The Lewis House 30 страница

"Ron?" It was too late. Ginny softly knocked at the door. "You might want to come out. I think Hermione’s all set."

Ron scrambled to his feet and threw on his T-shirt, then let Ginny in without looking her in the eye. He didn’t know how much girls told each other, but she was his sister, and he liked to pretend that she neither knew what he did, nor did anything herself. He went quickly past to the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth before heading down the stairs. Hermione was waiting in the front room, dressed, with her knapsack on the floor beside her.

"I’ve said goodbye to everyone else," she said simply.

Ron went to the knapsack and picked it up, pretending to be thrown off-balance by its astounding lightness. "Where’re the books?" he demanded. "You have another suitcase around here, or something?"

"I’m not bringing any books. Just that."

Completely baffled, Ron said nothing. He weighed the knapsack in his hands again before managing; "You’ll need more than this for four months."

"No, I won’t." She held out a hand for the bag; Ron gave it to her, and she slung it diagonally across her body. "Okay…" she attempted. "Well…"

For the first time in years, Ron had no idea what to say to her. Certainly not, ‘I’ll miss you.’ There weren’t words for the kind of missing he was going to do, and apparently she felt the same way, because she reached out and grabbed both of his hands without another word. He had a feeling that she was trying to smile bravely – the look on her face was halfway there. It was just the look in her eyes that was dark and sad.

"I guess…" she began, half-heartedly.

A sharp rap! on the window behind her made both of them jump.

"Owl," Ron muttered, letting it in. He’d never seen it before. It was silver, sleek, expensive-looking, and had the sharpest beak he’d ever seen. It wasn’t a public owl and it didn’t stay a moment longer than necessary; when Ron had untied the letter from its ankle, it pushed off from his hand with rude force.

"Malfoy," Hermione whispered, staring at the back of the letter.

Ron turned it over in his hands, and in the silver wax, an impressive seal had indeed been stamped: an enormous, Gothic ‘M’, exactly like the one from Draco’s ring. "I knew he really would," he mumbled to himself, tearing open the parchment and reading its contents without even needing to. "Summons," he finally managed, his voice dry. "Formal charges, I’m called to trial, and there it is."

Hermione removed her knapsack and threw it on a chair. "I’ll go and get Sirius," she said anxiously, moving to the stairs.

"No, wait."

She turned and looked at him, pale with worry. "Wait?" she repeated faintly.

"Put your bag back on and go. I’ll handle this."

Her eyebrows shot up and she came toward him again, shaking her head. "I can’t go now," she protested. "How could I? I’ll postpone Cortona until after this is all worked out –"

"No. The Thinker might have another apprentice by then. You can’t stay." Ron couldn’t believe he was saying it. He wanted her to stay more than anything, and finally it looked like she was going to go ahead and do it.

She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. "I’m not leaving," she said stoutly. "I’m not going off and letting Malf –"

Ron kissed her, hard, cutting off the words. "I don’t want your plans ruined because of Malfoy." He cleared his throat and took her hands, looking down at her fingers as he spoke. "And... and you’ve stood right by me on everything important. " He took a deep breath, and said what he knew full well she'd been waiting to hear. "I want you to have whatever you want. I want you to go to the Thinker." He’d never told a bigger lie in his life.

Strangely, however, it was also the truth.

Hermione went very still, and gripped his hands in her little ones. "Thank you," she finally whispered. When she looked up at him, her eyes were full of tears, but she let go of his hands and picked up her knapsack. "Goodbye, Ron," she managed.

Ron felt his chin tremble. "Goodbye, Hermione."

She tilted up her face and he met her in a kiss so long and sweet that he wasn’t sure he could bear to let her go, after all. But when she stepped back and pulled her wand, looking at him in a way she never had before, he knew that they were both doing the right thing. The difficult thing – but then, they’d learned that rule from Dumbledore.

"I love you," she choked.

Ron opened his mouth to say it back – and blinked. Hermione had already disappeared into thin air. He stared uncomprehendingly at the place where she’d just been, then dropped his gaze to the letter in his hands, hoping to make some sense of the summons – to take his mind off the terribly empty spot in the room.

But he couldn’t read it, through the tears.

Chapter Nineteen

Islands

The Authors’ Notes: Well, here is the long-awaited Chapter Nineteen. We apologize for the delay and hope that this will make people happy and not disappoint. A huge thank you to all of our awesome, roxin’ beta-readers. You all are excellent teachers. We’re beginning to wonder if we’ll ever finish, but we think we’ve passed the halfway point. We now understand why it’s taken JK Rowling two years for Book Five, although she doesn’t have to have a day job…

When she reached the top of the cliff, Hermione collapsed onto a large rock, threw her rucksack down by her side, and stared out at the blue sea. She had been traveling all day long. Apparating over such long distances was a tricky operation; it required several stops along the way as she passed through various official wizarding zones.

