The Lewis House 53 страница

"It'll be great to have you with us again," Medusa said.

"Do it, Potter. Come on," Marty said, elbowing him in the side. "You know you want to."

"Make your choice," said Oliver, "but you've got to make it now." He gave Harry a pleading look.

Harry looked around at their faces, then up into the stands, where Ron, both hands gripping his hair, was standing beside Mr. Gladrag and staring down at their huddle. Harry swallowed and glanced out at the pitch, which shone green under the floodlamps. A bolt of terrified excitement shot through him. It was dark now, and the Snitch would be near-impossible to see - he knew nothing of the Kestrels' strategies, or even of how the Cannons' had developed since summer workouts. He hadn't even played a scrimmage game in three months.

His fingers itched for his Firebolt.

"Okay," he said faintly. "I'll play." There was a deafening whoop from all sides of him, and Harry looked at Oliver. "Don't make me want to kill myself if I don't catch it," he muttered.

"Oh you'll catch it," Oliver said, coming towards him and clapping both hands on Harry's shoulders. "Or you'll die trying." He grinned, and turned to face the rest of the team. "GET IN GEAR!" he shouted. "I'm going to go and call an early time out - give Potter a few extra minutes to get himself in order - I SAID MOVE!"

The Chudley Cannons scrambled back to the tunnel and Harry was carried along with them, numb with disbelief, the butterbeer he still clutched in his hand sloshing all down his arm. It was a good thing he hadn't drunk any of it. He was going to play. Quidditch. Professionally. Now. For an undefeated team. In front of everyone.

He was out of his mind.

"Your uniform's in this locker, Potter." Oliver steered Harry to the spot. "Everyone else, get yourselves dressed and get back up there! Drills, team! Marty, you're in charge!"

The other players quickly traded in their practice gear for their uniforms and left the lockers, shouting encouraging things to Harry as they left. He tried to smile at them, but had a hard time of it.

"And you'll take Maureen's broom, Harry," Oliver called, heading for the door.

Harry's stomach clenched. "I - I was thinking my Firebolt - perhaps Ron could -"

"Sorry. I'd prefer you to fly what you're used to, but there are regulations. You'll have to use a league-approved broom. I'll grab it while you suit up."

Dazed, Harry pulled on the long, woolen socks, the knickerbockers, the jumper and the sleek, rubbery black trainers. He strapped on the shin, elbow, knee and hand guards, and shoved his fingers into the half-gloves. When everything was in place, he reached into the locker and lifted out the cloak. It was dazzling orange, the color and sheen of Hagrid's pumpkins, and it was heavier than the one he'd worn for Gryffindor. Harry grabbed it by the top and swirled it back over his shoulders, clasping it at the base of his throat. He shut the locker and turned to the mirror.

There he was, double C's and speeding cannon ball emblazoned across his chest, looking every inch like someone who belonged on Ron's bedroom wall at the Burrow. He pulled his wand and tapped his glasses, muttering the spell Hermione had taught him to repel rain, in case there was any, and then he did the charm she had later taught him for keeping his glasses snug to his head, so they'd never fall off. He owed her for that one. He shook out his arms and legs, and stretched his neck. His heart raced nervously, but the uniform felt natural. Comfortable. He liked the weight of it and always had.

"Ready?"

Oliver had returned, holding out the most beautiful broom Harry had ever touched. Its dark, polished cherry wood handle had a slimmer grip than his own broom, and there were slender, golden rods sticking out a few inches in either direction, just under the spot where Harry knew the cushioning charm to be. The tail swept and curved into what had to be the most aerodynamic shape on the market. "Firebolt 5" it said in gold script on the handle.

"She had these put in," Oliver explained, pointing to the golden rods. "Footholds. You've seen her do it - bend her knees and keep her feet pulled up under her bum for speed. These keep her feet up the whole game without tiring her out - just rest the tops of your feet there. Dead useful speed strategy."

"She won't mind?" Harry asked doubtfully, not sure he'd want another Seeker riding his broom, if it were as nice as this one. Especially a Seeker who didn't know what the hell he was doing.

