The Lewis House 58 страница

Eloise sat up. "No, is it good?"

"It's great - here." Colin handed her a piece of parchment that looked like it had been through four editors' hands, and together they read through the article; they were just up to the part about Knight "mysteriously" leaving the Ballycastle Bats ("Guess their Keeper wasn't handsome enough," joked Colin) when someone cleared his throat.

John Prattleby stood before them. Eloise braced herself. "That was an excellent piece, Midgen," he said. "Front page has it now. Good work." He gave a little half nod, and one to Colin, and sauntered off.

Eloise turned slowly to look at Colin. "What just happened?"

Colin laughed. "Nothing that wasn't deserved."

"Oh, stop, you haven't even read the article yet," said Eloise, blushing.

"I know," said Colin without changing expression. "So, when the issue is done, how about we-"

"MIDGEN!" Jim Scrynne screamed from across the newsroom. "GOLD! This is GOLD!" Scrynne sprinted over, a few newspapers clutched in his fist. "Here you go, first issues."

Eloise took the paper with a trembling hand. McCall's game piece, under a small " POTTER PLAYS" ran in one column down the lefthand side of the page; the rest was taken up by a five-column headline, with an "EXCLUSIVE" tag waving off the end. The featured picture showed Harry, smiling as he lay battered and bruised in the hospital wing, encircled by his family; next to it, in print just big enough to make Eloise's heart lurch, were the words "By Eloise Midgen, Daily Prophet Correspondent."

"Wow," she breathed.

"Nice, huh?" said Scrynne, grinning widely. "Good work, both of you." Eloise barely looked up to thank him as he walked away.

Eloise leaned back in her chair and looked up at Colin, who was grinning even more widely than Scrynne had been.

"Wait, don't read it," said Colin, settling himself on Eloise's desk with his copy of the paper in his hands. "Let me."

"POTTER FINALLY FLYING HIGH," he read. "The Boy Who Lived Speaks About Professional Quidditch, Family and Life After Voldemort. That's really snappy."

Eloise giggled. "I didn't write that part."

"Moving on. By Eloise Midgen, Daily Prophet Correspondent.

Harry Potter is happy.

He's just fallen 40 feet from a broomstick, his right side is battered as if beaten by a giant, and tomorrow he'll return to work over the icy waters of Azkaban Island, on a Ministry of Magic task force assigned to keep Dementors from escaping the prison. Yet, as he sits in the Chudley Cannons' hospital wing, propped up on pillows and physically numbed by a litany of painkilling charms, Harry Potter is surprisingly content.

Of course, it helps that that Potter has just made his professional Quidditch debut, having been literally pulled from the stands to step in for the Cannons' injured Seeker. It helps that he has just played his first real game since Hogwarts, where he was Gryffindor's star performer. It helps that he has just pulled off a miraculous victory, his stunning capture of the Snitch allowing the Cannons to overcome rotten trickery from the opposition to retain their unblemished season record.

But the thing that's really making Harry Potter smile is grouped protectively around his bedside, displaying worried expressions, freckles, ginger hair, and eyes red from too much joy.

It's his family.

Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and a horde of Weasleys surround him, fuss over him, treat him as though he was born into their ranks. Potter has never known this kind of attention. And to look at him, glowing over their simple presence, is to know how much he's needed it.

'I never thought about having a family,' says Potter. 'It just seems the kind of thing you only get one of.' And Voldemort killed his. So when Potter says it was 'just luck' that brought him to the people he now calls family, perhaps he's right.

'Rubbish,' says Ron Weasley, who Potter has known since his first train ride on the Hogwarts Express. 'Luck is nothing to do with it. Our Mum saw him at Kings' Cross and wouldn't let us alone until we took him in. He's a bit of a nuisance, really, always getting us into trouble,' Weasley jokes.

There's partial truth to that statement; until recently, Potter's life was constantly under threat. 'It's strange, with Voldemort gone,' says Potter. 'I don't know if I ever really believed he would be.' He is, and Potter killed him, thanks to an immensely complex spell empowered by his newfound family's love for their newfound brother.

Six months after that legendary battle, Potter's family is still protecting him, even when there isn't much they can do. Just tonight, as Potter fell from a horrifying height from his his teammate's Firebolt 5, this clan, who had been watching the game with white knuckles, jumped barriers, barreled through security and threatened to hex anyone that stood between them and the injured Potter. The Quidditch, the game, the save, the victory - yes, all of that helps. But having his family around him when he woke up in the hospital wing?

