The morning of a new day! The morning of the first day of the holidays! The sun shone through the window, filling me with a strange teenage joy, a thirst for adventure and rest. My consciousness was filling with rest, yes, but my body craved exercise—almost before I threw off the blanket, I rolled out of bed for a "drop and give me twenty." I always do this just to do it.
Dropped. Pushed up. My gaze noted the absence under the bed of the already familiar anvil, pair of hammers, and box of interchangeable heads. I thought, stood up, and looked around. My thoughts gathered in a heap, and the realization came that I was no longer at Hogwarts, and my things were in the backpack by the wardrobe. Hmm, and my room is still just as nondescript, half-empty, furniture without sharp corners, and the marker or chalk boards are still covered in formulas.
Spending a couple of minutes on rough "human" physical exercises to get the blood pumping without any subtle energy influences and wushu-like movements, I headed to the bathroom—to wash my face, brush my teeth, and other operations. Quiet sounds of bustling in the kitchen drifted up from below—Mom is making breakfast, no doubt. But first things first—physical training. I taught myself this, so now I'll go outside myself, past the kitchen, surely filled with the smells of breakfast being prepared.
Returning to the room, I put on a tracksuit that was high time to replace. Although it was bought with room to grow both up and out, it was already a bit small in both parameters. However, it's enough for a run, but not enough for the wide movements of elven training. And although I noticed this back at Hogwarts, thinking: "Tomorrow I'll definitely enchant it to fit," but what bad luck—there was never time.
Running down the stairs to the first floor, I waved to Mom, who noticed me.
"Good morning, Mom, I'm going for a run."
"Good morning, son," continuing to perform her rites over the stove, she turned and smiled. "Breakfast will be in about thirty minutes."
"Okay."
Putting on my shoes, I went outside, stretched in the rays of the morning sun, and went for a run along the street, lined on both sides with decent private houses. Morning cool, sun, light breeze in the face. Nice.
I didn't run for long, and about twenty minutes later I returned to the house, but headed for the backyard. This isn't a manor, of course, there are no cool winter gardens and huge gazebos, but you can easily hide from an outside observer behind a fence, as well as behind bushes and trees. Taking off the windbreaker from the suit, I remained in just a T-shirt and pants. The bracelets, which I only took off for Quidditch matches, perform their function perfectly, proportionally loading the body regardless of its level of development.
Movement, another movement. Circulation of life energy, another movement, maintaining circulation... I can already not control this matter—reflexes, habits, adaptation of the body and consciousness. I can even think about something else, but I shouldn't—even for an ordinary person, the effectiveness of training improves when concentrating on it. What can one say about a wizard.
By the end of the training, I was noticeably sweaty, but not at all tired. It seems the process of forming affinity with life energy has finally finished—only this can explain the complete absence of fatigue, despite the load and work of the body. Pulling off the wet T-shirt, I turned to the house.
"Pfft..."
A sharp sound forced me to look slightly to the side of the door to the backyard. To where there was a table and chairs on the veranda of the house.
"Cough-cough..." Hermione clearly choked on something, and Mom sympathetically and mockingly patted her on the back.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, son," Mom smiled, and Hermione finally cleared her throat and took a deep breath.
"That's great," I headed into the house but didn't manage to cross the threshold.
"Hector..."
"Yes, 'Mione?"
"You..."
"What?" I spread my hands.
"When did you manage to get so..." my sister tried to show something with her hands, pointing at me, then somewhere into space, while holding a mug with a picture of cartoon kittens in one hand. "All this!"
Mom smiled, looking at this pantomime, and I couldn't suppress a smile either, but inspected myself just in case.
"Hmm..." I spun around, examining my noticeably strengthened body. "Hmm-m-m... Not bad."
"Forgive me, of course," Hermione gathered her thoughts. "But just recently you were... somewhat out of shape."
"Skin and bones, say it like it is."