"She's unconscious," Oliver replied. "Take the broom. You're going to run drills on it for half an hour before the game starts so you can get used to it. But first, Harry, listen close. The Kestrels had a by last game - that means they didn't play. It's been four weeks since their last match, and while that doesn't mean they're out of shape, it means they've lost competitive momentum." Oliver began to pace. "Plus which, they're two and two - two wins, two losses. Their last game before their by was a loss. Not in a good mental state, I'd say. We, on the other hand, are undefeated." He gave Harry a meaningful look. "Undefeated. Five-oh."

"I get it, Oliver," Harry said, wishing very much that Fred and George Weasley would appear over Oliver's shoulders and start waggling their eyebrows and making rude comments. No one but Oliver Wood had the power to make him feel quite so eleven.

"They're going to be feeling confident, now that they've put Maureen out of play." Oliver growled. "Deliberate bunch of dirty bastards. I've always thought well of Kyle Kirkpatrick's team, but Boomer must've finally rubbed off on him."

"Boomer?"

"Tim Boomer, first Beater for the Kestrels - plays the left side of the pitch for the most part, and plays dirty. Filthy dirty. There's no doubt in my mind he sent that Bludger at Maureen's head on purpose, and he'll do the same to you. Keep your eyes on him."

Harry nodded, feeling suddenly that perhaps riding dragons was no more dangerous than playing Quidditch, after all.

"Duncan's the other Beater, but don't pay too much attention to him. He's nothing on Marty and Medusa. Leave Friar to the Chasers - she's a fine Keeper but they'll destroy her. And leave their Chasers to me." Oliver's eyes flashed. "I know all their stunts."

"Who's their Seeker?" Harry asked, wishing he had followed the season a bit more closely. Ron would've known all this off the top of his head.

"Adam Holgate. And he's very, very good, Harry. Their losses are Chaser-based, not Seeker. Even if he'd caught the Snitch in the last game, the Kestrels would have lost by a hundred and ten points."

Harry gave a low whistle.

"And bear in mind that the Kestrels are famous for distracting opposing Seekers. Those leprechauns are nasty, clever little beasts. Don't go throwing yourself at a bit of leprechaun gold, thinking it's the Snitch."

Harry had never considered that. "But if I see something shine -" he began. "I can't waste time trying to work out if -"

"They're forbidden to toss the coins over the boundary lines, so just keep to your boundaries and don't let 'em lure you out. They've got quite talented at throwing the things straight up in the air, the little buggers - just centimeters away from the pitch. But if it's over the line, it's not the Snitch. Don't waste your energy."

"I'll try."

"No." Oliver stopped pacing and glared at him. "There's no trying here, Harry. There's just winning. Are you ready?"

"I…" Harry glanced at himself in the mirror. "No."

"Too bad. Chat's over. Time to play." Oliver strode past him to the locker room door, and Harry followed his captain out. Together they hiked up the dark corridor of the tunnel, and towards the pitch.

Harry felt his stomach lurch and growl with every step. He had to be mad. A lunatic. The lights from the pitch were growing brighter - it was fully dark now, and that was only going to make things more complicated - the murmur of the crowd had increased tenfold, and he dreaded what he would see when they walked out into the light...

Oliver stopped short and turned around, nearly knocking Harry over. "How did you know to show up?" he demanded. "I would've got round to sending for you, but you got here before anyone even -"

"I was here to watch the match," Harry said. "Ron has season tickets."

Oliver nodded, then peered at Harry. He sniffed, frowned, and sniffed again. "You didn't go drinking anything while you were in the stands, did you?"

"No." Harry waited until Oliver had turned around, then rolled his eyes and followed him onto the pitch.

No sooner did he squint against the bright lights than a noise unlike anything Harry had ever heard erupted in the Quidditch stands. It was a roar - a wall of frenzied sound that began in the stands and rushed down to press Harry on all sides, filling his ears, nearly blowing back his hair. He staggered, and looked up.

"AND IT'S TRUE!" came a familiar announcer's voice, blasting above all the others, filling the stadium. "RUMOR CONFIRMED! HARRY POTTER, SECOND RESERVE SEEKER FOR THE CHUDLEY CANNONS, WILL BE PLAYING IN PLACE OF MAUREEN KNIGHT!" The crowd's mighty cheer doubled, drowning out the sound of the Kestrel supporters' harps and causing their leprechauns to scowl and stop throwing gold. Somewhere, someone began chanting Harry's name. Within seconds, everyone had taken up the chant, and the air was full of "HAR - RY POT - TER" punctuated by the rhythmic noise of thousands of hands clapping.

