The Lewis House 55 страница

"Sounds like someone was hurt-"

"Hope it was Boomer."

"SHHH!"

A sober voice fuzzed through the transmission. "Maureen Knight has experienced damage to her cranium and to her neck, and must recover fully before she plays another game-"

"Not KNIGHT!"

"The Cannons are through. Through."

"It's a curse. A bloody curse."

"Bet Boomer did it, he's been responsible for fifteen of twenty injuries on opposing teams this season-"

"Yeah, and about ninety-five percent of their saves."

"Who are they going to get to replace her?"

"Doylan's the alternate, but he might as well be chasing Bludgers, for how good he is."

"Y'might as well pay up now, mate. Told you the Kestrels would come through."

"By way of murder, you raging arse?"

"I never said it would be easy."

Eloise stood on the peripheral of the group, listening hard for word on Knight. Cranium and neck injuries...sounded like she had taken a Bludger to the head, and Eloise wondered how she could possibly survive such a blow, or if she'd be permanently damaged because of it. Perhaps there was some research on injuries she could do to help out the sports section, who'd surely be forced to redesign and expand their coverage now that something so astounding had happened. At least there were still five hours until final deadline. She walked toward the sports desk, where Jim Scrynne, the front page editor, and Timothy Kramer, the sports editor, bowed their heads in conversation.

"Five more inches should do it; I'll contact our guy at the game let him know he's got two hundred and fifty more words," said Kramer. "And we'll need a backup piece on Knight and whoever's responsible for the hit."

Scrynne nodded, then looked up and saw Eloise standing in front of him. "Midgen, Features, yes?"

"I'm - yes."

"Five hundred words on Maureen Knight, can you have it ready in an hour?"

"Of course she can." Leon had stepped up behind Eloise before she could open her mouth to stutter. "Sweeney'll help with the backup. Go on," Leon urged, and Eloise turned away, dazed. She'd just got a front-page story. And it wasn't on Harry Potter.

"KRAMER? ARE YOU THERE?"

A frantic voice bellowed through a receiver on Kramer's desk; Kramer sprinted toward it, knocking over a few stacks of paper on the way.

"Go ahead McCall, we know about Knight, what else is going on over there?"

The entire newsroom had gone still; someone clicked off the wireless. They had to strain to hear the reporter over a growing roar in the background.

"IT'S BEDLAM - NO ONE KNOWS WHAT'S GOING ON - BOOMER HIT A BLUDGER TO KNIGHT'S HEAD, THE CANNONS ARE DEMANDING HE BE PUT DOWN - I'M GOING TO NEED TEN MORE INCHES! AT LEAST!"

"You've got them, it's going front page, what else is happening over there?"

"WAIT - OH BLOODY MERLIN, IS THAT - HEY, YOU, WAS THAT POTTER?"

"Potter? McCall, did you say Potter? What's this to do with Potter?"

"HARRY POTTER JUST WALKED ONTO THE PITCH - HE'S TALKING TO OLIVER WOOD - HE'S WHAT? HE'S SECOND RESERVE? KRAMER, POTTER IS SECOND RESERVE!"

"But he's not on the roster!" Kramer rummaged around on his desk and produced a thick stack of crumpled parchment; he flipped the cover back and Eloise caught sight of an orange logo with a large "C" on it. "McCall, he's not on the roster! What are they playing at?"

"HE'S NOT ON THE ROSTER!"

"You don't say! Why isn't he on the roster?"

"APPARENTLY THEY WERE TRYING TO KEEP IT FROM THE PRESS!"

Kramer snorted, and Eloise tried to stifle a giggle.

"HE'S GOING INTO THE CHANGING ROOM - YES, THE TEAM JUST TOOK HIM INTO THE CHANGING ROOM, LOOKS LIKE HE'S GOING TO BE PUT IN - THE FANS DON'T' SEEM TO REALIZE IT - I'VE GOT TO GO - MAYBE YOU SHOULD MAKE IT TWENTY INCHES! I'LL CHECK IN LATER!"

The receiver clicked off. There was a beat of silence, and then the newsroom erupted.

"Where are my stats?"

"We need a new front page - hell, we need a new back page."

"Get me that fact sheet on fouls!"

"Get me coffee, now."

Eloise had never seen the Prophet like this, not even when the Weasley vs. Malfoy story had come in at near midnight. It was like Potter Central; everyone seemed to pull themselves off whatever they'd been doing, no matter how important the previous mission. Parchment flew through the air, reporters bandied reference books about, little-known trivia about Harry was regurgitated with lightning speed and frightening accuracy: exactly who his friends and relatives were, what he'd done in the war, how long it had been since he played Quidditch. Eloise even noticed, with no small measure of surprise, a packet passed around holding stats from Harry's Hogwarts games.

