"Too bad Severus couldn't make it tonight," Ron commented.
"Yeah," Harry said. "I think a night out would have done wonders for him."
"You must be terribly disappointed," Hermione said to him with that weird, sympathetic look she'd been giving him for the past few days, like he was made of fine china and about to shatter.
"He'll come around. You know how strong Severus is," Harry said.
"Yes, of course, he will," she agreed. "I just thought you might be upset about him cancelling on you like that."
There it was again, that peculiar undercurrent that he couldn't put his finger on. "Er, well, yes, of course it's disappointing, but I think we have to think of what's best for Severus."
"It's best that he be with you, Harry," Hermione said. "You've got to know that."
Okay, things had just slipped from weird straight into bizarre. Hermione was almost acting as if he and Severus were . . . married, or seriously involved. He opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on, when a woman's voice from another table called, "Hermione?"
Hermione glanced over to where her name had been called, her face lighting up immediately.
"Lydia! Excuse me a minute, Harry." Hermione said, jumping to her feet, and making her graceful way through the crowded pub to the other side of the room where the gorgeous, blonde Slytherin woman whose child they'd visited in hospital years ago sat.
The two men at Lydia's table rose to their feet and headed towards where Ron and he were sitting.
"Hi, Terry, John," Ron greeted the pair when they reached them.
"Grab a chair," Harry invited, once the hand shaking was over.
Lydia's husband, Terry Forrester, was a tall, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes. Her brother, John Penbroke, was a medium height, heavy set man with warm brown eyes and a friendly face. They were both good friends to Ron and him. Terry was a barrister and worked with Ron on a fairly regular basis, so they often talked shop when together.
"It's good to see you," John remarked. "It's been forever."
"Yeah, we've had a rough time of it these past few months," Ron said.
"I heard about what happened to your team," Terry said. "I can't imagine what you went through."
"We tried to see you at St. Mungo's, but they said you were at death's door and only immediate family would be allowed in," John said. "I'm glad to see they were mistaken."
Ron's gaze moved to Harry.
Reading the question in those familiar blue eyes, Harry gave a cautious nod. He didn't want to advertise what he'd done for Ron, but these two knew that his powers were far more extensive than he normally let on. He hated deceiving friends.
"They weren't mistaken. I'd've snuffed it, if it weren't for Harry here. He used the Sanguinis Philos to save me."
Harry admired how Ron's words suggested that it had been the potion, rather than his freakish powers, that was responsible for the cure.
"That's an amazing potion," John commented. "It saved our father once."
"I wouldn't underestimate Harry's part in it," Terry said. "I'm still firmly convinced that we owe Marcus' recovery to Harry."
Harry's gaze snapped to Terry's serious face as Ron asked, "What do you mean?"
"Marcus was dying. The mediwiz had warned us to prepare ourselves the morning that Harry and his team stopped in to see him. We thought it was his last day with us. We were so grateful that Harry and his friends were granting him his greatest wish. Marcus was so weak when they arrived that he could barely talk."
Even now, Harry could see that tiny form lying in the hospital bed, his skin whiter than the sheets he lay against.
"I remember," John said. "The snidelus had almost consumed him by that point."
"Marcus had snidelus?" Ron's face revealed his shock. "I knew he was sick, but snidelus?"
Snidelus was incurable. Basically, it was a condition in which a wizard or witch's system was incapable of handling their growing power. As their magic grew, it overloaded their nervous systems, eventually killing them. It was a long, agonizing process. Most afflicted wizard children didn't survive past their seventh birthday.
John nodded. "There was no question. It was snidelus. Marcus is the only child in history to have survived it."
"You cured snidelus?" Ron asked Harry in a low tone. He needn't have worried. The pub was so loud around them, it was clear no one was paying them any attention whatsoever.
"I . . . I honestly don't know," Harry said. "When we were talking, Marcus had a seizure. The mediwizs cleared the room. Marcus cried for me to stay, so they let me. He was in so much pain. I took hold of his hand and . . . ."
