Cemetery. One word says a lot. Who can like it here? But old Archie still earned the right to rest in the ground, and not continue his afterlife as a pile of ashes in some unsightly urn. The day was truly London nasty. A strong wind blew dank cold behind the collars, slush underfoot slowed down steps, and dirty gray clouds hanging overhead promised to burst into wet snow soon. On such days, I understood the desire of our ancestors to conquer more colonies in the south - to proudly say "I am an Englishman and I am at home", warming my belly somewhere in Sri Lanka. Lou was sobbing next to me, wrapped in a thick knitted scarf and pulling a stupid hat almost up to her nose. On the other side of me was Pat, who was diligently screwing up his eyes and biting his lips. Behind us, along with Aunt Meg, stood Sirius, who did not know Archie, but came anyway. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring intently at some point on the ground, and at the same time he looked very sad. Aunt Meg didn't cry, she just twirled her rosary in silence. I stood with the collar of my jacket turned up, feeling like a frozen crow in the wind, and could not take my eyes off the coffin. The monotonous voice of the priest echoed in my head, but the familiar words now acquired some otherworldly meaning... And if I pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I will not fear evil... The pastor was a stranger. It was Aunt Meg who found him somewhere, remembering that Archie, in fact, was baptized in the Anglican Church. She herself was Catholic (as was Pat, though he doesn't like to talk about it), and that was the third reason the Dursleys hated Randoms. The first, of course, was that they treated me warmly. This, in the eyes of my relatives, was a sin that could not be redeemed. The second reason is that they voted for Labor... I wonder if Archie himself would have liked this ceremony? Because he was an atheist...
"Who is this?" Snape asked me, barely parting his lips.
"А friend of your... I swallowed the words "your son uncle" that almost escaped me, and it seems that he noticed, "your student, Pat," I corrected myself, "Patrick. Patrick Ren...
"I understand who!" The professor interrupted me harshly. He looked into my eyes with a long, studying look, in which, as always, there was, to put it mildly, hostility. I remained silent and tried not to lower my eyes. I was taken aback by the sad news and just didn't know what to say. A stupid thought popped up in my head that the professor probably had a diseased liver. Dark circles under the eyes and a yellowish skin tone seem to be talking about just that. Maybe that's why he's so mean. All due to excess bile ...
"That's not my area of expertise, Potter," Snape finally said, "go to Professor McGonogall. Tell her I'm letting Patrick go."
"Maybe you should write a note?" I dared to suggest "what if she does not believe me?.."
The Professor twisted his lips gloomily and glared angrily at his eyes.
"You're an idiot, Potter! I should look at you, try to deceive Professor McGonogall in this way!"
My head was full of gloomy thoughts anyway, and Snape's words didn't hurt me anymore. Hedwig had already begun to clean the feathers and trampled all over my shoulder, making herself comfortable.
"Well, so I'll go?"
"Go on," the professor spat, and when I was already at the door, he threw it after me, "and just try not to answer me with the missed material on Potions. Personally ask!"
The pastor was about to finish when two more came to the cemetery. Henry Slaywater and William Spencer. Both were the same age as Archie, and both belonged to the people that surrounded my friend since childhood. Pat grew up in an atmosphere of wholesale democracy. He was brought up on the principle - do what you want, but you will be responsible for it yourself. The surroundings were the most suitable. First of all, of course, Aunt Meg. Actually, she's a teacher - she gives piano lessons. I remember our first meeting - Pat invited me to visit him and, naturally, introduced me to her. At that time, she was wiping the plates, and at the mention of my name, one of them fell out of her hands and broke. Of course, then I thought it was an accident. Could the name of an unknown boy named Harry Potter cause such a reaction? The more I get to know my friend's aunt, the more I marvel at the reserves of her character. I don't think there are many people in the world as resilient as Margaret Random. Having lost as much in life as she did, to continue to move forward with her head held up proudly deserves great admiration. Her husband, the late Johnny Random, was a cheerful, cheerful man who enjoyed like a child any joke or prank. I well remember his broad, good-natured face and eyes that always sparkled with laughter. Even when he had very little left, he found the strength to maintain his amazing sense of humor. He was much younger than all his friends, but he died first. It also happened around Christmas, two years ago. As you can see, this holiday at Randoms generally has a sad connotation. Uncle Johnny was also involved in music - he taught vocals at the conservatory. Once, according to stories, he himself showed great promise, but in his youth he caught a bad cold and lost his voice. So