She knew that she was close to the Isle of Cortona, where the Thinker lived. Placing her hand up to her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright afternoon sun, Hermione searched and could just barely make out a tiny island off in the distance. Her heart lurched and she knew without a doubt that it was her final destination. But how would she get there? She didn't dare try to Apparate - if there were wards guarding the island then half of her might end up floating in the ocean while the other half struggled on a rock. She supposed she should stroll down to the village and try to find a Muggle with a boat to sail her out there. Unfortunately, she was no longer in England and striking a deal with a Greek-speaking fisherman did not seem like the most efficient option.

At the moment, she was simply tired, and doubt was beginning to creep up inside her, along with a terrible pang of homesickness when she thought of Ron. She wondered how she would feel about herself, if, after coming this far, she decided just to turn around and go home.

Home. Hermione remembered that she didn't really have a home. Her parents were in St. Mungo's, frozen in terror, and would stay that way unless she found a way to help them. With determination, she stood, threw her bag over her shoulder, and headed back down the path towards the village.

Halfway down she noticed a small spout sticking out of the vegetation in the hillside. She did not remember seeing it on her way up and she now realized that she was extremely thirsty. A small ladle and tin cup sat on a rock near the spring. Hermione had seen similar set-ups when she had traveled to France with her parents in the summer after her second year at Hogwarts. She assumed that all of the villagers used this spring to collect water during their walks. Holding out her hands to steady herself, she placed one foot on a rock in front of her, and reached out to pick up the ladle, gleaming in the sunlight.

As soon as she touched it, she knew. A familiar jerking motion tugged at her stomach and she felt her feet leave the ground. A Portkey. The ladle was a Portkey and Hermione was very afraid. Her mind flashed to the Triwizard Tournament, when a Portkey had unexpectedly sent Harry and Cedric Diggory directly into Voldemort’s hands. She tried to drop the ladle, but it was too late – she was already spinning. A moment later, however, she landed on solid ground.

Dropping the ladle, Hermione brushed herself off and looked around. She seemed to be - well - in some sort of paradise. It was very, very quiet except for a few birdsongs, the hum of some insects, and the sea. She could see the water to her right and far off to her left, and with a sigh of relief, she assumed that somehow she had landed on the Isle of Cortona.

A large villa stood in front of her. It did not appear to have walls, but rooms were clearly marked, and the floors were tiled in vibrant mosaic patterns of blue and gold. She could see to the back of the building, and there appeared to be a lot more vegetation away from the beach. She wondered if she should enter the building. Looking around, she saw no one, so, her hand tightly gripping the wand in her pocket, she proceeded onward.

The air inside the villa was much cooler than outside. Once she crossed over the threshold, she realized that there were walls separating the rooms, but they seemed to be made of something magical, for they shimmered and glowed as she walked by. They were covered with murals that reminded Hermione of television more than anything else, because the people and animals in the pictures appeared to be moving and acting out scenes, rather than just standing and waving like in regular wizard pictures.

Hermione tried not to let these things distract her as she wandered through the building. She felt that it was important to keep her mind as focused as possible. A few moments later, she stumbled out onto the back terrace and gasped when she saw the view.

The villa was actually located at the foot of a large hill. Flat, lush, vegetated land spread out in front of her for about a mile, and then, rising up out of it, was a magnificent mountain that Hermione was sure that she had not noticed from the mainland. She was starting to doubt whether the Portkey had transported her to Cortona, or to some other exotic location.

"Welcome," said a voice that was clear and noble, with the slightest trace of an accent.

Hermione jumped and, focusing her eyes, which had gone a bit blurry in the hot sun, realized that there was a tall, dark-haired woman standing not ten feet away from her, amongst what looked like grapevines.

Opening her mouth to speak, Hermione found that nothing wanted to come out of it. She closed it again, and then, taking a deep breath, said firmly, "Hello. Are you - "

"I am Delia, and yes, I am." She smiled at Hermione and for a moment looked very young. Hermione couldn't quite place her age, but she had read somewhere that the current Thinker had been in the position for close to fifty years.

"I'm sorry," Hermione blundered on, taken aback by this relatively warm welcome, "to have arrived unexpectedly - "

"But I was expecting you," interrupted Delia, walking towards Hermione, "I set up the Portkey three days ago."