But she still didn't know what to do with herself. She had just been assigned a story, and she was already through her opening paragraph - a piece on Maureen Knight was an easy job for any decent Quidditch fan - but one look at the front-page editor's desk told her something else important was about to be decided. Leon, Scrynne and Kramer were having some sort of conference, and instinct said not to go far. She rested her quill for a minute and listened.

"So we run McCall's game piece, and a feature on Potter."

"It'll be a miracle if we can get near him," said Wong. "He won't do post-game interviews like everyone else."

"I need to know whether to leave room for the story," said Scrynne, frowning at Leon. "Who can get it? Flummery?"

Leon hmphed. "One, she just did a story on Azkaban," he said, and grimaced, "and that's enough front-page time from her for a while. Two - no. Potter won't talk to her, especially after the Weasley article. And we need the human angle on this one. Don't send Flummery."

"Well, who have you got?"

"Midgen."

Eloise froze. This night was getting just a little out of hand. She couldn't deny she'd suspected they'd use her whenever Harry Potter did something spectacular, but now they were talking about sending her to the game, on deadline, to get an exclusive story reporters twice her age and experience couldn't get near. Showing up at Lupin Lodge was one thing; tackling Harry among a mob of friends, relatives, supporters, teammates, photographers, admirers, other reporters... Eloise gripped the underside of her desk with her free hand, hoping no one would notice if she passed out.

"She wrote that story about the wedding?"

"Yes, and the only interview we've got with Potter since the war."

"Right, I remember. And she's ready to get this story to us by eleven?"

Leon nodded, and something rose in Eloise's throat.

"Send Creevey with her."

"Creevey?"

"Photographer. Rather eager fellow."

"Right, right, whatever you think is best," said Scrynne.

"MIDGEN! CREEVEY!" Leon bellowed, and Eloise jumped again, and hit the tops of her knees on her desk, again. She hobbled over to the front-page desk, ignoring Prattleby's suspicious glare. The sooner she could get out of here the better; she had an urge to grab her quill and run before the rest of the newsroom found out that she'd been handed a story all of them would kill for.

Colin appeared at her side right before they reached the desk. "Took them long enough," he muttered with a grin.

"So. You two," said Leon, "are going to the game. Here." He handed them both rectangular lanyards that Eloise recognized as official press passes; he touched his wand to each and a glowing red version of the Daily Prophet's masthead began racing around the edges. "Check in every half hour, you can get me on this at any time. Don't worry about the game stats; McCall has that. Get me Potter, I want to know everything. Deadline at eleven."

"What about the Knight story?"

"Sweeney can take care of it," said Leon, and pointed toward a pale female reporter who'd been hired barely two weeks ago.

Eloise forced herself to stand up straight; a small crowd of reporters had gathered, each of them registering some form of unflattering surprise. Prattleby had his arms crossed and was making a face Eloise couldn't decipher.

"How many inches?" Eloise asked, forcing herself to sound cool and professional.

"As many as it takes."

She nearly staggered. That - that never happened - they never just made a story fit. At least, they hadn't with her stories, and for a moment Eloise felt like a real journalist. The Prophet's first string. The thought made her queasy.

Leon must have noticed her sudden change of expression, because he pulled her by the elbow and away from the rest of the group. "You're looking a little green," he whispered.

"I'm - I'm fine - I think -"

"Look, Midgen. They," he gestured to the other reporters, all of whom were undoubtedly trying to hear this exchange, "don't think you can do it. I do. So can you do it?"

"Y-Yes."

"That's my girl. Go, now, it's getting late. CREEVEY!" he shouted, temporarily rendering Eloise deaf.

Colin appeared at once.

"Go - now - don't waste more time."

"Come on, El," said Colin, and Eloise had just enough time to grab a quill and a few roles of parchment from a nearby desk before Colin pulled her from the room by the sleeve of her robes. The last thing she saw before the door closed behind them was Prattleby, open jealousy contorting his face.

Then they ran.

By the time they had made it, panting, out of the Prophet building and out into the street, the walls of Diagon Alley were reverberating with the wireless transmission of the game. People hung out of their flat windows to listen as Lee Jordan's voice rung into the otherwise still air.

"RUMOR HAS IT HARRY POTTER IS GOING TO MAKE HIS PROFESSIONAL DEBUT-"

"El, go on, Apparate, I'll run to the Leaky Cauldron to Floo - I'll meet you there in a minute."

