Chapter 3: An Invitation
"But you have no idea where he went?" Hermione asked Harry. They were sitting, together with Ron, in the Leaky Cauldron pub, discussing the events of the day before.
"None at all," said Harry. "We were heading south, I think."
"Bastard!" cursed Ron. "When do I get my broom back?"
"Don't worry," soothed Hermione. "I'm sure we can find you one somewhere. Anyway, Amarenox is far more important than a broomstick."
Ron looked highly taken aback at this statement. "He – he's not even a proper Dark Lord," he stuttered. "He hasn't even got any followers unless you count Millstew, and he's dead."
"Yes, I know, but he's still very dangerous. You and Harry might have stopped him from plunging the world into eternal darkness last year, but he's going to try again. Oh …" Hermione fell silent for a few seconds. "He's never gone out in daylight before, has he?" she asked the two of them. "But he was outside yesterday – any ideas Harry?"
Harry swigged down the remaining drops of Firewhisky, and dried his mouth on his cuff. "Erm – no. Unless – destroying the day's just a cover-up."
Ron shook his head. "No way. He spent all of last year trying to get rid of the Orb of Light, remember?"
"And me," said Harry.
"What?"
"He was trying to get rid of me as well. You don't think he was an old servant of Voldemort out – out for revenge …" He faltered. He hadn't realised it before, but the memory of his defeat of Lord Voldemort was a painful memory. Had it really taken this long to sink in?
"Unlikely," said Hermione. "Unless he faked being killed by Aurors and ran away."
Trying hastily to change the subject, Harry said, "He'll be hundreds of miles away by now. He'll probably end up being arrested in Hong Kong or something. There's no point bothering about it any more."
"Not like you to give up so easily," said Ron, but only quietly.
A week or so later, Harry was sitting in his bedroom at home, writing an essay on the invention of spells. His house-elf Neddy, who had come with the property, was running around obediently, picking up various bits and pieces of Auror equipment that were lying on the floor. Saddle Cottage was never messy, and was scarily like Harry's uncle and aunt's home, Number Four Privet Drive, where he had spent much of the first seventeen years of his life. Still, it had a homely feel to it, with posters of rock stars and Quidditch players pinned to the walls and various interesting magical items stacked (neatly) on cupboards and tables around the little house.
There was a hoot, and a snowy owl flew straight through the open window. It was Hedwig, who belonged to Harry and was his primary means of communication. She had a large envelope, made of thick parchment, tied to her leg. Harry untied it: she flapped into her cage and Neddy immediately ran over to her and started to groom her feathers and make sure she had enough food and water.
Harry received letters from a number of people: old school friends, people such as Ron's parents and Hogwarts Headmaster Dumbledore, the clan of vampires he had got to know last year, the tax man, advertising companies, the Muggle woman who had taken to writing down his various adventures at Hogwarts, and many others. He did not recognise the handwriting on this particular envelope, however, and, as he opened it, tried to remember who he had met recently who might have wanted to send him a letter.
Dear Mr. Potter,
I have been informed by no less than one of the greatest broomstick racers I have ever seen, and who you have had the good fortune to meet, that you are an extremely talented flyer. Mr. Draper, whom I coach professionally for the Nimbus racing team, obviously thinks very highly of you. It would therefore give me great pleasure to meet you and, if, as I'm sure you will, you possess the necessary talent, put you forward in certain races. I would love you to write back and tell me that you are willing to attempt such a venture and will be able to attend our next training session on August 23rd, or alternatively at the earliest possible date.
Yours sincerely,
Michael Swift,
Nimbus Broom Racing Worldwide.
Harry put the letter down, his heart beating wildly. He was thought good enough to be chosen for probably the best broomstick racing team in the world. And all because he'd been chasing Amarenox! It was one of the strangest things and most unlikely that had ever happened to him, not counting various brushes with evil sadists. He stopped thinking about this, and hurriedly wrote a positive reply: Yes. I would be thrilled to join your training session.
He was about to tie the message to Hedwig's leg when he stopped. She was old and, in any case, it would mess up Neddy's hard work. Maybe it would be better to use one of the owls from the local wizarding post office instead.
"Neddy," he said to the elf, who jumped and dropped Owl Treats all over the floor. "I'm going out."
"No sir," replied Neddy, scrambling around picking up the debris. Harry knelt down to help him. "Neddy will do it sir."
"Fine," agreed Harry, putting the last of the Owl Treats back into its bag and handing Neddy the letter. "Take this to the Post Office. Oh, and – as you're going out, visit Spewing and get a holiday application form. You won't have anything to do while I'm at Andros, otherwise."
Nodding, Neddy took the letter and disappeared with a loud crack.