'It was perfect,' says Potter. 'I couldn't ask for - well, maybe one thing. I wish Hermione were here.' He's referring to Hermione Granger, his other best friend (and Ron Weasley's girlfriend), who has been in Cortona since September, studying the subtle craft of Thinking. 'She would have enjoyed this - though she might have had a heart attack first.'

" 'Not to worry, mate,' says Ron Weasley, patting a pair of Omnioculars. 'I have it all saved, she can have her kittens soon enough.'

*

After spending almost all of the first 18 years of his life unwittingly embroiled in a war he did nothing - short of being born to Godric Gryffindor's bloodline - to start, one might expect Potter to pack his post-bellum schedule with nothing but lazy afternoons, nights at the pub and perhaps a Quidditch scrimmage here and there.

If you think so, you don't know Potter.

Barely two weeks after the war ended, Potter was, quite literally, on the field again - trying out for a Quidditch team for the first time, for his old school captain and the Chudley Cannons' current sergeant, Oliver Wood.

'I thought I'd just see what happened,' Potter shrugs. 'I don't know what I was expecting, trying out.'

Certainly not an easy ride; Wood doesn't get his reputation as a slavedriver's taskmaster for nothing. Potter spent his first-ever summer away from Muggle society at the Quidditch pitch, training from as early as 6 a.m. until as late as 4 p.m., with no guarantee he'd make the final cut. Not even when his old schoolmate was captain.

'Oliver didn't even notice me at first,' says Potter. 'I showed up and he just yelled at me to get in the air.'

'Oh, I knew he was there,' says Wood. 'You can't miss Harry Potter on a broom. But the little bugger made it onto my team without trying out once, and I'll be damned if it was going to happen again! Besides - he had some fair competition.'

Maureen Knight. Ex Ballycastle Bat. Such a threat to the opposition that she was injured before tonight's game even started. Willing to make a Seeker-shaped hole in the ground if it means getting the Snitch.

'We fought for it good,' laughs Knight. 'I went home aching every night, Potter drove me so mad.'

In the end, Wood granted the first-string Seeker position to Potter.

'It's not that Knight didn't have it,' says Wood. 'She had it in spades. But Potter and Quidditch - that's art. With him as first and Knight as second, I knew the Cannons would conquer. Then Potter got that bloody owl from the Ministry.'

Wood growls a little as he talks about the Ministry, and anyone who is thankful to Potter for his conquests would growl too; the wizarding world at large probably wants nothing more than to see Potter play Quidditch for a living, enjoy the rest of his youth, and never, ever, have to wrestle with a Dark force again. Perhaps that last bit is wishful thinking, but it's not out of line to think Potter should steer clear of heroism for a few years at least.

Or even a few months.

On the very same day - indeed, directly after - Wood made his Quidditch position announcements, Potter received an urgent owl from the Ministry, asking for help. The Permanent Azkaban Patrol (P.A.P.) was having difficulty rounding up the nine dragon-riders they needed to effectively surround the tiny prison-island with the natural, positive energy dragons emit, which staves off Dementors. The Dementors, restless now that the free reign they enjoyed while Voldemort was in power has been stripped, constantly threaten to escape Azkaban and infiltrate civilization; as there is no known enchantment to destroy a Dementor, Acting Minister of Magic Arthur Weasley devised a plan to entrap them, in the short term. A round-the-clock patrol of dragons keeps the Dementors at bay. They're cunning in their evil, though, and have been known to try and use the smallest gap in coverage as a wedge, or join forces to attack one rider.

'We all told him not to take it,' says Ron Weasley. 'But Harry couldn't say no. He just couldn't.'

'I went to Azkaban because it felt important,' says Potter. 'I love Quidditch, but helping Mr. Weasley and the rest of the Ministry felt like it was what I should do.'

And so Potter went, leaving behind his childhood joy to pursue adult duty. Again.

'Harry could never have lived with himself if he had chosen what he wanted over what needed to be done,' says Remus Lupin, once Potter's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who was one of Potter's deceased parents' closest friends. 'He's just like his father that way.'

The job, however, is getting harder each day. Recent events suggest that the dragons' power is weakening; there are only nine riders, and the shifts are long. The dragons are growing irritable and sickly, and are prone to tossing their riders into the sea. If a beast the size of a hundred men can feel a Dementor's presence, it stands to reason that the riders could also be exposed.

But don't expect Potter to tell you that he's affected by the Dementors' presence. Don't expect him to mope or want pity for having to stave off Voldemort four times before he was of wizarding age. Don't even expect him to be worried at the idea of another Dark force rising within his lifetime.

'Someone gave me good advice about that, once,' he says, looking pensive. 'If it happens, we'll fight. We'll try and stop it. There's no use worrying about it now. What's coming will come. We'll meet it when it does.'