Harry's heart thudded into his stomach and his stomach dropped into his feet. He took a step closer to Oliver. "But I haven't done anything," he whispered.

"Looks like you'd better, then," was Oliver's comforting reply.

"THE MATCH WILL BEGIN IN FIFTEEN MINUTES" the referee called from the center of the pitch. "WRAP UP THE DRILLS."

Oliver clapped a hand on Harry's back. "Get used to the broom. Go on."

Doing his best to ignore the chanting crowd and the disturbing screams of "Harry, I love you!" and "Marry me, Harry!" Harry mounted the Firebolt 5. It felt like his own broom, only sleeker. He tucked his feet onto the golden rods and lifted off, getting the feel of the handle.

Perfect.

There was no other way to describe it. Harry knew that he would still be flying his old Nimbus 2000, if it hadn't been destroyed; that broom had been his first and it still grieved him to think about it. And he'd never give up his own Firebolt; it was an excellent broom, and it meant the world to him because of who it had come from and what he had done on it. But he couldn't pretend that either broom came up to this.

This was flying. He barely pressed left - he faced the left side of the pitch. He put both thumbs on the handle and gave the slightest hint of downward pressure - a flawless dive. Harry grinned and pulled up, adjusting to the feeling of having his feet tucked beneath him. He dove again, shooting towards the pitch, pulling up only when he knew he'd break his face if he didn't - he shot into the air, tried a sloth grip roll, and dropped into a dive so steep that the Firebolt 5 made a right angle with the pitch. He pulled up short and hovered as close to the ground as he could, rolled again, and climbed back into the sky to join his teammates. His heart was lighter than it had been in weeks, and he couldn't get the smile off his face. Why, oh, why, had he ever chosen the dragons? Dimly, he heard the continuing roar of the crowd, but he didn't care about them. He was going to play Quidditch and it was going to be fun. He sought out Ron among the now teeming crowd, and waved. Ron's fist shot into the air, and Harry could have sworn he heard his friend's voice shout above everyone else's.

He wished Ginny were here. And Hermione. Everyone.

"TEAM!" It was Oliver's voice, and Harry spun towards it. "HUDDLE!"

The Chudley Cannons made a tight circle, and all eyes were on Oliver. He looked at them each in turn, his face alight with confidence.

"We're going to do this," he said. "We've come up from nothing, we've beaten the odds, we've shown them all a thing or two, and are we going to stop now, when we're five up?"

"NO!" they shouted.

"Are we going to let them take out our Seeker and throw us off?"

"NO!"

"Are we going to march down to that mediwizarding wing when this is through, and put that Snitch in Maureen's hand?"

"YES!" Harry choked it out with everyone else, though his heart had slammed up into his throat.

"Give me your hands!" Oliver stuck out his own, and every player put a hand in the center. "And give me our motto!"

"WE! SHALL! CONQUER!"

The last word rang in the air, full of strength and vibrancy. It was contagious, and to Harry's relief the Cannons fans began chanting the team motto, rather than his name. They were still chanting a minute later; their determined voices pitted against the spirited strumming of the Kestrels' fans, when the two teams formed their semi-circles around the center of the pitch to wait for the release of the Quaffle.

"Ready, Harry?" Firoza whispered on his right, elbowing his arm.

"Yes," Harry lied.

"Good. Let's kick some arse."

The small referee appeared below them. He mounted his broom, blew his whistle and kicked open the crate at his feet - four balls sped into the air: two Bludgers, one Quaffle and (Harry barely got a glimpse of it before it flickered out of sight) the Golden Snitch.

"THERE THEY GO, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN - WYETH, KERRY, NEWLAND, POTTER - HOLLWEDEL, KIRKPATRICK, DE GOODE, HOLGATE - FRIAR AND WOOD AT THE GOALHOOPS -"

Chaos. That was how it felt to Harry, who had never played Quidditch like this. Obviously Oliver hadn't been joking at the end of summer tryouts, when he'd said that they were only just getting to the real practices. Harry knew enough to lift out of the circle as quickly as possible before he was smashed, and he pulled up on the nose of his broom. Still, he didn't escape the fray without getting jostled so hard on all sides that he had to work to keep his balance. He was slammed left and right by the Kestrel Chasers as they went in pursuit of the Quaffle, and he fought upwards, gripping the broom handle for dear life.

