Ariana – Ana? – was distracted all morning. Harry himself found that the lack of Ardila in their little study group meant a lot, although normally she was the kind of person that faded easily from mind and notice. (She was so silent and inobtrusive, speaking only when necessary and to the point.) Guilt gnawed at him, given that he had been aware of her absence mainly because the little things she had subtly provided for them all for their ease and comfort were not present. Was she just a tool – an odd tool at that – to him? Did she deserve that, after all that she had done for him? (He would not be willing to be viewed like that, himself.)
Lunch, therefore, was a somewhat tense and gloomy event between the two of them. More than once, Harry had to help Ana do things she normally did herself (like spearing sausages from the platter), as she was otherwise preoccupied, making her clumsy and rather confused. On unspoken agreement, they broke from the routine afterwards and spent time brooding in various places. Talk was sporadic, and all about things Harry had learnt so far, and only when the silence had grown too oppressive to endure. Worse to him, Hedwig was nowhere to be seen or heard.
A little before three, someone joined them, sitting on the edge of the lake-like large fishless pond they were occupying. A countenance that should have been stern projected an air of playfulness instead; and the blond head was attached to the sturdy built of a soldier. Presently however, the man hunkered slightly and looked rather grim and haunted, and he spoke nothing to them, not even a greeting. Harry watched him cautiously from the farther side of the pond, thankful for the modified pair of glasses Ardila had given him in their first foray into the pool, and after a while their eyes met.
"Who're you?" he blurted.
"Who are you yourself, boy?"
There was only curiosity in the man's tone. Still, Harry cringed and looked away. Uncle Vernon had instilled a bad connotation on the word "boy" into his mind from an early age.
"He's our recent project," Ana piped in. Then she swam towards the man, perching herself on a bit of shore the depth of her waist. "Cm'here, Harry. He's all right. It's just Ed."
Harry was not sure he liked being considered a project. But anyway, the Dursleys beat any derogatory views the twins and their relations might have on him, including this one. One thing the Ar's had instilled into him was to stand up for himself and his own safety and ideals, though.
"Who are you?" he repeated to the man once he was on dry land, a little away from Ana.
"Someone." A teasing chuckle. Harry frowned. The chuckle turned into a soft snigger, albeit half-heartedly.
"I'm a journalist, kid. I'm either on tourism or war. D'you like photography or painting?"
Harry shrugged. "I'm Harry. You?"
"Ed. Edward Sharington."