Hermione furrowed her brow. Perhaps Delia was expecting someone else. "Do you know who I am?" Hermione asked.

"You are Hermione Granger. I received your letter at the beginning of the summer. I do not receive much correspondence here, especially since the death of Albus Dumbledore. It has been very quiet."

"But you never replied!" exclaimed Hermione, unable to hide the exasperation in her voice.

"You are here though, are you not?" Delia asked. There was a hint of a smile around her lips.

"Yes," Hermione said, and summoned her courage. Better to find out the answer now, than to be disappointed later. "You'll… let me stay and train with you?"

Delia smiled fully, but did not answer. "Let's go inside. I think you are tired?"

Realizing that she was, indeed, exhausted, and that she had never managed to take a sip of water, Hermione agreed and allowed Delia to lead her back into the villa.

Delia and Hermione walked through several rooms into a bedroom suite with a washstand, a bed, and a wardrobe. Everything was light and sparse, yet, somehow, very comforting. Opening the wardrobe, Delia pulled out something pale and filmy, resembling the robes that she herself was wearing. She handed them to Hermione and said, "Wear these - they suit the climate much better than that heavy robe of yours. I will wait" - she motioned to a doorway beyond Hermione - "and you come to see me when you are ready."

Hermione knew that her mouth was hanging open, but she was too dazed to care. Delia laid the robes on the bed and left, while Hermione stripped down and scrubbed her face at the washbasin. Then she sat on the bed for a very long time, examining the robes and marveling at how soft they were. Her last set of pretty things had been given to her by her mother - Courtney Granger had insisted on buying her daughter several lovely Muggle dresses to wear in the summers, and Hermione had always enjoyed putting them on and feeling them swish around her legs in the heat. Those dresses had been abandoned in her parents’ house, and she'd spent most of the summer in her old jeans and shirts. Finally, she stood and pulled the robes over her head. They felt as though they'd been made especially for her. Moving to stand in front of a mirror on the shimmering wall, Hermione studied her reflection. Well, she still looked like herself, but she felt better, and, with a deep, comforting sigh, she turned and walked towards the room where Delia was waiting for her.

Delia insisted on having a small meal while she and Hermione talked. Ripe tomatoes and some sort of soft cheese were sitting on a platter. A bowl nearby contained olives of different colors and another, larger bowl was filled with grapes. Hermione glanced at the food doubtfully - she was very hungry and had a feeling that a few tomatoes were not going to satisfy her hunger. Still, she sat down across from Delia and waited for the Thinker to speak. They ate in silence for what seemed like a very long time.

"Tell me about yourself," Delia finally said, with an encouraging smile.

"Well," began Hermione, her mind racing, "what do you want to know?"

"Oh, tell me anything," said Delia. "Just talk" - her eyes twinkled - "try not to think."

"Okay," Hermione replied. She absentmindedly twirled an olive in the tomato juice on her plate. "I was born to Muggle parents." She stopped. Should she tell Delia about her parents? Even though they were the main reason that she was here, somehow she didn't feel ready to reveal everything. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "But I had a feeling that there was something unusual about me from an early age. I was excited and happy when I got my letter from Hogwarts, but I can't really say that I was surprised - that is, I was surprised, but..."

She talked and talked and talked. The light from outside began to dim and Delia casually lit several candles on the table. Hermione cast her mind back to all of the lessons in all of the classes at Hogwarts - she regurgitated useful facts from every book that she had ever read. When she finally paused for breath, Delia touched her arm slightly and said calmly, "Have you had any experience in spell-building?"

Hermione stared at her. She had completely omitted the creation of Expecto Sacrificum. It was during that process that she had first learned about the existence and function of a Thinker. She mentally kicked herself for forgetting to mention her most important achievement.

"There was one."

"And why were you driven to create it?"

"To save Harry's life - to save all of our lives."

"And how did the idea begin?"

Hermione bit her lip, and remembered back to that night in seventh-year. It had been the first time things had felt normal since they had returned to school – normal enough, anyway. A fire had been going in the Gryffindor common room, even if there were hardly any Gryffindors left at school to appreciate it. So many students had been pulled out of Hogwarts that the quiet hardly seemed unusual anymore. And as the night had darkened outside the window, Harry, Ron and Hermione sat in armchairs, working through stacks of homework. It had been enough work to distract them from other, more difficult problems.

It had been Ron who had given her the idea. She flushed slightly, even now, remembering the conversation. Ron had only been joking when he said it...

