"So what's so funny?"
"Nothing," Pat finally calmed down, "sorry. I just remembered this article and... No, the horse, of course, is not bad. You can live on a farm…"
"If you don't shut up, I'll put a curse on you," I threatened.
Pat raised his hands in repentance.
"Although in my opinion, a horse is not the most successful form," I admitted disappointedly, "you can't hide, you can't show yourself in the city..."
"Yes, I, too, will look quite extravagant in the center of London," my friend replied.
"Less extravagant than an orphan horse."
"In general, it turns out very interesting" Hermione gave her voice "you, Harry, feel great in the air - and suddenly - a horse." I shrugged. "My father also loved to fly. But he turned out to be a deer. Yes, it is probably even more useless to be a deer than a horse. I wonder how much Sirius joked about his horns? Now, after all, he doesn't admit to anything, but I know him, he wouldn't have resisted... Although the horns during walks in the company of a werewolf could well come in handy. As are the hooves. I thought about my animagus form in a new light."
"And Pat is a bird," Hermione continued, "you don't like flying. I thought you were afraid of heights..."
"Who said that?" my friend was indignant, "in life he was not afraid of heights. I just don't suffer from suicidal tendencies. And only a complete psycho will climb on a broom."
"Thank you, friend," I chuckled.
"No offense, Harry, but a broom is a stick with a bunch of twigs on the end! It's… not safe, after all."
"Now I understand for sure that the Hat has placed you in the right place," said Hermione, looking at us.
"You just haven't tried," I objected to a friend, "flying is cool."
"No thanks, I prefer British Airways."
"Planes are going down," Hermione remarked casually.
"Оne in a billion." Pat waved his hand
"Okay, closed the topic" I said firmly "the question is - how can we continue to transform?"
"Take it and turn it around," Pat reported, and he himself thought about the phrase he had just said.
"I want you to think again…" Hermione began. We were silent for a couple of minutes. She looked at us with last hope.
"OK," I said cheerfully, "we thought."
"If we started, then we'll finish," my friend typed.
Hermione sighed and settled her open book more comfortably.
"All right. But I'll be watching you." Pat and I looked at each other.
"In that case, you will go to Azkaban as an accomplice," Pat warned.
"Someone must control all this mess of yours," Hermione said in an indisputable tone, "I won't be able to convince you, but at least I won't allow you to cripple yourself."
That's how Hermione became our personal controller. With her memory and reading speed bordering on the speed of light, she quickly became an expert in animagus theory and relentlessly advised us on anything. Pat even suggested that she was trying to discourage us from doing this by being too protective, but I didn't agree. It's just that she was already "involved" herself and she was curious to death how we could do it all. One question confused me — if I was so eager to become an animagus, why didn't I ask Sirius for help? I couldn't give her a coherent answer. Sirius would certainly support me. Yes, not only supported, I would say for sure that this is a brilliant idea and how he himself had not thought of it before. He would have gone through all the stages of becoming an illegal animagus, quickly outlined a plan of action, helped, advised… But then suddenly my stupid, usually uncharacteristic self-esteem turned on. My father and Sirius themselves, without outside help, became animagi by the age of fifteen, and what's worse than me? Just a little, I'll run for advice to the elders?. . In short, I am such an idiot. Sometimes. But precisely for this reason, I decided not to say anything to my godfather. If it works out, I'll make you happy, if it doesn't work out, no one will know at all. Except for Pat and Hermione. Well, Lou, of course. Pat told her when she came to Quidditch. Try it, don't tell it, it will pull it out with pincers. So time slowly but surely moved towards Christmas. Pat seems to have already crossed off the days before the recent holidays. He couldn't wait to enjoy electricity, central heating and fast food. I never noticed Pat's special love for such food garbage. And in general, I didn't give a damn about what to eat, because the lessons, training and animagia developed in me some kind of abnormal constant feeling of hunger. And before, thanks to the Dursleys, you know how much I could not eat? And so, when there was only a week left before the long-awaited vacation, I had a very long Saturday. No, better to say Very Long Saturday. That's right, with a capital letter. She just fell into the category of those fun days that remain with you in memory for the rest of your life. In the morning I went to Hagrid's. One, by the way. The weather stood - feast for the eyes. Snow had fallen, and since it wasn't marred by any automotive-industrial waste, the castle looked like a Christmas card. Well, except for the fact that the school was such an oak forest! No, not everywhere, of course, but at the Potions, a couple of heaters would definitely not hurt... Well, it's lyrics. So, I went to Hagrid. To visit the Samiah, who was still sleeping, the unicorns who still lived in his hut, and, mainly, to ask the owner himself something. I found Luna at Hagrid's. She also came to visit the one-horned orphans. Chatted with her, remembered the manticore. As time passed, this meeting was even remembered funny, not that scary. Although the Moon, as I understand it, has a feeling of fear in general, somewhat... Original. When she left, giving me a fresh issue of The Quibbler, I took care of our forester. He once mentioned that he was expelled from Hogwarts about fifty years ago, and when I made the necessary parallel, I came close to answering the question that had long tormented me.