"Let's go into the house already," Mom interrupted us with a smile. "Breakfast is ready. Just rinse off first, Hector."
"Naturally."
I quickly went up to the second floor and climbed into the shower, and getting out of there a couple of minutes later, looked in the mirror. Indeed, there are moments I didn't notice. The reason is simple—at Hogwarts, I rarely saw myself in the mirror without clothes, or rather—never at all. Well, and I don't suffer from excessive narcissism to engage in self-admiration, so, yes, the changes passed by my perception. And even if I tracked changes every day, I still wouldn't be as impressed as now, seeing them all at once.
In general... I am normal! No, considering the soul from shards, this statement is clearly somewhat exaggerated, but now on my body there is not a single trace of former frailty, and importantly, muscle groups are developed absolutely evenly. No, not an athlete, and certainly not Apollo—that's out of the question. But the proportions are correct, not flat.
I smiled at myself in the mirror, "shot" finger guns, smiled even wider at my own behavior, and quickly scarpered to the room—need to put on at least something. The choice fell on the Hogwarts uniform, of course, excluding the robe. Our uniform is not simple and changes slightly in size. Now this is the few things that fit me perfectly, but just a little more, and it will also become too small. Trousers, shirt, jumper—excellent. Didn't put on the tie, of course—it's painfully unserious with its yellow stripes. In this form, I went downstairs.
"Hector?" father stared at me with misunderstanding. "Your uniform is good, of course, and this almost black gray color... But..."
"I'm growing," I shrugged, sitting at the table. "And ordinary clothes can't boast such properties."
"Ah, I see. And indeed. Have I already said how much you've shot up?" father raised a mug of tea in a characteristic gesture, like: "To you, young man."
"More than once."
"Let's have breakfast already," Hermione interrupted the conversation. "And I'll have a lot of questions for you, Hector."
Breakfast was indeed good, classic English, voluminous, varied, and damn filling. And no oatmeal.
"So, children," father leaned back in his chair. "What are the plans?"
"What about France?" Hermione asked immediately.
It seems she wants to go there so much that she's ready to run to Dover on foot, and from there swim across the English Channel in a straight line, straight to Calais.
"Flight in three days," Mom answered.
"And where?" Hermione seemed to hold her breath.
"To Paris, sunshine," father answered.
"Hooray!" my sister clearly wanted to jump in place, but restrained herself, fidgeting and assuming an important look.
"You wanted to visit the magical quarter in Paris, didn't you?"
"Yes, of course, Dad," my sister nodded. "In Nice it's too small and more for tourists. Although in Nice it should be very good now, warm..."
"And crowded," I nodded. "Tourist season."
"How do you know?"
"I look around, listen to people, read books," I shrugged, taking my cup of tea from the table.
"Indeed."
"But first," father became more serious. "I think I'll take you to this Diagon Alley of yours. You, Hector, should visit the hospital... St. Mungo's, if I haven't mixed anything up. I have the address, I even studied it, although I can't get in there myself."
"Is the hospital in Diagon Alley?"
"It has two entrances, if what's written is to be believed. One not far from the Leaky Cauldron, and on the other side, you need to walk down Diagon Alley, go behind the bank on the left and further down the street about a hundred meters—there's a large building there, you won't miss it."
"I see. Can I also buy myself a postal owlet for local correspondence?"
"And how will we take it to France?"
"I think I'll send it to one of the guys for a while," I nodded to my thoughts.
"Well..." Father looked at me, at Hermione dressed in jeans and a windbreaker. "I see you are ready for the trip. I'll just get money..."
"No need," I smiled. "During the year at Hogwarts, I earned a little extra and can spend it on myself."
"Interestingly, how did you earn extra?" Hermione was surprised. "You studied, practiced magic, communicated with friends, trained to play Quidditch... When did you manage to earn extra?"
"Oh, it's not difficult if you set such a goal. Monetizing your skills and opportunities is not difficult."
"For example?" Hermione pouted.
