Ron's voice, strained and dangerously low, ask it for her.

"Why?" he had demanded. "Why would they target Hermione's parents?" She felt his hands tense on her shoulders as he spoke.

Mrs. Weasley had looked at her son and answered resignedly, "Ron," she began, "they're crazy, aren't they? Who knows why they do anything? The Grangers aren't the first Muggle family that they've gone after, and they probably won't be the last..."

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04