"Listen, Hagrid," I began, "you studied at Hogwarts…"
"Yeah," he agreed, but got a bit flustered.
He did not like to think about his studies and never said why he was expelled.
"You... You were studying with Voldemort at the same time, weren't you?" I asked carefully.
"Ah? Well, yes…" murmured Hagrid, frowning, "but that wasn't his name back then."
"What?" I got excited.
"Riddle," said the forester grimly, "Tom Riddle. The head boy of Slytherin... Wow, I didn't like him! If it wasn't for him..."
Hagrid waved his clenched fist in the air, but he didn't say what would have happened if it hadn't been for Tom Riddle. He referred to some business and sent me to school. But I was not upset, the main thing I learned!
...I was sitting in Aunt Petunia's old kitchen at number four, Privet Drive, Little Winging, sipping butterbeer dejectedly. No. I'm not crazy, as you probably thought at first. It was the Room-On-Demand that clearly moved and gave me such a strange result. Or maybe I just always had a secret desire to get drunk in my aunt's, nauseatingly sterile kitchen. And beat the dishes more, yes... Pat entered the room and froze.
"What's this?" he didn't understand.
"Beer," I answered gloomily, "Butterbeer There is no other."
"Exploited the elves? Your Hermione won't be happy."
"She's not mine," I objected, "she's nobody's business at all."
"I'm talking about THAT," Pat ignored me, pointing to the situation, "what the hell is this?"
"One of the nightmares of my childhood," I replied despondently.
"Look what I've got," Pat obviously showing off, took out a bottle and put it on the table. Looks like firewhiskey. Where did he get it from, I wonder?
"He waved at half a block of cigarettes from the seventh years. You know, Slytherin is a house of general..." He muttered, watching me silently take out a glass, open a bottle, pour myself a fairly decent drink of this drink and drink it all in one gulp. "…smuggling," Pat finished automatically, staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time.
"What the fuck whiskey," I hissed as the burning sensation eased slightly in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes, more like diluted alcohol.
Pat looked at me with his mouth open.
"Do you know what diluted alcohol tastes like?" He finally asked.
"I guess it is."
Something happened?"
"I want to get drunk," I sighed bitterly and reached for the bottle
My friend sat down at the table nearby and managed to intercept her first.
"Did someone die?" he asked a leading question again.
"No," I shook my head gloomily, "but will die."
I looked at my friend and said gloomily:
"Looks like I'm the only one capable of killing Voldemort."
Yes, I wanted answers to questions, and I got them. Right here after dinner, in a festive package with golden ribbons. On a silver platter. The question is, is it easier for me? After dinner, the three of us were going to go to the library.
But on the way McGonogall intercepted us and said menacingly:
"Potter, the headmaster is calling for you."
We looked at each other silently.
"But I didn't do anything," I blurted out.
The professor looked at me sternly, and I shrugged my shoulders, remembering that the headmaster kept a long-standing promise to "talk".
- Okay... If it's necessary, then it's necessarynecessary. . . "
"Most importantly, don't sign anything with blood," Pat returned my old joke to me, for which he received a poke in the ribs from Hermione.
That was my first time in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts. Funny place. Just like the owner himself. Which, from the very beginning of the conversation, was distracted by Snape, and therefore for about ten minutes I looked at the office for my own pleasure, all alone. The portraits of former directors were mostly pretending to be asleep, and a skinned, sickly-looking red bird looked at me with dull eyes. I didn't immediately recognize the phoenix, so I was surprised when it caught fire and turned into a handful of ash.
"Sorry, Harry, for keeping you waiting," Dumbledore said as he entered the office, "I've been meaning to talk to you for so long..."