Eloise nodded and shivered slightly.

"You're shivering - where's your cloak?"

"I-in the n-newsroom. But f-forget it, I've g-got to get there."

"Go ahead, go, I'll meet you there in five minutes," and without another word, Colin had sprinted back into building for her cloak.

She sent him silent thanks and watched him go, then took several deep breaths, trying to work out the stitch in her chest. She had to calm down; as nervous and excited and completely blown away she was about her assignment, history said far too many reporters got splinched on the job, and she was sure Harry wouldn't fancy speaking to one of her arms and perhaps a leg. If he talked to her at all.

He'll talk to you, he'll talk to you, she repeated to herself. She'd gone to extra measures to be fair whenever a story concerned him in the slightest, because she remembered all too well what that horrid Skeeter woman had done during her fifth year, and the consequences such biased coverage had wrought during her sixth and seventh. Poor Harry hadn't been able to do anything without being seen as a lunatic, and though Eloise's interactions with him were admittedly limited, she knew him to be nothing of the sort. He may hate the press as a rule, but he'd always been nice to her. He'd taken a chance and answered her questions once and, as she'd been told in a thank-you note from Hermione Granger, he'd been pleased with the article.

Harry would talk to her. She was sure. The big problem would be getting to him - but she'd figure that out later. Right now she just needed to stop her head from swimming. She'd turned out stories under tighter deadlines than this before. She knew about the Cannons and the Kestrels. She knew about Harry. She knew about Quidditch. She knew about Seeking. There was nothing to worry about. She was ready for this story.

She pulled her wand and focused on the pitch, and as the world around her went black she repeated her last thought like a mantra. She was ready for this story.

An earsplitting roar, so loud she thought she'd be thrown backward, greeted her arrival. She had Apparated right in front of the press tent, to be sure, but all around her was madness; wizards and witches were Apparating right on top of each other, stampeding for tickets, waving their orange pieces of parchment around as if they were strips of gold. The officials at the gate were fighting off the mob with well-placed repulsion spells, which forced the crowd into several straight, buzzing lines. Not ten feet in front of Eloise was a very large, burly man guarding the press entrance, surrounded by no less than a hundred bustling reporters and pushy photographers. And carrying over the tidal wave of sound whooshing out from the pitch was Lee Jordan's amplified voice: "RUMOR CONFIRMED! HARRY POTTER, SECOND RESERVE FOR THE CHUDLEY CANNONS, WILL BE PLAYING IN PLACE OF MAUREEN KNIGHT!" followed by a cheer so loud that nearby trees quivered.

She was not ready for this story.

"El, let's go!"

It was Colin, running to meet her from the pub down the lane. Eloise collected herself and jogged after him, right to the edge of the throng. She made a grab for her lanyard, which she had swung over her neck in the newsroom, and held it out to be ready for inspection.

"I'll take it from here, Midgen."

Eloise swung around to face a wall of a woman and a wiry, greasy man, both of them staring at her with unreserved disdain. Bleak hair hung lank against the woman's three-chinned neck, and weak, orange-red lips puckered in scorn. Her beady eyes, dull as dirt, pinned Eloise and her press pass right to the ground.

"F-Flummery," Eloise stuttered.

"Oh, you're a smart one. Come on, Peltier," she said crisply, jerking her neck toward the stadium so that her skin rattled. Peltier grunted and began to walk past.

Colin moved in front of them. "This is Eloise's story, Nancy," he growled.

"Undoubtedly," said Flummery sarcastically, drawing the word out like a weapon. "Poor, dear Leon, having to send the baby in my place." She shifted her eyes and raked Eloise over, and Eloise felt her jaw go rigid. "I'll be taking that pass now, Missy. You can just scurry on back like a good little girl and tell Daddy the professionals have arrived." She held out her bloated hand.

"No." Eloise said it quietly, but with conviction, and Flummery narrowed her eyes to slits and took a step forward. Eloise didn't care; she put her free hand up to stop Colin from coming between her and Flummery's fat face. Another roar issued from the stadium, but it was unimportant. It was time a few things were said.

"Leon," Eloise spat, her ears still ringing with Flummery's taunt, "only puts up with you because as wretched and biased as your stories are, no one else is miserable enough to get them. One day, someone will find out how you get the horrible things you do. I cannot imagine whom you've bribed to avoid a libel charge, but I do know one thing - one more misstep and you are gone. Again. This is our story, Colin's and mine, so you can just scurry on back yourself."