Pat did not have a fate in the role of the nephew of the great baritone. Mr. Random was good in many ways, but he had one fatal passion. No, he didn't drink. He played. The cards, according to Aunt Meg, were his curse. Do you now guess from whom my friend got his outstanding talents? Pat was taught to play poker by the age of seven, for which Uncle Johnny, according to my friend, received a good beating from his wife. Uncle Johnny himself believed that this was great for developing intellectual abilities. True, Pat, thanks to his ability to bluff, maintaining a stony expression, had beaten his uncle since the age of ten. Thus, my friend was brought up in an intelligent musical family, which allowed him to grow up as he is, and to level out the worst traits of his character as much as possible, inherited by Pat, as I now understand, from his gloomy dad. Pat himself does not suffer from special musical talents, although I think he can play the "dog waltz". For me, Randoms, from the moment I met them, became everything that I did not see at home. They were at the other extreme from my crazy relatives, embodied everything that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon could not bear. They became my anti-Dursleys. And now here are three old close friends of Uncle Johnny. Or rather, two. Archie probably already met him himself... They got to know each other at different times, but it was a long time ago and is not so important. Archie Goodwin, who had amazing oratorical skills and a thunderous voice that did not take years, most of all liked to vilify the capitalists and the prime minister, and he did this not only because of "leftist" convictions, but brought everything under a well-reasoned basis. He was a professor of history and had previously taught at the University of London. For these beliefs, he was "survived" from there, according to Archie himself, "government hangers-on." He had no family, and since then he lived in his house in the suburbs of the capital all alone. Pat and I used to mow the lawn on the lawn near his house. Henry Slaywater has been Archie's main ideological opponent since university. As I understand it, they even went to school together and were classic frenemies. In fact, they could not live without each other. As soon as they meet, they begin to talk about the trends of world development, they almost bite into each other's throats. Mr. Slaywater was also a professor of the same subject, at the same university, only no one was going to "survive" him from there - he still works there safely. He also absolutely sincerely considers me his namesake, although I even somehow directly told him that I even wrote in the metric - Harry. To which he simply shrugged. What can you do, old school. William Spencer. That is, Dr. William Spencer, a terribly kind and sympathetic old man. Only one trouble with him - he is a psychotherapist.
"We're late—traffic," he muttered to Aunt Meg, "Route 13 is awful…"
Dr. Spencer sighed impulsively and, looking at the coffin, took off his hat. The ceremony continued in silence. Only when it was all over did Mr. Slaywater let out an incomprehensible sob and say in a rattling voice:
"I told you, you old fool, wear woolen socks in rainy weather!"
The gray-haired goatee trembled and a tear ran down her wrinkled cheek. He turned around and stooped towards the gate.
"When I die," Sirius chuckled grimly, "Remus will also look at my coffin, sigh, and say: "I told the old fool, wear woolen socks in rainy weather."
And, uttering a short, sad laugh, he also went to the exit.
Pat was waiting for me in the hallway. I silently handed him the letter, he looked at it and gave a stifled sigh.
"Archie was as healthy as an ox. Everyone should be like that at his age!" He exclaimed in dismay.
We exchanged glances.
"Maybe he got hit by a bus?" My friend asked casually.
"Why exactly the bus?"
"Well, you know, he always says - someday I'll get hit by a bus" Pat answered and after a couple of seconds he recovered "he said."
"We need to go to McGonogall," I interrupted the long pause, "to ask her off. Snape let you go."
"I wish he wouldn't have done that," Pat chuckled grimly.
McGonogall let us go. Pat first offered to take leave through Lupin, but I thought that this was already heavy artillery and we had to go ourselves first. McGonogall cleared things up with a few clear questions and gave us a week off. As they say, for family reasons. The fact that Archie was not related to us, she politely squinted. And she sent to collect things, and even allowed to use the fireplace in her office. I just have to find Hermione, warn her and ask for one favor. The first was not difficult at all - she was in the common living room.
"Harry! Well, how? What is Snape? Why is your face like that..."
"Which?" I asked, pulling her by the elbow away from prying ears.
"Funeral," as always, Hermione was exactly in the top ten.
"Listen, can I ask you something?" I tiredly rubbed the bridge of my nose, - otherwise I need to collect stuff... "
"Oh no!" Hermione exclaimed, "have you been expelled?"
"Excluded?"I was surprised, "no, what are youyou... It's just Archie... that's Uncle Pat's friend, he's dead and we need to... funerals.
"What uncle?" She didn't understand.