"And your bird burned down," I informed him completely without emotion, glancing at what was left of Dumbledore's pets.
"Oh!" he smiled, "it's about time. He's been looking bad for a long time. Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry.
"I figured it out," I replied, still watching the chick climb out of the ash heap.
Our conversation turned out to be strange. First of all, the director, for no reason at all, puzzled me with the question of whether I wanted to ask him something. There was so much room for imagination here. Starting with the question "what is going on here anyway?" and ending with "how does Professor Snape feel about having a son?" Well, naturally I asked the first thing that came to my mind.
"Why can't Lou do magic?"
Dumbledore stroked his gray beard and looked at me over his half-moon glasses. Why half-moon? Maybe he is a Muslim? Ugh you, what nonsense climbs into your head...
"You know, you have a unique friend, Harry," he said.
"That's right," I agreed.
"But you didn't express yourself exactly. She doesn't can't do magic."
"Not?" I was surprised, "she said that. Does she just not want to do magic?"
The headmaster smiled.
"This question is best asked by herself. Although, of course, she has some... difficulties with magic, let's just say. With the magic we're used to.
"We?" I didn't understand.
"We are wizards," he explained, "as you well know, Louise's grandmother is a Veela. And Veela magic is different from ours. Their magic is too elemental, and therefore it is really difficult for your friend to cope with her abilities, since she inherited all the power of a real veela. In addition, it is a rare case of a magical magnet. As you can see, Louise attracts..."
"Trouble," I blurted out, remembering all the times we'd run into each other thanks to our crazy friend.
"And that too," the headmaster chuckled, "and she also draws magic to her. Any of its manifestations. Don't you find it accidental that two potentially powerful wizards suddenly appeared near her?"
"So what happens?" Pat looked at me in surprise, "Lou is like a lightning rod? Electricity does not radiate, but attracts itself?"
I shrugged vaguely, feeling like I was already driven. Do I need a lot? I'm not a drunk with experience.
"Yes, it seems to radiate ... That is, she can do magic, but there can only be consequences.
"What kind?" Pat raised an eyebrow.
"We'll find out everything at her place during the holidays," I answered a little annoyed.
"Well, then what did they talk about?"
"Well, he asked me again about the scar, if it bothers me... maybe some dreams are dreaming. Then he asked me what I thought of everything that was going on."
"Did he ask?" ofigel Pat, "you?"
"Yes, I was surprised too..."
"Are you really interested to know what I think about it?" I asked the director incredulously.
"Yes," Dumbledore agreed easily, "a fresh perspective never hurt."
A wizard with a smart face and a pointed beard, dressed in the colors of Slytherin, grunted incredulously from the top portrait.
"Yes, yes, Phineas," the director immediately responded to this grunt, "young people are sometimes able to notice what we old people can no longer see."
So this is Phineas Nigellus Black. Some kind of great-great Sirius.
"I think," I began cautiously, "that this is sabotage."
At these words, several portraits ceased to pretend to be sleeping, and the director raised his gray eyebrows.
"Yes, sabotage," I repeated, finally putting my vague thoughts into words, "it's to someone's advantage to maintain the illusion that Voldemort is regaining his former strength."
"And why do you think this is being done?" The headmaster asked with utmost attention and without any hint of irony. I thought for a couple of minutes and then shrugged.
"Power," I replied, "by keeping people in constant fear, you can easily control them.
"Maybe there are contenders for the role of this "someone"?" Phineas asked sarcastically.
"Phineas," the headmaster said reproachfully, but looked at me questioningly.
"Well, what do you mean, I'm not a detective," I looked down.
It would be at least unreasonable to accuse the Malfoys unfounded, then it would be necessary to tell about Dobby, and about the potion, and about the conspiracy, but I was not going to do that.
"But I would start looking among the former supporters of Voldemort," nevertheless, I could not resist.
"And you told him so? Already giving advice to Dumbledore..."
"Come on," I waved my hand, "I think he already knows all this. He only cares if there are any glimmers in my scar... While they are gone, Voldemort is somewhere at the bottom. When they are, it means we're screwed. And me first."
And looking at my friend, I said:
"Voldemort wanted to kill me as an infant because of a prophecy that was made shortly before I was born."
Pat looked at me, then took a long look at the bottle of firewhisky, and took out cigarettes. He looked thoughtful.