Colin was mouthing wordlessly at her side, and Eloise had a brief moment of panic; she'd never come close to letting this much frustration go at once, and surely Colin thought she was a horrible, horrible person now that she had. But heat was rising in Flummery's face, her eyes were darting around in panic, and her tiny mind was surely trying to think up a response. Eloise didn't dare drop her guard. Something hostile and long-coming had been unleashed, and she could no longer control it; she thought of Harry, and how unfairly he'd been treated by people like Flummery, how hard his life, and the lives of countless other good people, had been made in the name of career advancement. As long as she was allowed to go unchecked, the entire wizarding world would - rightly - be scared of the press, and Eloise gazed at Flummery with hate in her eyes.

"When Leon finds out-" Flummery huffed, but Eloise had already anticipated her.

"Why don't we ask him whose story this is?" asked Eloise innocently, holding up her press pass. "Yes, I think we'll do that." She touched her wand to the pass, muttered what she desperately hoped was the right spell, and the lettering still running around the edges turned green. She could hear the newsroom bustling, sounding twice as loud as it had when she left. She spoke into the top corner of the pass. "Oh, Leon? Leon?"

"Midgen? SHH - It's Midgen, SHUT THAT THING OFF!" She could hear the newsroom go quiet. "Midgen? Where the hell are you?"

"I'm outside the stadium - I've run into Flummery, and it appears she'd like to...help...with my story."

"YOU TELL FLUMMERY IF SHE GOES NEAR THAT GAME SHE IS FIRED! NOW GET YOUR BUM INSIDE THAT PITCH!"

"I'll do that, Leon. Thanks." Eloise tapped her pass again and smiled sweetly at Flummery, who was fuming purple. "Seems Daddy would rather I handle this one."

For a moment, Eloise feared for her life. Flummery's nostrils were white and her left eye started to twitch. She opened her mouth to speak, a movement that would have made Eloise flinch - except that it didn't. Eloise kept her back ramrod straight and wordlessly dared Flummery to make another move.

"Let's go, Peltier," said Flummery slowly, but bitterly; without blinking or breaking eye contact, she backed away and Disapparated. Peltier cast Eloise a greasy once-over that made her ill, and then he too disappeared.

Eloise's legs wavered beneath her. She put a hand to her stomach and exhaled several times before she realized Colin had not yet said anything. She turned to find him staring at her, shock elongating his features. He thought she was horrible.

"I'm sorry, Colin," she said, and her whole body started to shake, "I'm not usually like that, oh I can't believe I was so horrible, you must think I'm a terrible person-"

"That. Was. Amazing," he said, and Eloise blushed and looked away.

"Oh."

"No, really- you were am-"

"Colin! The game!" Eloise shouted, suddenly realizing that the ball had officially been released into play. She grabbed her cloak from Colin's outstretched hand and flung it around herself, grateful for the burst of warmth, then tugged Colin by the elbow and urged him forward. Together they ran to the gate, which was now completely empty except for the one leering security wizard. Without pausing or breaking stride, they thrust out their press passes, barreled through the entrance and sprinted the rest of the way to the booth.

A wave of adrenaline, stronger than Eloise had ever felt, coursed through her. She had never been in this, no, any press box before, but the combination of elements were sliding comfortably into place. The roar of the crowd dimmed in her mind and her thoughts became a reel of facts: Seeking, Snitches, Harry. The fans chanting in unison, the vendors watching instead of selling, the mascot Cannonball rolling madly down aisles, grown men hugging each other, parents hoisting their kids onto their heads, orange sparklers flaring in the darkening air; Eloise filed it all in her head, took it all in, knew she didn't need to write it down - she swelled at the sheer volume of humanity at her fingertips, and filled with pride to realize this was a story she could write, and write well.

But she scribbled notes as they ran, just in case.

"Passes."

This guard was twice as large at the last, but Eloise was already feeling like an old pro at the show-your-pass game, and held her card up defiantly. Colin snickered as the guard grunted and stepped aside.

"What?" she asked, risking a small smile as Colin turned and walked backwards to enter the box.

"Nothing, you're just too - oof!" Colin had backed right into a wall of people, and Eloise snapped back into focus to find herself in the most crowded box she'd ever seen. Not only wasn't there a seat to be had, but there were no seats; someone must have magically removed the chairs to make room for all the extra press. Lightbulbs popped at alternate seconds, so that it was like being in the middle of a lightning storm. She couldn't even see the game; some reporters had taken to writing blindly above their heads, probably for want of space, blocking out almost everything. Their voices clamored together as if coming from one large insect.

"DE GOODE'S GOT DE QUAFFLE!"

Except for one. Lee Jordan, looking every bit as ruddy and enthusiastic as he had during Hogwarts games, danced around at the top of the box, where a small space had been cleared for him. He jumped and punched his microphone into the air between comments.