Thinking back on it now, he realized that he had worked some magic on the child. At the time, he hadn't known what he was doing. All he knew was that when he took Marcus' hand, Marcus' power had felt wrong, blocked somehow so that it turned in on itself, instead of flowing out. By instinct, he'd reached out with his magic and cleared the blocks. At the time, he'd thought he was just transferring his energy to help the dying child hold on a little longer, but now, with the experience he had healing Ron and Severus behind him, he knew he'd done much more than transfer a bit of his power.
"And from that moment on, Marcus started improving," Terry said. "It wasn't an instantaneous recovery. It was weeks before he could walk again, but . . . ."
"He shouldn't have walked at all," John, the Squib doctor, explained.
Realizing that he had to downplay his role in this, Harry said, "I'm really not sure you can credit me with having anything to do with it. I admit that I wished with all my heart that he would be well again, but wishing doesn't cure something like snildelus."
"Harry's right," Ron seconded. "He's strong, but he's no miracle worker. Maybe meeting his favourite quidditch team helped Marcus recover. I know the first time Harry introduced me to the Cannons, I felt like I'd been reborn."
Everyone at the table was aware of Ron's mania for the Cannons and laughed at Ron's heartfelt comment.
Uncomfortable with the conversation, Harry gave Ron's shoulder a pat. "I'm going to check out the action at the bar. Do you want anything?"
Ron gave him another of those strange looks that he'd been giving him the last two days. "You're checking out the action at the bar?"
Ron had never had any problem with his meeting other men on their trips to the Three Broomsticks before. "Er, yeah. Is that a problem?"
He'd known Ronald Weasley for more than fifteen years now. He could tell by his best friend's expression that Ron was sitting on a huge reaction when he answered a little stiffly, "No, I guess life goes on, right?"
Harry opened his mouth to question Ron, but he realized this noisy bar wasn't the right place. And he certainly wasn't going to go into whatever was wrong with John and Terry sitting right there at the table with them. First thing tomorrow morning, he was going to go sit on Ron's bedside and get him and Hermione to tell him what the devil was going on. But until then, he needed to put some space between him and the peculiar looks.
"Right. I'll see you later."
"Sure, Harry," Ron answered, his disapproval almost palpable.
Beginning to think he'd fallen into an alternate universe when he ploughed into that wall the other night, he made his way through the mob to the bar.
It was the usual crowd. He could see Michael talking to a good-looking man at the far end of the overcrowded bar. Catching his eye, Michael gave him a guarded nod before returning his full attention to his new companion, a tall, athletic-looking redhead that Harry thought he might have slept with during his quidditch days.
Harry tried not to dwell on what might have been as he eased through the crowd to place his order. It was impossible not to jostle someone in the press of people, and he found his elbow bumping into a slender man with dark hair that was even messier than his own. Strangely enough, there was a good foot or so of space on the stranger's other side, an absolute anomaly on a night this crowded.
The man he'd bumped into had a handsome, quirky face and ears that were so strongly pointed that Harry seriously thought there might be some elf in his bloodline. The stranger looked out of place, for he was dressed in Muggle jeans and a black leather jacket. More importantly, there was no evidence that the guy was carrying a wand. It wasn't like those tight black jeans left any doubt about that. Harry supposed that the jacket could have a pocket built into it to hold the man's wand, but he didn't see any evidence of that in the close-fitting leather.
"Sorry," Harry said.
Intriguing hazel eyes sparked with amusement as a sleepy American drawl answered, "No problem. Pleased to meet you."
The minute he heard the American accent, he understood why everyone was giving the stranger a wide berth. American Wizarding society was very different from their own. For one thing, since the Salem purges, the births of American wizards weren't kept on record anywhere, as they were here in Great Britain. In the States, wizards weren't even required to send their children to Wizarding schools the way British wizards were. Perhaps because of that, the Americans had a reputation for being reckless and unpredictable. British wizards tended to avoid their American counterparts as a rule, for fear of exposure to the Muggle world. But since Harry hadn't seen any headlines about the exposure of the American Wizarding world on the scandal sheets any of the times he'd been in a London newspaper shop, he supposed they couldn't be that careless.