"Damn," he finally drawled, "what a… Banality!
"Banality?" I exclaimed, "banality is not banality, but it has moved me all my life!"
And I told my friend in detail the last part of our conversation with Dumbledore, where he explained why and for whom exactly the most powerful dark magician of the last century came to our house on Halloween night.
I sat in front of Dumbledore, stunned. Dumbfounded. Befuddled. My first thought was that I should wake up. Trust me, if you were told that, you would feel exactly the same way.
"I… I supposed to cut off his head? Or something like that?" I asked languidly. Pictures from fantastic action movies popped up in my head.
"No" the director looked at me in surprise "I don't think that everything should happen this way."
"So what?" I burst out, "because of this stupid prophecy, the wizards couldn't just gather in a bunch and knock on his skull?! .. Oh. Sorry professor" I muttered.
Dumbledore did not look angry at my outburst of emotions, and on the contrary, took on a philosophical air and said:
"You've just raised a very serious question, Harry. We wizards are by nature individualists. Rivals. And it's really hard to imagine such a situation that many magicians will gather, as you said?" He chuckled into his beardbeard
"What about power?"I asked dejectedly, "I don't have any power. Where does she even get me?!"
I had a wild desire to rummage in my pockets and look around, as if somewhere here I would find the notorious superpower that would help me defeat Voldemort.
"I told you about this already, Harry," the headmaster said quietly, "during our first meeting. A power that is beyond Voldemort's control, but given to you in such abundance. A power he could never understand. It's love, Harry."
"Love?" I asked.
"Love?!" Pat looked at me in bewilderment, "what do you mean?"
"Аnd give me the bottle, I'm going to get drunk."
"You already said that," my friend said, but no longer interfered with my communication with high-grade drinks.
"That's why it's so cool to be friends with you," he said after some silence, "no matter how many problems I have, you still have more of them.
"Thank you," I said grimly, "you are a true friend. Always support in difficult times."
Pat saluted me with a glass. I put my head in my hands and looked into my friend's eyes.
"Pat, what am I supposed to do now, huh?"
Hours later... I don't know how long, but it was already very late, Pat and I, drunk as hell, left the Room-On-Demand with very pious intentions to go to our bedrooms. Two such quiet peaceful underage alcoholics... A bottle for two was enough for us through the roof. And if there's one thing I was really ashamed of at Hogwarts, it's just that. Nearly ran into McGonogall and Flitwick. At the last moment, I managed to pull the gaping Pat by the scruff of the neck into the shade. They passed by and did not see us. We couldn't help but chuckle stupidly - statuesque McGonogall and miniature Flitwick trotting alongside - a sight amusing even for a sober one. I remember that Pat whined stubbornly that he did not want to go back to the dungeons and that he would soon turn into a mole. Laughed at that too. I know it's not funny, but explain it to a drunk person! I think so, everyone guessed, on who eventually ran into. But why??? Why Snape?! Why exactly him??? It is necessary to introduce a new school sign - "you leave the bedroom at night - you will stumble upon Snape." Or - "if you stumbled upon Snape, then you are walking after lights out." I ran into him first. At first he recoiled from me as if from a ghost, but then, when he realized who was in front of him, his lips twisted into a bad smile. If I were sober, I would be scared.
"Well, well, well…" he said softly, "and again Potter. And how do you justify being out of the bedroom at night today?"
"You don't seem to be in bed either, professor," I answered him with my drunken impudence.
"What do you allow yourself?" Snape hissed as he approached me. "Are you out of your mind? You... you are drunk!" concluded the stunned professor.
I nodded my head vigorously and said.
You're not like your father," Snape finally whispered, "you far outdid him. "Do you know that for this you..."
"They will be expelled from school, yes..." drawled the voice of Pat, who appeared behind me. He made a broad gesture with his hand, from which he swayed dangerously "Еxclude!"
At that moment I was afraid for the professor.
It seemed to me that now he would become ill with his heart. Maybe he did not expect to see his own son in such a state (or rather, in none), or maybe in such a state in company with me. Who knows.
"And you're here," said the Potions Master.
"Of course," Pat agreed, "what are we drunks for drinking alone?"
It was my friend's solo. He was drunk, looked at his father with reckless defiance, and was ready to start expressing everything that boiled in his soul.
"If you haven't forgotten, Mr. Random, I'm not only your teacher, but for the time being your dean," Snape said grimly.