Parents watched this with a slight smile.
"For example, I, through another person, made a bet that in the match against Slytherin, our Seeker would end the game in the first minute."
"But you were the Seeker!"
"That's the point. I knew I could do it, and earned on it."
"Cheating. Pure cheating."
"Don't hate the player, hate the game," I smiled back, and father chuckled.
"Well done, son, you won't be lost. But I don't need your money—what kind of head of the family would I be if I couldn't afford to spend money on children?"
"Logical."
On this, our kitchen gatherings ended. I went upstairs and grabbed my backpack, and we went to the garage, and ten minutes later were already driving on the road to London.
Reaching the Leaky Cauldron, father parked nearby.
"Are you with us?"
"Why not? The year before last, true, when we were getting Hermione ready for school, a couple of unpleasant incidents happened, but overall, it's quite an interesting place."
We got out of the car and headed to the pub. At the entrance, Hermione took father by the hand, and now he could see the pub and go inside with us.
There were few visitors, and therefore everything looked quite decent, because it was their unkempt appearance, I recall, that significantly spoiled the atmosphere.
"Good afternoon," the elderly bartender behind the counter greeted us.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Tom," Hermione smiled. "We're going to Diagon Alley."
"So early? Just returned from Hogwarts..."
"Business, Mr. Tom," I smiled. "It knows neither season nor holidays."
"True, young man," the bartender nodded. "Pass through."
Hermione took on the role of leader of our small squad and led us to the backyard. Taking out her wand, she touched the wall in the right places, opening the passage. Immediately we stepped onto Diagon Alley. This is the second time I make a note to find out if this is another dimension or some other form of movement in space, because I feel a clear... shift.
There were few wizards around, and no youth at all—only adults. But even so, they bought ingredients in shops, or some other things, walking along this crooked, in every sense, street, among intentionally lopsided houses and shops, each of which contributed a drop of absurdity to the picture of the magic of this street.
"How interesting it is, after all," father smiled, not particularly hiding his curiosity. "And so unusual."
"Dad," Hermione, pulling father by the hand, turned around, looking with slight reproach and an equally slight smile. "We already talked about this."
"Yes-yes, behave normally."
We didn't have to wade through crowds of wizards—there weren't that many of them. No one paid attention to us, just a passing glance, not recognizing an acquaintance, and moving on, interested in goods.
"Hector," Hermione stopped abruptly. "Look."
Following the girl's gaze, I saw the display window of "Quality Quidditch Supplies." There, in this central window, stood a Firebolt vertically on a stand—a beautiful broom, nothing to say. Curves, bristles, and even gilded footrests. And next to it, also on a stand, stood Sleipnir vertically.
"Your broom," Hermione nodded.
"Indeed."
We approached to take a closer look, and I was surprised that below, by the stand, was a very large frame with a moving photograph, where I on Sleipnir show incredibly fast, daring, crazy, and completely unthinkable stunts, effectively and spectacularly destroying opponents on the field.
"Amusing..." since Hermione held father by the hand, he could also see such magical things. "That is... Is that how you fly?"
"Honestly," I looked thoughtfully at my photos. "I didn't think it looked like that from the outside."
"But that was actually really cool just now!" father admired, albeit quietly.
"Dad!" Hermione pulled him back.
"Ah, well yes... Ahem, you should be more careful."
"Of course," I nodded, glancing briefly at the sign under Sleipnir "Coming soon. Second-class flight certificate required."
While we walked to the bank, father managed to inspect everything, albeit fleetingly, while diligently not showing surprise.
"You've already been here, haven't you?" I couldn't resist asking when we were climbing the stairs to Gringotts.
"So what?"
"Indeed."
Exchanging money turned out to be a quick affair, and there were almost no queues in the bank. True, here father had to yield the role of an adult, and Hermione exchanged money. Well, like, he's an ordinary person. Who knows how goblins might kick up at such a thing?
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