"You're new here, aren't you?" Harry asked, feeling the stranger's magic ripple around him. When a wizard or witch reached a certain level of power, he or she became physically aware of the potential of others. Harry could feel wizards of Voldemort or Burke's power across a room. He had to be closer to feel Hermione or Severus. This guy was at about Ron's level of power, but there was something strange about his magic. Usually, he sensed another wizard's power in a steady pulse. This man's was intermittent, which made no sense. It felt like it was there one second, strong as could be, but gone the next.
"That obvious, huh?" the man asked with a self-conscious smile to Harry's question about being new.
Harry waited for the inevitable recognition to cross the man's face now that he was close enough to be seen, but the stranger's features remained wonderfully unenlightened, even though Harry knew his lightning bolt scar was showing.
"A bit," Harry said with a smile.
"Can I buy you a beer?" the stranger asked with a boyish charm that was nearly irresistible.
"Sure," Harry said. Offering his hand, he introduced himself. "Harry Potter."
There was still no reaction in the man's face. It was like his name meant nothing to the American.
The guy's handshake was firm. "John. John Shep . . . Shepford."
The last was a lie, Harry automatically noticed, but not all wizards cared for casual paramours to know their true identities. If this were even about that. The guy could just be being friendly.
"Good to meet you, John. Where are you from?" Harry asked, hoping his meagre knowledge of American geography was up to the reply. He knew Washington D.C. and New York were on the Atlantic coast and Los Angeles on the Pacific, but beyond that, everything was a blur.
A hint of irony entered Shepford's attitude as he answered, "From a galaxy far, far away."
Not many people in the Three Broomsticks would have recognized the Muggle reference. Harry did, but even understanding the reference, it was a strange thing to say.
Harry considered himself a fairly good judge of character, and he would have sworn that, despite Shepford's joking attitude, the man wasn't lying to him. It made no sense, but, then, so little had made sense in his life the last few days. Playing along, he asked, "So, did you bring your spaceship or did you apparate in?"
Shepford's expression dropped at his last reference; he seemed nearly confused by the last part of his question. After a moment, he answered, "I took the train, actually."
"Are you here on business or pleasure?" Harry asked, taking a seat on the stool beside Shepford's.
"Vacation, actually," John answered. "I guess you call it 'holiday' here."
From down the bar, the bartender, Mark, called out, "Your usual, Harry?"
"Thanks, Mark," Harry yelled back as Mark levitated a foaming mug over to him. When he turned back to Shepford, he couldn't help but notice the expression on the man's face as he stared at the mug Harry now held in his hands. Lowering his voice, he leaned in towards Shepford and asked, "How did you get in here?"
This was a problem he hadn't encountered before. Muggles weren't supposed to be able to see Hogsmeade. They could get here with a wizard's help, like their Squib friend John Penbroke, but it was clear that this Shepford character had just wandered in on his own. If Shepford had really taken the train, that meant he'd walked through the wall at King's Cross Station to get here. What Muggle could do that?
"What do you mean?" Shepford asked in a casual, relaxed tone. Too casual.
Harry could tell by the man's suddenly intense expression that he was primed for battle. There was still no wand in evidence. Keeping things as calm as possible, he said, "Muggles aren't supposed to be able to penetrate this far into our world."
Shepford's tension was no longer underplayed. He clearly hated having to ask, but he quietly questioned, "Muggles?"
"Non-magical people," Harry explained, the man's ignorance confirming his fears.
"I'm, ah, not exactly a Muggle," Shepford said, his gaze moving with that deceptive casualness to the door. He seemed to realize he'd never make it and turned his full attention back to Harry.