"Well, definitely his aunt's husband," I said a little irritably, "or do you think her name is Mrs. Random for fun? .. I'm sorry, it's just that everything is confused in my head, but here it is... "
Hermione grimaced at once.
"What a misfortune ... What did you want to ask?"
"Tell Ginny not to expect me to practice... But that's not the point, of course. Find, please, information about the person who studied here... Any you can... his name is Tom Riddle, he was head boy in Slytherin about fifty years ago."
"Why would you…" Hermione began, but then her eyes widened, "it can't be! So this…"
"Yes," I nodded, "this is Voldemort himself. So, what are you going to eat?"
"Meet Dr. Spencer, this is my godfather" I introduced Sirius on the way from the cemetery, "he is now my guardian."
"Contested the right of custody?" the doctor flashed his legal erudition.
"No, it's just that I've been a bit busy before," Sirius replied. The doctor raised his eyebrows. Curiosity was one of his traits.
"I was in prison," the godfather threw him indifferently.
"But, Sirius," Lou objected to him here, stopping sniffing her swollen nose from tears, "you were innocent!"
"Do you think I should be jubilant about this?" He said mockingly.
Dr. Spencer looked very interested. I pulled my godfather by the sleeve and spoke softly.
"You shouldn't have told him that. He is also a psychotherapist. See how it's on fire? Now they will quickly explain to you about some post-jail syndrome."
"Maybe I should introduce him to my dad?" Pat joined the conversation, "this is an invaluable guide. Walking inferiority complex."
Sirius chuckled like always, dog-like, and gave my friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
"Do not worry. Parents are worse."
"Truth?" Pat asked sourly.
"Well, it seems you are familiar with the portrait of my kind mother. At least you got lucky with your mother."
And he quickened his pace, catching up with Aunt Meg and Dr. Spencer walking ahead.
"But my father is a pronounced sadist with an unwashed head," Pat muttered.
"He has a knightly vow," I said, and explained, "well, don't wash your hair."
"yeah, facking knight of the sad image" My friend grumbled even more gloomily.
"By the way, you're talking about your grandmother," Lou reproached him.
Here Pat cast a long thoughtful glance at Sirius's back and even somehow drawled dreamily:
"Oh, mom, mom... Would you agree to a date then, and who knows? If I were Sirius Black's son now. How many problems would disappear."
"Not really," Lou remarked curtly.
"And you wouldn't be you anymore," I added.
"That's right," Pat agreed grimlygrimly
I walked down the street and struggled with a wild desire to collapse to my relatives and say - Hello everyone! Here I am back! So, imagining the expressions on the Dursleys' faces, I stomped to Pat. It was a couple of days after the funeral, when we settled all the formalities with the house. Which Archie took and bequeathed to me. So he wrote in his will - "so that the boy has a place to live." After these words, honestly, I was speechless, and I wanted to cry out loud. After all, the old man knew what kind of "good" guardians I had. I also remember asking him if the Dursleys could be considered an exploitative class... Patu was bequeathed an extensive collection of boats. Lots of different models of sailboats.
According to Archie, he has been collecting them since he was twelve years old. And Lou received in memory of the deceased the most valuable thing that he had ever owned in his life. It was the original Chagall. If Archie sold it, he could provide himself with not just a decent, but downright chic old age. I don't know why this picture was so dear to him, and where he got it from. It would have been stolen a long time ago if they knew that such a thing could safely hang over an antediluvian TV in a house devoid of any alarm and with the only occupant - an old man with leftist views. Lou herself bellowed throughout the will, until Pat could not stand it, thrust a package of paper napkins into her hands and suggested that she stop crying, there was nothing to be done anyway. Lou didn't stop sobbing and called my friend a blockhead. And Pat quietly told me in a sullen tone that if Lou did not stop, then he himself would not stand it... Later, even Sirius admitted that this was not a house - but a courtyard - come who wants to, and secretly cast a couple of protective spells. These few days we were just with him and were engaged in drawing up an unexpected inheritance - the godfather even put someone on Confundus a couple of times. I do not tolerate, he says, bureaucratic delays. Well, so - I went to Pat. The sky was overcast, and so was I. Thoughts swirled around Archie - it was strange and sad to realize that the person was no more. As it turned out, he caught a cold, and the cold was aggravated by pneumonia, well, you yourself understand... Moreover, a strange mixture of emotions about the house was spinning in my head - there were feelings and gratitude, and guilt that, it seems, I didn't ask and didn't deserve... But this is probably disgusting - the person just wanted me to get this house. I didn't ask for anything. It was his wish, and I must accept Archie Goodwin's last gift... Pat, disheveled and, apparently, recently woken up, was sitting in the kitchen, with visible pleasure on his face, eating cold Chinese noodles from a cardboard box painted with hieroglyphs. The Daily News was spread out on the table in front of him.
