The Third Day - Part 8 cont'd
The trip to the kitchens took longer than usual, since piles of rubble still blocked many corridors. Astonishingly, some of the hundred and forty-two staircases had begun to repair themselves, as though the castle were alive and healing itself. Harry barely noticed: with Hermione's hand tightly clasped in his own, he told her of his and Viktor and Draco's adventures at Malfoy Manor. For once she did not reproach him for the risks he had taken.
When the quartet reached the kitchens part of the wall had been blasted away, but in the far corner the debris had been cleared and a merry fire blazed at the large hearth. The unmistakable aroma of cinnamon assaulted them as they drew closer to a small trestle table, which groaned under the most spectacular feast Harry had seen in a very long time: golden croissants and buns, raspberry jam, apple turnovers, strawberries, blueberries, and a huge silver dish piled high with scrambled eggs. Four earthenware plates and flagons marked the places for the expected guests.
Barely visible above the table was Mrs. Beaton, who was smiling from ear to ear. "Welcome to the kitchen, Mr. Potter, Mr. Krum, young ladies. Mr. Kreacher and I-she nodded toward Kreacher, who was carrying a huge silver pitcher of pumpkin juice to the table. "We haven't had much time, and the...er...conditions are not what we'd like, but we hope....
"This looks spectacular, Mrs. Beaton," Harry said enthusiastically. "Hermione, Imogen, this is Mrs. Beaton, the Malfoy House Elf who helped us escape. Mrs. Beaton, this is Hermione Granger-my very dearest friend-and her sister, Imogen Granger." Harry was tempted to introduce Hermione as his girlfriend, but they hadn't had that conversation yet, so he bit his tongue. "We're starving-quite literally I think-so we'll just tuck in then."
But Beaton was looking past Harry and staring wide-eyed at Hermione. "Miss Hermione Granger, is it? And you are well, very well, I can see. Mr. Kreacher told me what happened. Harry was in time then. Oh, I'm so glad. All of us, all the House Elves-will always be grateful to you for what you tried to do a few years ago. Thank you."
She reached up to Hermione, took her right hand in both of hers and shook it vigorously. Hermione smiled.
"Winky! Winky Joanne! Come here please," Beaton said kindly to the younger Elf, who had been stacking crockery in the pantry. As she walked a bit unsteadily across the room, Harry wondered whether Winky had already had a nip at the bottle. But her eyes were clear, her hair was neatly combed and tied, and she was wearing an old-fashioned gray pinafore that he had never seen before.
"Our guests need cutlery. Bring the golden knives and forks and spoons from the chest, please."
Kreacher came forward wearing a high starched collar and shiny black suit like something Harry had seen on a television programme set in the nineteenth century. Beaton was a seamstress as well as a cook, it seemed.
Kreacher inclined his huge head slightly in greeting. "Almost all the kitchen staff left after Professor Dumbledore's death. And the new ones who came in with Snape"-Kreacher's sneer was almost audible-"fled after the battle. But the three of us will be delighted to serve you."
Harry took his seat on one side of the table and pulled Hermione down next to him. Imogen sat across from Hermione; after a brief hesitation Victor slipped in next to her, across from Harry.
"Try the treacle tart, dear," Beaton said, pointing to the golden pastry. "We know it's your favourite."
"But how-how did you know?" Hermione stammered.
"Winky told me. Winky-kindly explain to Miss Granger what you told me."
"Yes, ma'am. It's from the Amortentia. We know what each student smells, you see? It's a special Revelo spell House Elves can do. We test the cauldrons in Advanced Potions class before we clean them."
"And since so many students smell their favourite food-" Beaton smiled.
"You know what to include at the feasts," Harry finished. He turned to Hermione and pulled her close. "You never told me, Hermione. You said 'green grass' and 'parchment' but then you stopped. Turned a nice shade of red, as I remember." He swallowed hard before adding, quietly, "I thought it was something to do with, with, you know...Ron."
"So did I," Hermione whispered. "Because Molly always made it at the Burrow. But-wait a second-yes! She always made it for [i]you,[/i] Harry. You were always the one with treacle dripping down your chin."