Somewhere, the owner of that quote - the late Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts - is smiling.

*

Quidditch Lesson No. 1, by Oliver Wood: Get it or die trying.

When Maureen Knight was knocked out in tonight's pre-game by an arguably intentional hit by Kestrel Tim Boomer (now suspended for cheating during the game), the future of the Cannons' undefeated record seemed bleak. So when Potter showed up on the field - after being literally thrown out of the stands by Ron Weasley, a lifetime Chudley Cannon fanatic and one of the many people who had no idea Potter was second-reserve for the team - Wood said he felt as if his dreams had come true. Potter was just as stunned.

'He made me sign that paper saying I'd be second reserve, and I only did it because I felt so bad about leaving the team before I'd really been on it,' says Potter. 'I never, in a million years, thought tonight would happen.'

'It's that bloody nobility complex of his that made him sign it,' jokes Ron Weasley. 'At least it's finally came in useful.'

Wood immediately substituted Potter for Knight, giving him a very short explanation of the Kestrels' key maneuvers, a quick demonstration of a Firebolt 5 and a very old, very useful piece of advice. 'Get it or die trying.'

He's used that advice once before, during a very memorable match in Potter's second year. Both times he's said it, Potter did nearly die - at Hogwarts, because of a tampered Bludger that nearly took his head off; tonight, because of an opposing Seeker who nearly took his arm off. But Potter also caught the Snitch both times, and Wood makes no apologies for his overzealous advice tactics, even when George Weasley calls him a 'raving lunatic.'

'It was wonderful,' says Potter of his return to the pitch. 'I'd forgot, really, what it was like to play a real game.'

'He belongs up there,' proclaims Ginny Weasley. Potter and Ginny are rumoured to be dating, but ask either of them about it and they'll turn identical shades of scarlet and change the subject back to Quidditch. 'He was always most at home in the air.'

He could stay there, too; it's only another half-year until the next tryouts. Potter makes no promises.

'I don't know what's going to happen. Perhaps if the problems are solved at Azkaban, perhaps then. I'd like to play Quidditch,' he says, in a way that makes you think work will be just a little harder, from now on.

He'll go, though. He'll go right back to work, because that's Harry Potter. Even as he sits, transformed, in the Cannons' hospital wing, safe and content for the first time in his young but long life, he's still Harry Potter, his parents' child.

'You have no idea,' says an emotional Sirius Black, talking to Potter, his godson. 'When you were little we used to float you around and joke that one day you'd - and you did.'

Yes he did.

*

"Eloise. Wow." Colin was still staring at the paper. Eloise could only see the crown of his sandy head shaking from side to side. "You wrote that in an hour?"

Eloise laughed, much louder than she'd intended to. It was such a relief, sitting here with the article printed. It was as if she hadn't worked all evening, though her vaguely aching bones said otherwise. "Yes," she said faintly, seeing visions of her bed dance before her eyes.

"Hey." Colin tapped her over the head with the paper. "Are you with me?"

"Oh - yes. Yes. I'm here. I'm so tired." She needed to just fall down and...rest a while. Quickly, so she couldn't talk herself out of it, Eloise folded her arms over Colin's nearest knee, and rested her head upon them. She closed her eyes; he was so warm and calm. He'd never been that way at school. But then, she thought ruefully, a lot of things had changed since school.

Colin stroked the top of her head gently, pulling hair away from her cheek. Eloise wondered if anyone noticed them, sitting here in the newsroom this way; Prattleby would have new reasons to scowl at her by morning. But suddenly it didn't matter so much.

"Have you eaten?" said Colin, out of nowhere.

Eloise made a face. "Oh...food...I forgot. Oh, but I can't...I need sleep..."

"I know. So how about we meet after we both get a good night's rest?" His voice sounded strange. Strained. "Maybe tomorrow night at eight? At Moon Lights?"

Eloise sat up straight. Moon Lights. Dinner...dancing...ambience...yes... She looked at Colin's face; he wasn't joking. If anything, he looked rather nervous. "Yes," she said, unable to stop herself from grinning. "I'd love to."

"Good." He was grinning, too; for nearly a minute, they did nothing but grin at each other.

"Hey. Yoo-hoo. Hello. HELLO?" It was Leon.

"Yes?" said Eloise, not turning.

"Just checking to see what you were up to," said Leon, and Eloise could hear the snicker in his voice. "Couldn't interest you two in an assignment, tomorrow night, there's a-"

"NO." They had both said it, instantly.

"Sorry, Leon," Eloise giggled. "Is it important?"

"Not really," and his left eye twitched with mischief. "Sweeney can do it. I was just testing. Go the hell home, Midgen. Get out of my newsroom."