“Ron, would you throw me that book?” Hermione had been scribbling furiously in her notebook, and hadn’t looked up. “The one with the blue cover?”

Ron had picked up the book and looked at Harry, grinning. “Throw this? You sure? I think it weighs about ten pounds, but all right, here we are – heads up!”

Hermione had snapped her head up from her books, terrified that he was really about to throw it; she’d thrown out her arms to block her face. But he had only wagged the book at her, teasingly.

Harry had laughed at the two of them. “Here,” he’d said, “pass it over.”

Hermione had grimaced when the book had finally made it into her hands. “Wrong one – throw me the other blue one – no, don’t really throw it, Ron,” she’d said hastily, as a terrorizing kind of expression had passed over Ron’s face. “Pass it nicely.”

Ron had picked up the second book, looked at the cover, and stopped.

He’d looked up over its edge at Hermione, but hadn’t passed it to her. “Hold on!” he’d said, his voice too delighted for anything having to do with schoolwork. Harry had looked at him keenly.

“What is it?”

“Hermione, what’ve you got this for?”

Hermione had quickly become very wary. “What? Why? Isn’t that Advanced Enchantments, Volume Three?”

Ron had grinned sadistically. “Not quite. More like Advanced Love Spells and Other Emotional Magic.”

Harry had whooped, and Hermione had wanted to jump to her feet and grab the book back, but had controlled herself with all her strength. Advanced Love Spells had been on the Suggested Further Reading list for N.E.W.T. preparation, and she had been actually quite curious to see how they’d all worked – still, her cheeks had grown red as she’d remembered thumbing through the pages the night before. Not that she had ever needed to perform any love spells, and she hoped she never would. In fact, as Ron had prepared to tease her, she’d felt sure that all she would want to do by the end of the evening would be to perform an anti-love charm.

“It’s all dog-eared,” Ron had added, letting the book fall open naturally to a well-worn spot. “Aha,” he’d said, skimming his finger down the page. “Interesting… And here’s another one – look at this Harry – with highlights. And I’ll bet…” Ron had nonchalantly flipped the book to the back index. “Yes, as always, the already-studied ones have stars.”

Hermione had patently ignored him, continuing to scribble at her homework.

Ron, however, had not been through with his performance; he had continued reading through the index. “Know quite a few of them, don’t you?” he said slyly. “Lot of stars here. Lot of them are under the S heading. Well, well, well...”

Finally, Hermione had been provoked to respond. “I know a lot of charms for everything, Ron,” she had said hotly. “Perhaps it’s because I’ve been studying for my N.E.W.T.s. I suggest that you try it.”

Ron had flipped the book back toward its center pages and let out a low whistle. “If you’re suggesting that I try this one here, well then I say that’s one N.E.W.T. I wouldn’t mind studying for.”

Harry had laughed out loud and pushed his chair backward, out of the line of fire.

“Ron! Put that down! Honestly!”

“And a bit extra keen on the kissing ones – look, Harry, she’s underlined this one twice –”

“Ron. I mean it now, stop, we haven’t got time. There are only a few things we’ve got time to concentrate on –”

“The N.E.W.T.s and Voldemort, yeah, I know,” Ron had said, in his most aggravating voice. “I see that’s what you’ve been concentrating on. I guess this is extra-credit exam research? Or did you plan to put an end to Voldemort with this one – Absolutis Adoratis! Yeah, that’s it, we’ll just love him to death, that’ll work.”

As soon as he'd said it, something had clicked in Hermione’s head. She had stared, amazed, at Ron. Instead of arguing with him, she had suddenly jumped out of her chair, grabbed Ron’s hands, and pulled him up out of his seat. The spell book had fallen to the floor and Ron tried to back away.

“What – I’m sorry –” he’d said, obviously worried.

“No, Ron, you idiot – Harry, did you hear what he just said?” Hermione had grinned broadly, and she’d begun to bob up and down on her toes the way she had used to do in class when they were younger and she’d known all the answers to the questions. “Of course...” she whispered to herself, “... of course...”

“Of course?” Harry had repeated blankly.

“Love him to death. Harry, that’s it.” Hermione caught her breath, barely, and continued to ramble. She had never felt so excited. “Harry, your mum died to save you – and that’s what protected you the first time around – and then remember, the second time, Voldemort couldn’t touch you!”

Harry had shaken his head. “Yes, but it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? That magic’s been out of effect since he used my blood to come back to power. He’s got that in him now, he can touch me all right.” Harry's eyes had narrowed and he had looked at Hermione suspiciously. She had been able to tell that he didn't want their peaceful evening interrupted with this.