Harry beamed. "Did I never tell you that treacle tart was one of my three Amortentia smells too? I could never figure out what food has to do with who you love. I must have watched you dive in all those times at the Burrow. Come to think of it--watching you lick all that liquid sugar from your lips was rather fascinating." Harry's eyes drifted down to Hermione's lips with unusual boldness.
Hermione rewarded him with a smile, as her cheeks tinged a slight pink. She quickly glanced over at Imogen, who had been watching in astonishment as a seemingly endless parade of dishes floated across the room and onto the table. "Try this one," Viktor said firmly, handing her a large muffin speckled with bright red berries. "Lingonberry. From the North. They are my favourite."
Hermione tried not to giggle at Viktor's lack of subtlety, but Imogen took the muffin readily and bit off a good-sized chunk. "Ooh, delicious," she said. "Sweet and tart at the same time. A perfect blend. I'm going to have to make this the last, though, or I'll not be able to get up from my chair much less get on a broom."
"Nonsense, Imogen," Viktor said firmly. "You will fly very well. I know it. I have for you a good broom. Cherry, sturdy, hard wood. Simple, but responsive."
"I can't wait! Shall we go now?" Imogen asked, stuffing the last crumbs of muffin into her mouth.
"Yes, of course; I am ready," Viktor replied, laying down his fork and pushing back from the table. He stood and bowed slightly to Harry and Hermione. "You will excuse us, please?"
"Of course," Hermione said. "Harry and I will come along later."
Harry and Hermione ate slowly, savouring the rich feast and each other's company. Beaton flitted in and out,
constantly pressing them to eat. They were afraid of hurting her feelings so they tried every dish--until they
literally could hold no more. Hermione could tell that Harry was bursting with curiosity about Imogen, a sister
Hermione barely mentioned in all the years he'd know her. So she explained the estrangement between Imogen and
their parents, an estrangement Hermione had tried to heal many times, without success.
"She could never forgive them for not allowing her to go to Cambridge when she was admitted as a prodigy, at fifteen. And they never forgave her for forging their names on the parents' consent letter and leaving without a word."
"But how did she support herself all these years?"
"That's a bit of a mystery. Our grandmother set up a trust fund for both of us when we were born. Somehow Imogen convinced the trustee to pay her a meager subsistence. She can be [i]very[/i] persuasive."
"Or perhaps the trustee was a wizard, and knew that Cambridge was what Imogen needed," Harry speculated.
"You know, perhaps he was. I always wondered whether our grandmother was a witch. I never met her; she died before I was born. And my parents never spoke about her."
"So what are you going to do now?" Harry asked.
"Imogen and I talked about it this morning. We're going to Australia together right away, to sort it all out. After all we've been through, I'm not going to let this silly quarrel go on any more. I want my family back--all of it!"
Hermione's look was determined, but Harry could see the dampness in her eyes. He stretched out his arm and drew her to his side.
"Would a non-Granger be allowed to tag along? I've always wanted to see Australia; I'd try to stay out of
your way."
"Oh yes, Harry. That would be fantastic. Thank you. I would love it if you came. We would both love it---Imogen and me I mean. But we plan to leave tomorrow; is that all right? Can you take care of everything by then?"
Harry knew she meant his obligations to the Weasleys, especially Ron and Ginny. Harry smiled wanly. "Yeah. I can take of it. Don't worry. We'll go to Fred's funeral and explain why we have to leave. Don't worry, Hermione. You are the most important person to me now, and I know how much your family means to you."
Harry and Hermione walked leisurely to the Quidditch pitch, hand in hand. They kept a deliberately slow pace, so Harry
could tell Hermione everything he has discovered in the past three days, especially Voldemort's manipulation of his
mind, including planting his feelings for Ginny and hers for him.
The sun was almost at its highest point in the sky by the time they came in sight of the grounds. "Who's that Slytherin out there?" Harry asked, pointing to a distant silver-and-green caped figure hovering close to the ground.
"I have a suspicion," Hermione answered, as the flyer began making slow elliptical loops in the air.
"So what do you think, Mr. Potter?" asked Professor McGonagall, who had come up noiselessly behind them. "A new Quidditch instructor for next year? Madam Hooch left us a year ago to return to Little Merriwether, so we'll need someone to teach First Years this fall."