Chapter 76: Chapter 76-Year Four
The world would end. I knew it was going to end. There was no doubt it would end. I, being an Italian by blood, had never gone to a football stadium my entire life. I belonged to those Italians who went on to do great things as scientists, men of the art, or whatever-but not the soccer fans. I was not a soccer, or football, or whatever fan. I did not follow sports. I did not like watching sports.
Thus, the sheer fact I had been given the incredible opportunity of witnessing the entire tournament of the Quidditch World Cup meant little to the likes of me. I only knew that the final would have Ireland against Bulgaria, and that was mostly because I dimly remembered Krum being the Seeker for them and leprechaun gold having a plot-related point in the book itself.
The month of July had me on my usual trip for Diagon Alley, accompanied by Professor Flitwick whose eyes seemed to twinkle twice as hard on that peculiar day.
"Mister Umbrus," he said smoothly. "This year, I hope you are ready to apologize."
I stared at Professor Flitwick as if he had grown a second head, until I realized what it might have been about. "I didn't do it. I didn't do anything."
"Of course you didn't, Mister Umbrus, of course you didn't," he acquiesced. "This might not change the opinion of the students when they realize the Quidditch tournament at Hogwarts will have to be canceled."
"Oh? And why would that be?" I asked, feigning ignorance. Professor Flitwick glanced at me, and then a tiny smile settled on his half-goblin lips.
"You will find out in due time, Mister Umbrus," he finished, amiably. My smile remained slightly thin. I would have loved to know in order to make proper inquiries, but I'd live even without that tiny bit of knowledge for a while yet.
The books bought like everything else with the school's funding, I kept them under lock and key in my trunk. When August rolled about, though I had notified my caretakers, I doubted they'd just let it easily be. I didn't even have a cellphone number to give them, or a house number. As much as I regretted it, I reckoned a couple of memory charms would be used.
Though then again, I doubted that would be the case. The orphanage staff seemed to have little love for those who wasted their time, but Megan's parents turned out to be pretty normal folks. Her father looked like the typical work-at-the-office man, and her mother was wearing a soft, beige-colored sweater and had the kind of smile you would find only on the kindest of human beings.
Clearly, they were the epitome of a normal family. The kind of stuff that the world of Harry Potter refused to show even for a second, because it would lead to a path of disbelief. Not all wizards lacked common sense, and neither did some witches. It was wonderful.
There was no explicit rule saying I couldn't go on a long term visit; but there were rules about responsibility that fell on the head of the orphanage's chief. He, in turn, was apparently convinced by the suaveness of both of Megan's parents appearance and gentle voice.
"So you must be Shade," Megan's father said as he pulled my trunk along. "I'm Oliver, Megan's father."
"It's nice to meet you, sir," I said, "Do you want me to carry the trunk?" I asked next, but he shook his head.
"Nah, it's light enough," he remarked. "So, you excited about this Quaddatch tournament?"
"It's Quidditch, dear," Megan's mother said. "I'm Emily," she added with a tiny smile, looking at me, "I'm Megan's mother. I'm going to be apparating us back home in Wales, so I hope you had a light breakfast."
I gave a quiet nod. "Well, I've heard it's an international tournament thing, kind-of like soccer?"
"But on broomsticks, and with nasty cannonballs trying to kill those poor blokes," Oliver added dryly. "Means their salary's justified at least! Not like those damn Welsh soccer players and their noodle-like legs forgetting how to play the ball and-"
As Megan's father went on about his distaste for the Wales' soccer team, we reached a quiet spot where, one at the time, Miss Jones brought us both back to Megan's home.
The Jones' house turned out to be pretty normal, all things considered. It was a cottage, a two floors' cottage, with a wide garden and chimney that gave off plumes of smoke. In one word, the whole place reeked of coziness, the typical coziness of a badger's house. I landed on my feet, which was improvement. I didn't stay on my feet, and rather plummeted face down on the soft grass.
Mister Jones was quite used to it, and simply kept his balance. I rubbed my nose, and then quietly got back up on my feet. Megan was waiting for me, excitedly grabbing hold of one of my hands and then dragging me through a tour of the entire house before I could as much as say something trite like 'Thank you for having me, I apologize for the inconvenience' and whatnot.
As it turned out, which was probably the norm for many a house, it was bigger on the inside than the outside. This made my mind boggle. I had utterly forgotten about it. I had utterly forgotten about the charm that made things bigger on the inside, even though this entire year would pretty much deal with showing off a magical trunk that had a large compartment within and a tent with an incredibly enormous space within.
What had been two floors, and perhaps eight rooms, suddenly became four floors and twenty-seven rooms. The flours in-between even had windows, though they shouldn't really have them.
"What do you think?" Megan asked as she brought me into the guest room -one of the many, apparently, we had toured, "You like it?"
The room had similar pastel tints. It was a pretty common-looking room, but as I plopped down on the bed's side, I was nearly engulfed by the softness of the mattress.
"It's perfect," I said with a smile. "Thanks for inviting me to stay over."
Megan beamed me a smile, "What else are friends for, silly?"
Then, I was dragged off to meet the portraits of the various family members.
I chuckled as I went along with it.
Leave it to a Hufflepuff to warm the heart of a cynical old coot.
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