"NEWLAND WITH THE QUAFFLE - REVERSE PASS TO WYETH - WYETH TO THE HOOPS AND - OOOH, BLUDGER TO THE BROOMTAIL! NO GOAL!"

Harry was high enough now to see the game below him without getting tangled up in it, and he was amazed by the zigzagging speed with which the two teams had launched into play. Formations of orange and emerald green swerved around each other in vibrant, clashing patterns that Harry could hardly follow - a few were drills that he'd seen in the summer, but now the moves were faster than lightning and almost unrecognizable.

Tim Boomer, wearing a look of ugly determination, sped after the Bludger he'd just hit at Firoza. He swung around behind it and raised his bat. Only when Boomer glanced up and adjusted his arm did Harry realize that the Beater was aiming for him.

Smack! The Bludger flew with a force and speed that Harry had never had to worry about in school. Luckily, he had been watching, and dodged the iron ball with ease.

"NICE ROLL, POTTER! WELL, IT LOOKS LIKE BOOMER'S TAKING THE FIRST RULE IN THE BEATER'S BIBLE A BIT LITERALLY THIS EVENING. KIRKPATRICK WITH THE QUAFFLE AND A PASS TO HOLLWEDEL - SHE'S A WHIZ WITH THE WOOLLONGONG SHIMMY - YES, THERE IT IS, FAKING LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT AND AGAIN - SHE SHOOTS! BUT WOOD SAW IT COMING A MILE AWAY! GREAT SAVE!"

The Cannons' side of the stadium exploded in cheers. Orange flags waved, and banners bearing Oliver's name were unfurled and shaken madly. Oliver had grabbed the Quaffle with both hands; he lobbed it to Cole, who made herself as flat as possible and sped towards Paul and Medusa. The three closed into formation. With Medusa in the lead beating back interference, and Paul cutting between Cole and the opposing Chasers, they made it to the scoring area in record time. Medusa dove to catch a Bludger before it could interrupt at the crucial moment, and Paul pulled off to let Cole into the scoring area alone. She dove right, pulled up, and hurled the Quaffle.

"CANNONS SCORE!"

Friar had missed it by an inch. Cole, Paul and Medusa flew back to mid pitch with no time for celebration and play resumed in seconds.

Harry scanned the air around him, trying to memorize the area. Something shone - he caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye and pivoted - but no. It was the goal posts. There was another glint of something far below and Harry swung towards that - no again. Referee's whistle. Rapidly he catalogued every metallic flash: Marty's wedding band, the foil wrappers of the fans' crisps, the gleaming strings of the Kestrel supporters' harps and the bright yellow Ks on their players' robes. Under the glare of the ultra bright stadium flood lanterns, everything seemed to shine, and the additional distraction of flashbulbs, which popped madly from the press booth and on the sidelines, didn't help matters at all.

Adam Holgate didn't seem fazed by the lights and flashes, and Harry realized what an advantage his opponent had. Holgate had got used to night games in stadiums like this one; he hovered just outside the Kestrels' scoring area, hawk-eyeing every inch of pitch, his hands poised and ready on his broom. His gaze skimmed Harry. Their eyes locked - but only for the briefest moment before both of them looked away again, each intent on finding the Snitch. Harry felt the old competitive rush shoot through him, and he thrilled to it. He would catch it. He would.

"HOLLWEDEL, KIRKPATRICK AND DE GOODE IN THE HAWKSHEAD ATTACK FORMATION - NO SURPRISE THERE - AND DE GOODE'S GOT DE QUAFFLE! RIGHT, SORRY - THEY'VE SHUNTED THE CANNONS OUT OF THE WAY - NICE BLUDGER, GUDGEON! BUT DUNCAN BEATS IT BACK - DE GOODE SHOOTS - WOOD SAVES! BUT IT'S IN KIRKPATRICK'S HANDS NOW AND -"

Kyle Kirkpatrick lobbed the Quaffle with such force that, though Oliver managed to get a hand behind it, its momentum pushed his hand back through the goal hoop.

"KESTRELS SCORE! TEN ALL, AND THIS IS SHAPING UP TO BE A RIPPER OF A MATCH, YES SIR, THESE KESTRELS ARE HERE TO FIGHT!"

