Potions are drunk, life races on, and the morning sun shines brightly. August is warm; the sun often peeks through the window, though the evenings are becoming a bit foggy, justifying the oldest name for the British Isles—Foggy Albion. Specifically, our suburb isn't so rich in this atmospheric phenomenon, but it happens, and perhaps more often than one would like.
August fourteenth. As always, I was jogging, and then doing elven exercises in the backyard. These very exercises even interested my father, but they require life energy to perform, and without it, it looks like wushu—everything is measured, smooth, with a share of tension in different muscle groups. Such an approach allows working out all muscle groups, and simultaneous control of life energy gives them a stimulus and a reason to develop if the load itself suddenly isn't enough. In general, father inquired, nodded, thought, and waved his hand—he doesn't have that much time for such things, and he himself doesn't possess the necessary endurance in character. Well, Mom and Hermione just glanced occasionally and snorted—they both exalt the mind over the body, and maintain the latter's health with proper nutrition, simple exercises, and trying to move more in principle.
Anyway, toward the end of the exercises, Hermione came out into the backyard to call me for breakfast, but this simple chain of expected events changed as soon as a small owl flew up to her, a bit battered and not particularly adequate. The owl gave a rather large letter to Hermione, a huge piece of parchment, and perched on the veranda fence, senselessly squatting now and then—doing exercises or something?
"Something interesting?" I walked a bit closer, remaining dressed, unlike the first such experiment with physical exercises.
"Mrs. Weasley invites me, and you too, to visit."
"Yeah? You I get, but why me?"
"Probably just for company."
"Does Mrs. Weasley know that you and Ron are quarreling?"
Hermione pouted for a second and even got offended, but not at me, but at the memories, but quickly pulled herself together.
"Unlikely. Or maybe she does know. But I also communicate quite well with Ginny, and with Percy, true, only in terms of which book on which subject is better."
"Listen, they didn't write to you in the summer, did they?"
"Neither did they to you," Hermione parried. "And anyway, breakfast should be ready by now."
We went into the house, but I still had to go to the second floor, to the shower.
"We don't correspond," I smiled when I reached the stairs up, "so that in the autumn there is something to discuss in the evenings over tea or hot chocolate. Usually, autumn is the most dull time for events."
Hermione didn't answer, heading to the kitchen, well, and I went upstairs, to the shower.
Breakfast is an unchanging ritual in this house. In this one, and in many others. A hearty, voluminous, and varied breakfast is the key to a good day. At least in the opinion of the English. Although we prefer far from salads for dinner too. At breakfast, or rather, after it, Hermione raised the topic of visiting the Weasleys.
"Mom, Dad, Mrs. Weasley invited me to visit. Me and Hector."
"Well, you I get, but why Hector?" asked Mom, almost completely repeating my question.
"I don't know, Mom," Hermione almost rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Maybe just for company."
"Hector," Mom shifted her gaze to me, and father decided to hide from all this behind the morning newspaper. "And do you want to go visit yourself?"
This question, although logical, I wasn't ready to answer right now. Theoretically, nothing prevents me from going to them, staying for a while. My plans for the rest of the summer, in principle, are quite abstract and unclear. From the mandatory school-social stuff, I did my homework, bought various curious trifles in France for the purpose of familiarization or even a small gift for someone. Even the process of initial establishment of connection with the dimension of storm energy has almost come to an end, and soon it will be possible to remove this metal flask from my neck. Only the question of magic outside Hogwarts remained open, because no "Tut-tut" either in written or in any other form came to me. This needs to be sorted out.
And Cedric said he lives not far from the Weasleys. Could write to him, meet, discuss various things. Hmm... Why not? And it's interesting how a not-rich family of wizards lives. Yes, precisely not-rich—how rich live is easy to imagine, because when there is money, a person doesn't worry much about trifles. And when there is money, arrogance, and pride—even more so. But the everyday life of a not-rich family, and with so many children—I wonder how strongly and multifaceted they have to use magic for domestic needs.