"No problems here! See you Tuesday, Leon." She grabbed her cloak and swung it around her shoulders.

"My flat's on the way," said Colin. "I'll walk you." Colin offered his arm, and Eloise took it, feeling rather grand despite the massive amount of ink that had, over the course of the night, landed on her hands and robes.

It was cold at midnight, and Colin tugged Eloise closer as they stepped outside. As they walked up the cobbled, lamplit lane together, pointing out nonexistent constellations and laughing at their own silliness, Eloise thought of Harry, and, not counting everything else he'd done, how much she now owed him.

How very, very much.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Homecomings

Authors’ Notes: Five points to the first person to figure out who wrote what parts of this chapter. Much thanks to all who beta read this chapter, especially Hallie, for helping us to use "proper" English.

~*~

Ronald A. Weasley (genius)

Office of Prosecution and Defense

Ministry of Magic

To: Miss Hermione Granger

From: Mr. Ronald Weasley

Regarding: Your Return

Hullo, love. I'm hoping Pig will overcome his natural stupidity and manage to put this in your hand before you leave Cortona. Right before you leave Cortona. Seconds before. Look, just get out of there, would you? I want you home -- but I don't want you getting any shocks to your system when you arrive, so let me tell you how things are around here now:

Sirius works his head off, of course. But he cracks every once in awhile, and it's nice to have a boss you can have a couple of pints with while you're wracking your brains for solutions. I can just hear you. "Perhaps you wouldn't have to wrack your brains quite so hard if you hadn't had quite so many pints." It's nothing to worry about though, is it? You're going to come home and do all my Thinking for me from now on, so I can go ahead and waste myself. Heh.

Remus seems to be doing well. His last transformation was fine, anyway. He teaches Ginny too many things for her own good. But all in all, I think it was a great decision, her staying in Stagsden to take her seventh year. It's been nice, having her to abuse. Reckon we won't send her back just yet. Anyway, she's probably kept in touch with you, and even if she hasn't, she'll have to tell you all her own news.

The rest of my family's fine. The twins' shop is bringing in more Galleons than this family has ever seen, and those two sods are hoarding every single one. Charlie's still crazy. Penelope and Leo still live at the Burrow. Mum and Dad are okay. Mum was a bit sad that you took up Remus’ offer to continue living at Lupin Lodge. Now that I think of it, I am too. I thought you were going to be living at the Notch.

Bill's finished working at Gringotts, but he's hanging about London anyway. He says he promised Dad and Charlie he'd help with the Dementors, and he's not leaving till that's taken care of. I have a feeling he's hanging about for a shorter, blonder reason than Dad or Charlie, but if I say who, you won't like it. So I'd better just say. Remember Fleur Delacour? Well, she's been working up in Diagon Alley too, and Bill's noticed. I've seen her once or twice. From AFAR. And you can take your little nose right out of the air, because I know you and Krum are still "friends". And don't try saying "We only write letters, Ron!" because I've seen the sorts of things you put in your letters. Not that I'm complaining.

Harry's arm is fine - those Cannons mediwizards are as good as Madam Pomfrey. He's back up on the dragons full time. You'd think he'd go back to Quidditch after that ripping debut, but you know how he is. We bachelor it up at night, though, oh yes - chess, tea, passing out at half nine - right couple of madmen, we are. Honestly, you've got to come back and stop us from getting old. It's pathetic. At least Harry isn't, you know, bad though. He's just middling.

Your mum and dad are looking fine. They really are. I put Christmas decorations in their room and it looks cheerful in there. I sorted out the health bills, too - you should've seen me trying to change that bit of paper you sent me into wizard money. Goblins don't trust Muggle money in the first place, and anything without a watermark throws them right off, especially if it's got the names of two people on it, and neither one of them is you. They were asking me for Granger identification as if they'd never seen me. Started muttering about Polyjuice Potion. Good thing Bill was there, or I might've found myself in the interrogation chambers.

That's everything. Everyone's tripping over themselves getting ready to welcome you home. You don't know how strange it is here without you. I can't take it anymore, I had a nightmare the other night that you were Petrified. So get on a Knight Bus, take the Floo Network, Apparate, fly a carpet, ride a broom, hell, ride a hippogriff, just strap on your bags and COME HOME.

And remember, if for some reason you change your mind and decide to stay, I won't be able to keep away. I really couldn't give a dead rat's arse about your meditations at the minute. I'll show you meditation. Or at least, you'll have your eyes shut and you won't be saying much for awhile.

Damn. I love you.