"Do you have an exacerbation of passion for Asian cuisine?" I asked.
Pat made a vague gesture with his head and muttered:
"I haven't experienced such a high from food for a long time!"
At Hogwarts, of course, they are fed to the slaughter, but this, - he pointed to the noodles with chopsticks, - is somehow not enough.
"Did you miss the 20th century?" chuckled.
"You won't believe it, I watched TV until two in the morning yesterday - everything in a row. I've watched all the stupid talk shows and stupid movies. So I fell asleep on the couch. And I woke up, imagine, in full confidence that I dreamed everything. Well, Hogwarts is there, magic, Snape... I approached my aunt and in all seriousness I asked if this was true or not..."
"Maybe it's time for you to see Dr. Spencer?" I laughed and tapped my temple with my finger.
We fell silent. Aunt Meg came into the kitchen and poured coffee. All recent events followed each other so quickly, and therefore Pat has not yet told me about his conversation with dad, and we have not yet discussed the prophecy, which I remembered only this morning, soberly. Then Aunt Meg left for another private lesson, not forgetting to warn us that we were not at school and we were not allowed to conjure. Pat muttered something along the lines of "it didn't hurt that much," and lit a cigarette. We were silent for a while.
Then my friend looked at his watch and said:
"Lou called in the morning. I woke up. She will come in about fifteen minutes.
"And I gave Hermione your number," I said, "she'll call when she gets home from Hogwarts."
"Did you tell her?" Pat looked at me through the smoke - well, about the prophecy.
"I said," I sighed, "when he explained why he got drunk."
Pat chuckled.
"You are not even dating, and you are already reporting to her!"
"I don't report to anyone!" I was indignant, "she just asked, I answered... I forgot about this damn prophecy myself, as soon as I received a letter from Lou. Today I woke up, I'm lying - as if it hits my head - damn it, I have to finish off Voldemort! All morning at the mirror I tried to convince myself that I was a hero."
"So how is it? Succeeded?" Pat asked sarcastically.
"No," I chuckled sourly, "it didn't work. Just got a mirror. How silent they are with Sirius, they advised him to shut up and shave."
I paused and added.
"I don't know where to look for superpower either."
"You have it," Pat remembered, "love, right?"
"Yes. But that hardly means I have to kiss Voldemort to death."
Pat laughed and suddenly asked seriously:
"Do you know what my mother wanted to call me first?"
"I can guess," I chuckled.
My friend made a face.
"Can you imagine how lucky I was to be born on the seventeenth of March! God himself ordered to name the child in honor of the hero of the occasion. Aunt was very insistent."
Yes, somehow the image of my friend does not fit with the name Severus. What would we call him then? Sev? I wonder if anyone calls Professor Snape Sev?
"Do you know why he hit to me then?" Continued Pat's free speech, "not offended for himself. For Hogwarts. Do not dare, he says, to insult the place, which for many has become a home."
Pat took a long look at the smoldering cigarette and continued his monologue. I didn't ask him anything - his right to tell me what he sees fit.
"He dragged me into his office and gave me some kind of nasty stuff, from which I almost threw up, and I instantly sobered up. You have no idea how disgusting it is to instantly sober up. Maybe he, of course, wanted to save his son from the pangs of a hangover, but personally I am not grateful to him for this... Well, we talked... sort of," my friend grimaced sadly, "in general, I mostly spoke. I did not hear any stunning speeches and confessions from him... Yes, I'm not sure if I need them... Maybe he expected me to apologize, or...
Don't know what. Well, I'm also great, I calmly said that I don't refuse my words, and it doesn't really matter to me who he is to me, and that he can do with me as he pleases, just let me go to sleep. And I really, after this rubbish, I wanted to sleep so much, I think I'll fall asleep right on the go... And he... either upset, or delighted - the hell will sort him out with his mug. Maybe he doesn't care either..."
"Well, what are you driving, Pat," I wearily objected to him, "well, how can you does not matter? I don't need to lie. And Snape doesn't give a damn either. And you know it very well..."