"I don't mind," I nodded. "Do you think I can take Khrustik? Although, he won't have a house there. Khrustik!"
A second, and an owlet flew from the second floor, instantly perching on my forearm. And looks so touchingly, big-eyed living lump of feathers.
"Will you go with me to visit for a week and a half?"
The owlet roused itself and stretched out.
"But we can't take the house."
The owlet seemed to think, turning into a lump of feathers again, ruffled up, but then stretched out again, as if ready to fly, ride, and generally do anything right now, just to do it.
"I think," I smiled, "that's a yes."
"That's great," Mom smiled. "You'll make even more friends."
Where more? But I, of course, didn't say this. Father, who impudently removed himself from the conversation with the help of a newspaper, grunted something approvingly, and in the end, Hermione and I went to pack. Scratching my smart, albeit only occasionally, head, I wrote a letter to Cedric and sent it with Khrustik, ordering the owlet to wait for an answer and find me at the Weasley house.
The owlet flew away, and soon we, having collected all the necessary things, got into father's car to drive to the Leaky Cauldron—that's where Mrs. Weasley suggested we meet. Or rather, she said in the letter that due to difficulties in communication with Muggles, as well as the sad state of their owl, she might not receive consent or refusal. Therefore, she suggested meeting at the Leaky Cauldron, where she needs to run for a package to Tom the barman. Will we be there? Consent. Won't we? Refusal. If it doesn't work out to come, one can always contact, and as a last resort, Hermione knows where they live. And I wanted to be surprised at such an ultimative request in the letter, like: "Leaky Cauldron, and that's it."
In general, soon we reached Charing Cross, father parked the car near the Leaky Cauldron, and Hermione and I began to take our things out of the trunk. Crookshanks, the impudent cat, simply walked after us with an important look, not lagging a step behind my sister. I didn't have many things—a backpack and a small travel suitcase. Hermione loaded herself heavily, and in two large suitcases, I am sure, are books. Otherwise, why would that childish-teenage superiority slip in her gaze, like: "Look how smart I am, a whole wagon of books, and you have a backpack and a suitcase with linen." But, as it slipped, so it disappeared.
"We'll wait in that cafe opposite," father nodded toward that very cafe, which was practically across the road from the Leaky Cauldron. "When you wait for Mrs. Weasley, come out and tell us. Agreed?"
"Okay, Dad, Mom," Hermione nodded. "If we don't wait—we'll come out too."
"Of course, princess," Mom stroked Hermione on the head, deliberately ruffling her hair.
"Mo-o-om,"
This caused parents to smile, and father just patted me on the shoulder. Just a little more, and I'll grow to the height of an adult. Just a little bit left. We cheerfully crossed the street at the crossing, although there were few cars, and entered the pub.
Light, clean, visitors quite decent, well or at least not standing out with obvious untidiness. Now, when the clock hands steadily approached noon, it smelled very appetizingly of light dishes being prepared, like soups or chowders—nothing heavy, fried, smoked, or baked. And it didn't smell of alcohol—only tea and coffee.
No, I am by no means against alcohol, but it must be high-quality, interesting, complex. And simple swill or all sorts of rotgut—that's the bottom.
Hermione and I settled at a small table by the window, through which nothing was really visible anyway—windows here, in the pub, it seems to me, generally perform the role of lamps with frosted shades. The red cat immediately settled on Hermione's knees, having previously kneaded the "bed" with its paws.
Examining the few visitors in the pub, stood up from the table and went to the bar counter.
"Good day," I nodded with a slight smile, and the bartender nodded back to me.
"Good day, young man. Desire something?"
"Yes. I see you have juices?"
"Of course. I recommend fruit ones—they were prepared literally a couple of hours ago, and they are waiting for their buyer under preservation charms."
"Oh, that's very kind. And is there any mix, and orange?"
"Certainly," smiled this elderly bartender, stepped aside a little and took out two large jugs from under the counter, from which he poured juice into glasses.