The teams pulled back. Oliver growled and chucked the Quaffle to Firoza, who pulled it under her arm and shot like a bullet straight at the goal, dodging Bludgers with incredible precision. Just as she flew under Harry, he saw Hollwedel approaching her from the right like a freight train, as Kirkpatrick closed in from the left, either to force Firoza off track or to smash her between them.

Harry dove. Before Hollwedel knew what had happened, Harry had zipped in front of her, barely missing being smashed himself. Hollwedel spun away, leaving Firoza open to dodge right. She looped under Kirkpatrick, and hurled the Quaffle through the goal hoop before Friar had time to recover. Twenty-ten.

"AND POTTER'S NOT ONLY A SEEKER, BUT A DIVERSIONARY TACTICIAN! EXCELLENT CHASING BY NEWLAND!"

Another announcer's voice joined in to counterpoint.

"YES, IT'S HARRY POTTER'S PROFESSIONAL DEBUT, AND IT REMAINS TO BE SEEN IF HIS POWERS EXTEND TO THE QUIDDITCH PITCH. HE'S UP AGAINST HOLGATE, WHO'S NO SLOUCH, LEE. POTTER WOULD DO BETTER TO KEEP HIS EYE ON THE PRIZE AND STAY OUT OF CHASER SKIRMISHES."

Just then, Holgate dove. Harry's whole body reacted - he followed instantly, hurtling after Holgate, who had a twenty-yard advantage. Harry couldn't see the Snitch yet, but he didn't care - he leaned forward and strained, pulling his feet up tight and shooting forward with increased speed. He gained five yards - ten - now he could have touched Holgate's broomtail - now he was nearly kissing the pitch -

There was no Snitch. Harry gripped the handle of the Firebolt 5 with both hands, and yanked up its nose not a second too soon. He was going too fast to pull out of the dive with any grace and he heard the crowd gasp as he fought to stay in control. He flipped over and clutched the broom with his knees, desperate to stay on.

Holgate had already soared off, cool as anything.

By the time Harry managed to sort himself out, breathing heavily and glaring after his opponent, play had already recommenced. His chest burned and he set his jaw - Holgate had played him for a fool, and won. He'd been Wronski Feinted, and very nearly killed. He heard a few jeers erupt from the stands.

"I'D SAY HE'S GOT HIS EYE ON THE PRIZE, SKIP!"

"WELL, HE'S CERTAINLY EAGER, LEE, BUT WHERE'S HIS HEAD? ANY SEEKER IN GOOD SHAPE WOULD'VE CALLED THAT FEINT TEN YARDS SOONER. IF THIS IS THE KIND OF PLAYING POTTER'S GOT TO OFFER, HE'LL BE LUCKY TO PULL AN ACCIDENTAL PLUMPTON PASS AND CATCH THE SNITCH UP HIS SLEEVE!"

"IF HE DOES IT LIKE THAT, HE'LL PULL A POTTER PASS, SKIP."

"SORRY - A POTTER PASS? I DON'T -"

"HE'LL SWALLOW IT."

The game rolled on and Firoza's deadly accurate reverse passes gave both Cole and Paul the opportunity to score again. Harry watched it all on high alert, but it wasn't until Cole scored a third time, bringing the score to fifty-ten and making the Cannons fans roar with delight, that Harry finally caught a telltale flash of gold in his peripheral vision.

He turned his head - yes. It was fluttering towards the pitch on the Kestrels' side, its color mingling with the strings of the harps in the stands. But Harry could distinguish it well enough; he flattened himself against his broom and sped at a downward angle towards the Snitch, flying so fast that the freezing wind cut against his face and made his ears ache. Holgate was nowhere in sight. He'd have it. Harry gained on the falling golden ball - he stretched out his hand, waiting to feel the cold, carved metal in his palm -

The Snitch had disappeared. Harry blinked and flew right over the boundary line.

"FOUL!" The referee's whistle blew. "PLAYER OUT OF BOUNDS! QUAFFLE TO THE KESTRELS!"

Below Harry there was an ugly, gleeful chorus of laughter. He looked down and saw the leprechaun mascots leering up at him, flicking their gold coins into the air. Harry's face burned. He pivoted and got back in bounds, feeling extremely stupid. Flashbulbs popped on all sides and the fans that had previously been shouting his name were now groaning and calling out inappropriate suggestions - "MIND YOU DON'T TRY FOR MY NOSE RING, POTTER!" - while the Kestrel fans tittered.