“Listen to me, I’m not finished.” Hermione had continued to grip Ron’s hands tightly as she spoke, shaking them up and down for emphasis. “He couldn’t touch you because you had been loved too deeply – because you had a sacrifice on you – Voldemort doesn’t understand love, remember? Dumbledore told you that.”

Harry had nodded, looking slightly sick.

“Maybe Voldemort isn’t stopped anymore by what your mum did, Harry, but what if... what if...” She’d been bouncing too excitedly to continue.

By that time, Ron had caught on. His mouth had dropped open and he’d stared from Hermione to Harry. “This is it,” he’d breathed, pulling his hands from Hermione’s and beginning to pace around the common room. “This is really it – it’s love and – and it’s loyalty, too, it’s that sacrifice, it’s like – yes! Remember how that sword came to you in second year, Harry? Loyalty. That’s powerful magic.”

Hermione had nodded vigorously. “We could do it, Harry.”

“Yeah, we’d get in the way of a curse for you – what if we could do it – maybe it would put a stop to –”

“NO!” Harry’s face had gone sheet-white. Hermione and Ron had stopped their brainstorm to stare at him. He had continued in a low, hissing whisper. “If you think for one second that I’m going to let you get in the way of a curse for me, then you can think again. That’s not going to happen.” He had looked as though he’d been ready to storm out of the room.

Hermione had opened her mouth to speak, but Ron had laid a hand on her arm, and had stepped forward, facing Harry evenly.

“Harry, calm down. We’re not saying we want to die. We’re just saying it’s the only kind of force that Voldemort might actually be hurt by.”

Hermione had nodded. “I just meant,” she said gently, stepping up next to Ron, “that if we could – I don’t know – harness the force behind those feelings, then we might have a spell that we could really work with.”

Harry had shaken his head roughly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean like... the way other emotions are harnessed in magic. Like... a boggart! Laughter kills a boggart, Harry, it’s partly the spell, but it’s the laughter, too, the laughter that goes with it.” Hermione had shrugged. “Professor McGonagall always says that there’s a force behind magic, if we care to understand it. It’s like that Patronus you’re so good at – you couldn’t do it if you didn’t have those feelings, that concentration – if you didn’t have a real protector.”

Harry had paused and looked ready to listen.

Ron had looked at Hermione. “A Patronus is what – joy, right?”

“Yes, it’s a manifestation of untouchable joy, it drives Dementors back because it can’t be affected by depression or darkness.”

“Right.” Ron had the look that Hermione had seen so often on his face when they’d played chess. “And do you think – I mean, is it possible to make a Patronus out of something else? Could there be something like that, only – Hermione, what am I trying to say here?”

“Only instead of a projection of joy, it would be a projection of love and loyalty... oh, Harry...”

Harry had looked at her intently. He had looked as though he hadn’t wanted to be a part of anything that had to do with his best friends getting in front of killing curses, but he had also looked as though he was considering her suggestion.

“Can we build a spell like that?” he had asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I think so. I think so. But...” She had looked from Ron to Harry and smiled. She hadn’t smiled quite like that in a long time. “I’ll be right back,” she’d whispered brightly, then turned on her heel, and fled to the portrait hole.

By the time Hermione finished her story, it was completely dark outside. She was sitting very straight, and her hands were now clenched in her lap. Delia didn't speak and there was a strange, faraway look in her eyes. Nervous and slightly frightened, Hermione said quietly, "Will that experience be able to help me become a Thinker?"

Delia snapped out of her trance and looked down at Hermione softly. "Yes, of course, but you must realize that you have much to learn."

"Oh, I do!" exclaimed Hermione, breathlessly, "I'm so eager to learn, I really am!"

"And you shall. But Thinking involves more than just having the idea for the spell - it involves creating it and implementing it, and having it actually exist, available to someone or a group of people. Can you tell me a bit about how you constructed the spell? Because you are right – your friend Ron did have the initial thought, although it was very promising that you picked up on it and developed it. It sounds as though you and he work well together."

Hermione blushed at the reference to Ron, and then began to explain her research in the library, the spells she'd used as a basis for the Sacrifice Spell, and the Arithmancy involved.

"There were four corners to the spell - Friendship, Family, Mentorship, and Love. I researched it all, mostly with Ron's help. We both formed the friendship corner - we decided it was necessary to form a stronger base for the entire spell. Especially because of the way we...er, well, anyway..."

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04