"Here you go..."
Paying a few Sickles, I took the glasses and returned to our table with Hermione.
"Here. You like oranges."
"Thank you," my sister nodded, accepting the glass.
She devoted a large share of her attention not to the surroundings, not to me or the juice—to the fireplace in which red flames played. It seems Mrs. Weasley should come precisely by fireplace. Although, why am I surprised? Myself already traveled using this means of communication—amusing, I must say.
A couple of minutes later, during which we drained the glasses of juice, the red flame in the fireplace lit up green, and a slightly stout lady of incomprehensible age, but not young, came out of it. She looked like such a typical housewife, in a floral yellow dress, a robe on top, thrown on clearly in a hurry, a shock of bright fiery-red hair, the shade of which floated from dark to light. Such a color attracts attention, whether you like it or not, and you notice that specifically this lady's hair is darker at the roots, and tends to lighten in the sun. Generally, I consider red hair color one of the most interesting, even though I don't like it. Probably, that's why I paid attention to such a thing.
Hermione clearly wanted if not to jump up, then to half-rise and wave her hand, which is why I understood that this lady is that very Mrs. Weasley. The lady noticed us, smiled, nodded, but hurried precisely to Tom the barman. I don't know what they were talking about, but this conversation didn't last a minute, and here Mrs. Weasley received two rather large bundles, hid them in a bag on her belt, looking more like a coin purse, and only after that approached us.
"Hermione, girl, you've grown so much this year," Mrs. Weasley put her hands on my sister's shoulders, examining her.
"Hello, Mrs. Weasley."
"And this," this red-haired lady turned to me, "must be Hector?"
"Yes," I nodded, introducing myself simply. "Hector Granger, pleased to meet you."
"The boys talked a lot about you, true, only regarding Quidditch. They say that thanks to you, your team took first place."
"Oh, that's not so. Each of us did what was in his power," I waved off the light flattery, or a check for susceptibility to this very flattery.
"Don't be modest, young man," Mrs. Weasley smiled kindly. "Far from every even adult wizard becomes almost the face of a foreign broom manufacturing company. At least here in England."
"Ah, you mean that? I'm even embarrassed myself," playing embarrassment wasn't difficult, because albeit in a light form, but it was there, just enough to "let go."
"Well, let's not waste time," Mrs. Weasley is an obvious leader in the family, because you just want to take and follow her without unnecessary objections.
An amusing person, it seems to me. And this housewife is not a feigned image, which some women sometimes like to boast about in front of "neighbors," like: "Look how busy I am." This is exactly her image, to which she came from something completely different—it is felt. It's like a warrior you haven't seen for many years, come to visit, and he is a gardener. Or a scientist, a real one, a fan of science, a geek, and after years of separation you come to visit him, and there—a fighter-athlete. But in all these images something original is traced, which can no longer be etched out of oneself and which has long been part of the person's personality.
Under these thoughts, I quickly moved Hermione's suitcases to the fireplace, and my sister ran out of the pub to tell our parents about our departure.
"I even feel somehow uncomfortable, Mrs. Weasley," I decided to talk about the vital. "Still, not visiting for an evening. There's feeding needed and all that. And I'm such a healthy lad, growing fast, eat a lot."
"Oh, trifles, dearie," Mrs. Weasley waved it off. "Anything, but food is not a problem."
"But that's money."
Mrs. Weasley looked at me uncomprehendingly, I looked at her exactly the same way, and here, a second later, the meaning reached her.
"Oh, Hector, I'm already so used to using magic. Forgot that for other wizards, and even more so for Muggles, everything can be somewhat different."
"Don't quite understand."
"If you are so interested in this question, I will definitely show you why food is not a problem. It's simple, actually, the main thing is the right approach to the household."
"That would be great."
At that moment Hermione returned to the pub and quickly approached us.
"That's it. I told parents that we met Mrs. Weasley and are going to visit," my sister smiled. "They said not to misbehave, not to cause problems, and generally, behave decently."