"Oi, SHUT IT, you great - dirty - " In the stands, Ron was beside himself. Both he and Mr. Gladrag stood pressed to the front wall of their box, totally ignoring the angry fans' repeated requests that they sit down, and railing at all those who dared to mock Harry.

"BETTER COVER UP MY SHOE BUCKLES!" yelled one chortling fan in the next aisle.

Ron clenched his teeth and drew his wand. "YOU - SODDING - "

"No, lad!" Gladrag grabbed Ron's arm. "You'll get thrown out, and you'll miss it! Put up those Omnioculars now, move!"

Ron recovered himself and refocused the Omnioculars on the game. He needed to save every second for Hermione, who would have a conniption fit if she missed any of it. "YOU'VE GOT IT, MATE!" he screamed, his voice getting hoarser by the second. "NEXT TIME, YOU'VE BLOODY WELL GOT IT!"

"You're doing great," Marty said, flying past Harry and giving him a wink. "Just you keep going for it."

Twice as on edge now, Harry returned to his bird's eye viewpoint of the game. He couldn't afford another distraction like that one - what if the real Snitch had appeared while he was busy with a bit of leprechaun gold? And after Oliver had warned him? He felt nauseated. Just the idea of it was enough to make him want to be sick.

"THE KESTRELS ARE BACK IN POSSESSION!"

Hollwedel took the Quaffle. Backed by De Goode, she made for Oliver and broke into another Shimmy right outside the scoring area. She faked right, released the Quaffle - Oliver nearly leapt off his broom to make the save. He missed. Irish harps began to play in victorious harmony.

"STODGING! NO GOAL!"

The harps came to a sour stop and the referee pointed to DeGoode, who had failed to pull back quickly enough, and was still half an inch inside the scoring area. DeGoode cursed freely and zoomed back to mid pitch.

"THE SCORE REMAINS FIFTY-TEN. QUAFFLE TO THE CANNONS."

Oliver, his face grim and glistening with sweat, retrieved the Quaffle and threw it to Paul, who passed off to Firoza. She shot upwards, out of the mob of Kestrels who threatened her on all sides, but they followed suit so quickly that it seemed she wouldn't have a chance to shoot for the hoops. Despite this, she pulled back her arm as if to throw. Kirkpatrick swept down on her, arm out to make a steal, but at the last second, she tossed the Quaffle straight down through all their feet, to where Cole was open and waiting. Cole put the Quaffle past a flustered Friar, and scored.

"SIXTY-TEN! AND AS GOOD A PORSKOFF PLOY AS I'VE EVER SEEN!"

Kirkpatrick recovered the Quaffle for the Kestrels and zoomed recklessly forward - but Paul sidled up behind him and snatched the Quaffle from under his arm. Boomer, who had been in a hover at the boundary-edge, just by the leprechauns, now pulled up and raced towards Paul. He had no Bludger, but managed to cut Paul off in the front by locking their broom handles.

"BLURTING!" cried the referee. "QUAFFLE TO THE CANNONS!"

The Kestrel fans complained loudly, and some began to chant Boomer's name.

"WHAT A DELIBERATE FOUL! LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE'S GETTING WORRIED, SKIP!"

"AND FOR NO GOOD REASON, LEE. IF THE SNITCH COMES OUT BEFORE THE CANNONS HAVE MANAGED ANOTHER TEN GOALS - AND IT'S LIKELY THAT IT WILL - THEN THE KESTRELS ARE PRACTICALLY A SHOE-IN FOR THE WIN."

"OH, IS THAT SO?"

"YES, THAT'S -" There was a loud blast of static, and the announcers were cut off in mid-sentence.

The Cannons took the Quaffle and Harry scoured the pitch, determined to miss nothing.

He was so focused that he didn't see the Bludger heading for his hand until it had almost crushed his fingers - he lurched forward in panic and felt the Bludger scrape along his back. Though he was protected by the heavy uniform cloak, there was enough pain to tell Harry that he was now missing a good stripe of skin. He grimaced and whirled to see Boomer not ten yards away, barely hiding laugher. Red-hot anger blazed in Harry, but he didn't have a chance to do anything about it.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04