"Well, yes, you're right," Pat agreed surprisingly easily, "only, you understand... Well, he doesn't know what to do with me! Does not know! He does not know how to behave, because he cannot perceive me as an ordinary student, and probably does not even want to. His tricks don't work with me, and he sees it, but he doesn't know any other behavior. He doesn't know how to deal with his own son! He can be anything - a teacher, a Death Eater, a spy... He just doesn't know how to be a father."
Pat was silent for a long time, pulling a cigarette out of the crumpled pack again and lighting it. I thought he wouldn't say anything more. But he continued:
"He thinks I hate him."
I looked at him blankly.
"He didn't say that, of course. But I do know.
"Do you hate him?" I asked carefully.
Pat snorted, showing the absurdity of such an assumption.
"Why should I hate him? For what? He didn't do anything to me. On the contrary, he contributed to my birth… He annoys me, of course, and quite often, but this is natural, he annoys everyone... Yes, and that's not the point at all, he has nothing to do with it."
"And in what?" I am completely confused in the philosophical reasoning of my friend.
"Sometimes you're so stupid, Potter," Pat narrowed his eyes in annoyance, "it's not about Snape at all. It's just that there are things that we don't like for the way they sound. Here is one of them: Severus Snape is my father. Or rather, I am Snape's son. The thing is me. I look at him and I see myself, you know? I recognize myself, and, moreover, not from the best side. It was as if a distorted mirror had been placed in front of me. I look at him and think - am I really the same?! Can I really be like this?!"
Pat looked at me and asked very seriously:
"Tell me, Harry, am I a bad person?"
"Pat" I answered him just as seriously, - if I knew that you were loaded because of such nonsense, I would have long ago slapped you on the head to knock out such nonsense from there. You are not a bad person. And not like Snape. You don't think most people are narcissistic cretins... "I think," my friend honestly answered me, "I just don't say it out loud."
"Well, you see," I laughed, unable to restrain myself, "already progress."
"And Aunt Meg, can you imagine," said Pat unexpectedly, "you know what?
You, she says, should establish a relationship with him. He is still your father. And this after she literally admitted that she did not send me to Hogwarts in order to avoid his influence..."
But then I couldn't take it anymore. Of course, I understand how important this is for my friend, and I am ready to support and help if necessary, but my patience also has a limit.
"Well, Patrick Jonathan, you're sick of me with your existentialism! Be glad that you at least have someone to build relationships with! I wouldn't mind at all if my father suddenly appeared, even if he was the same gloomy type as Snape!"
"You have Sirius," Pat blurted out rashly, but, having run into my expressive look, he lowered his eyes.
"Sirius isn't like a father," I said softly, "he's like... No, not an older brother... like an older friend. Sometimes it seems to me that he confuses me with my father, and gets a little upset when it turns out that I'm not so much like him. The appearance of Sirius is one of the best events in my worthless life, but neither he nor anyone else can replace my father. And don't you know this?"
"Yes" Pat grunted and, pouring coffee, asked, "can we close the topic?"
"Oh!" I exclaimed, "I thought you would never ask that. Personally, I enjoy it."
Just then, Lou burst into the kitchen, wrapped in her long red scarf again. Pat stood still, coffee pot in hand.
"Did you seep through the wall?" He said by way of greeting.
"And your aunt gave me the key," our crazy friend boasted and immediately showed it. In fact, she had about ten of them dangling on a massive keychain. Well, maybe seven.
"Are you a janitor now?" I asked.
"You yourself are a janitor," Lou was indignant, sitting down on a chair and intercepting a coffee pot from Pat, "from the house, from my room, from the garage, from the locker in the locker room, from this house... Oh!"
She spilled her coffee, of course. We weren't even surprised.
"Do you want me to cook something for you?" Lou was excited.
"Thank you, don't," Pat said absently, "I'll poison myself."
"How rude you are, Pat," she pouted, "why are your faces so sour? Just don't remember Archie, otherwise I'll burst into tears again."
"We were having a private seminar on kinship," I informed her. Lou snorted loudly, expressing her opinion on the matter clearly.
"What nonsense ... by the way, about relatives" she turned to me "you won't believe who I just saw."
"No, I haven't told the most interesting yet," Lou laughed, "he was with girl!"
"Wow!" Pat widened his eyes. "Is she blind?"
"And deaf-mute?" I made a guess.
"I don't know, but she looks like your Aunt Petunia."
Pat and I looked at each other.
"A progressive Oedipus complex," I remarked wisely.
Wow, how did Aunt Petunia let little Diddy go out alone with a girl? Suddenly Pat burst out laughing. Lou and I looked at him like he was crazy.
"Are you okay?" I asked carefully.