-Ron

P.S. I secretly enjoy Hogwarts: A History, if only because every time I see it anywhere, in a shop, on a shelf, in a library (yes, I go to libraries, shut it) I think of you.

Guess you have to go to a Cannons game now, don't you? AND wave an orange sparkler, don't think you're getting out of it. I bought you a jumper, too, with great big C's on the front. Might be a bit small, come to think of it. Pity, that. Love, Ron

Hermione read the letter again from top to bottom, unable to comprehend that the day of departure had arrived. She had given up hope that it would ever come, and now that it had, she felt strange and detached. Pig had been more excited two days ago than she had ever seen him; he'd zoomed from ceiling to floor and from wall to wall in a hyperactive frenzy of joy. She had kissed his tousled feathers and sent Ron back a very short note, stating when she thought she would arrive. He'd have that note by now. And she would see him in a matter of hours.

Hours.

Hermione looked at her rucksack, which she had magically enlarged in order to fit into it her accumulated Thinking supplies and notes, along with everything that Ron had sent her over the past four months. Letters. Pictures. Books. Quidditch periodicals. The Omnioculars on which he'd saved Harry's match and that fantastic clipping from the Daily Prophet - she'd glowed at Harry's mention of her - to think that he had remembered her in the middle of all that! Even better, Ron had thought of her, even during a Chudley Cannons game with Harry in it. Ron was such a wonderful, great big prat. With wonderful hair and eyes and mouth and hands, and a wonderful, wonderful voice that she would be hearing again by nightfall. Right in her ear. She shivered, and wondered what it would be like for those first five minutes - that first hour. The first night.

She glanced at the mirror and watched her reflection. She knew she looked different. She'd never been so tanned, and yesterday she'd caught the sun across her nose and shoulders, just enough to make her glow. Saltwater and sunshine had done wonders for her hair; she knew its new texture wouldn't last in England but at least for now the old brown mop lay in long, fat tendrils on her back, and glinted with natural highlights no potion could purchase. She surveyed her shoulders and arms, dark against the slim, loose whiteness of her Cortona robes, and considered putting on a cloak but decided against it. She wouldn't be in cold climates for long while she traveled, and she wanted Ron to see her just like this. She wondered when she'd ever been so pretty - or perhaps the mirror and her mind were playing tricks on her. Perhaps it was only the promise of knowing how pretty Ron would find her that made her feel so beautiful.

Hermione turned from the mirror, smoothed her bedcovers one last time, plucked her diary from her pillow and tucked it into the top of her bag. She shut it, buckled it and, after casting a Weightless Enchantment, slung it easily onto her back and ventured into the corridor. It was time to say goodbye.

Delia was waiting on the patio where they had studied, her dark hair a shock against the vibrant blue of her chair's cushion. She looked almost like a stranger to Hermione, who had grown used to her dark features and deep eyes but saw them now as if for the first time. There was a familiar crookedness to the slim nose; an odd pallor to the fine skin, making her look as if she spent more time indoors than out, which made no sense at all. Hermione shook her head. She was making the oddest observations - for the first time it occurred to her that she would miss Delia, who stood as she approached and looked at her with bright eyes.

A windchime sang softly in the distance and the sea crashed beyond the patio, resounding among the marble columns and filling Hermione's ears with its lulling rhythm. She had grown so used to that.

"Time, then?"

"Yes." Hermione wasn't certain what to do. Delia had always been warm and open, but somehow it didn't seem right to hug her. She settled for putting out her hand. "Thank you for everything. I'll do my best to use it, though I don't -"

"Shh." Delia squeezed her hand, and Hermione relaxed. "We will see each other again… I know your reservations where the Orb is concerned, but perhaps you will trust me if I tell you that I have observed that much in its depths."

Hermione smiled. "If you say so then I…" She shook her head. "I'm sure we'll see each other again. I'll write to you."

"I know." Delia's eyes swept Hermione's face, then gazed away to the sea. For a moment, Hermione thought she could see a terrible loneliness in Delia's expression, and then it was gone again. Her eyes returned to Hermione. "Thank you for being my student, and for teaching me."

It was better not to argue. Delia believed that the exchange had been mutual, and though Hermione disagreed, she was glad that her apprenticeship had not seemed a total waste to her instructor. "I'll miss it here," she said quietly. It was the truth.

"You are always welcome." Delia paused. "I… wish you success, child. I know what you intend to try and I do not know if there is a way. But if there is, then you will find it."

Hermione nodded. She felt a prickling sensation behind her eyes. "Thank you," she managed.

Delia released her hand. "We have all suffered our losses," she said, so softly that Hermione hardly heard her. "I hope that yours, at least, may be restored to you."

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04