As funny and familiar as it was to see Lee back in action, panic started to sweep over Eloise. She and Colin were still standing on the outside of the crowd, trying to gauge the situation; from the look of it, she'd never get to see anything. She imagined herself slumping back into the newsroom, emptyhanded, and Prattleby's victorious face. "Better luck next time, eh?"

Something snatched her wrist, and her body bent forward.

"Colin, what are you doing?"

Colin rammed into the solid crowd, shoulder first, like a bull.

"Oh, right." Eloise grasped his wrist back, enforcing the connection; the others yelped and cursed but grudgingly gave way as they dug through.

"Oh, sorry - ow - sorry - didn't mean - oh, are you okay? - whoops, sorry there -"

Colin barreled unforgivingly. With a hundred journalists there to do the job usually assigned to five or six, the box had probably filled up far before anyone had thought to magically expand it. The cold December air was now full of statistics and sweat, Eloise crinkled her nose against both. A hairy arm swung out from their left and Colin ducked, taking Eloise with him, making her feel as if she was playing Quidditch herself.

The air cleared. Eloise took a long, grateful swig of it and shifted as best she could to thank Colin. He had carved out a miniscule spot from which they could see the game perfectly; it might even have been comfortable, if the two of them weren't so smushed together. But then Colin leaned back to take his first shot of the game, sliding right against Eloise's shoulder. He smelled of musk. She grinned goofily at her feet, thinking perhaps she was comfortable enough for a while.

Orange and green blurs were racing up and down the field; Eloise squinted just in time to see someone - Harry - plow in front of a Kestrel, and a second later the crowds exploded as Firoza Newland scored for the Cannons.

"EXCELLENT CHASING BY NEWLAND!"

Eloise made a quick mental note of the save, then tried to zone out the other reporter's comments and focus on Harry. It was a difficult thing.

"Don't know how she does it, at her age"

"Like I said, eyes in the back of her head. She's a mother."

"What's her score ratio again?"

"Seven to one!" someone shouted from the other end of the box.

"CHEERS FOR THAT!"

"YES, IT'S HARRY POTTER'S PROFESSIONAL DEBUT," shouted a familiar, yet different, voice and Eloise twisted as much as she could to chance another glimpse at the top of the box. Skip Fetterman, the stadium's floodlights glaring off his precise haircut and tortoise-rimmed glasses, had joined Lee in commentating, and Lee wasn't looking too happy about it. Eloise had heard them do play-by-plays together once before, and it hadn't been pretty; Skip's stuffed-shirt broadcaster training clashed heavily with Lee's all-get-out verve for the game. Tonight's pairing was only going to make things a more chaotic, if that was even possible.

Eloise tried to turn back and almost didn't succeed; she grasped the railing and blinked against flashing lights while Colin snapped an insane amount of photos. She couldn't even get at her scroll; the weight of the crowd was pushing against her and cold metal was digging into her ribs. Occasionally, the mob shifted to follow play, and Eloise felt her entire body move with it; once, she thought her feet actually left the ground.

The next thing she felt, though, was definitely not at her feet.

"You're a pretty little filly, ain't ya?"

The stocky man next to Eloise nudged her with his shoulder and dealt her bum a hard pinch that stung through her cloak and robes. Eloise felt her jaw drop and stared straight forward for a while before she dared to turn, open-mouthed, and face the perpetrator. A man she immediately recognized as Buck Atkins, the American reporter she'd so often heard about in the newsroom, smiled lecherously from behind a grey mustache. She knew he was on special assignment, sent to every game from the Texas Portent to follow Jack DeGoode's cross-Atlantic career. Famous as he was for his wit and sharp writing, Eloise thought she'd rather admire his style from afar.

"Now don't look so shocked there, Missy, an ol' cowpoke like me's still got some life, even enough for your young-" he licked his lips and sucked a breath, "type." And before she could stop it, Buck Atkins had placed his hand around her on her left hip, just above her bum.

Eloise tried to move out of his grip but there was nowhere to go; she made as loud a noise of protest as she could muster.

Colin turned around. He glanced once at Eloise's pleading face and then his eyes dropped downward, traveling back up the length of Atkins's arm, fury building in his eyes.

"Move. Now."

The crowd around them made a loud, desperate groan - something wild was going on, she could vaguely hear the disappointment in the stands - but Eloise couldn't tear her eyes away from Colin, and the way his chin had gone dangerously still. His camera hung forgot at his side, which Eloise took as a serious compliment. She was sure she was blushing.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04