"As if it could be otherwise."
We all smiled, and Mrs. Weasley turned to me:
"Hector, do you know how to use a fireplace?"
"Yes, of course, ma'am."
"Excellent," she smiled cheerfully. "Then the address: 'The Burrow!'. Not complicated, but repeat, please, to avoid mistakes."
"The Burrow."
"Yes, all correct," Mrs. Weasley nodded. "Come on, kids, you fly first, and I'll make sure everyone goes where they need to."
Hermione decided to go first, and Crookshanks, apparently having already traveled in a similar way, threw his own carcass over Hermione's shoulder and clung tightly to her clothes. My sister took a little Floo powder from the stand by the fireplace, threw it into the fire, waited for the flame to turn green, and was about to go inside, grabbing both her suitcases, but I intercepted the second one.
"One is enough for you. You need to be collected there."
"Hector speaks sense, dearie," Mrs. Weasley nodded.
Hermione pouted as if she had been insulted in her best feelings, but let go of one suitcase. And how was she going to fly with two of these heavy contraptions, holding them in one hand. My sister was ready to throw the handful of powder remaining in her hand into the fire under her feet.
"The Burrow," she pronounced clearly and threw the powder.
Green flame quickly enveloped her figure, and Hermione disappeared. The fireplace flame still burned green—a handful of powder prepares it for travel for seven or eight minutes, and this time is enough for a fairly large crowd of people to pass through this transport network.
"Now you," Mrs. Weasley smiled at me.
The handle of my suitcase allowed me to take Hermione's suitcase in the same hand without problems, so there were no issues with this. Having performed all operations in the same order, I went on a short but dizzying journey through the Floo network, among green lines, waves, and flashes, in which many fireplaces flickered now and then, very different, far or closer, like stars in the sky. Taking a step forward at the right moment, went out into the middle of a spacious room and immediately stepped aside, putting Hermione's suitcase on the floor. Hermione herself was just waiting for me. So, what's around here?
The first thing that immediately catches the eye is the general concept of the house. Wooden in essence, but not without brick or stone in the foundation—I am sure. The house is sort of built around a massive brick fireplace, and clearly rustic. Someone might think that "rustic" is a synonym for "wretched," but no. It means only that everywhere there are many different things, trifles, useful and necessary in everyday life. The ground floor, aka the hall, aka, judging by everything, the kitchen and dining room, and possibly behind the walls something else—a rather cute and cozy place. Standing by the fireplace itself, one can see, for example, wide windowsills, under which cabinets are organized, and on them stand many sort of honeycombs with seedlings, clay patterned pots, large labeled jars with cereals and other trifles. Or maybe these are low cabinets standing here in the role of windowsills—can't tell right away.
To the right stood several cabinets of different formats—both with doors and card files. On them were different books, small things, or various variations on the theme of portable card files—sort of small card catalogs in which it is so convenient to store small things, be it all sorts of paper clips, tacks, even sets of hooks and lures for fishing. Slightly higher, under the ceiling, were shelves with all sorts of jars. Generally, if you look closely, the space around is used to the maximum, and the walls are not empty.
Also, on the right side and close to the fireplace was a staircase to the upper floors, and on the wall opposite one could see just a bunch of children's drawings, or more serious sketches, slowly transitioning into schematic copies of Egyptian writings.
The fireplace flared up with green flame, and Mrs. Weasley came out of there.
"So," she looked around, went out into the hall, or rather the section of the ground floor supposed to play this role. "And where did those rascals disappear to again? Fred! George!"
No one responds. We waited.
"Ay," Mrs. Weasley waved her hand. "While you wait for them... Let's go, I'll show you your rooms."
Mrs. Weasley took out her wand and waved, forcing Hermione's suitcases to hover above the floor, and headed up the stairs. We followed her.
"Dearie," Mrs. Weasley turned to Hermione. "As always, to Ginny? You don't mind?"
"Of course," my sister nodded.
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