"Let me help you make the tea, Joanna," I said with a smile when she returned about ten minutes later after putting her daughter to bed.
I had learned this trick from Jiraiya. A mild psychotropic drug slipped into her cup—thanks to little Ino for keeping me supplied—allowed our hospitable but nervous hostess to relax completely and feel trust toward the two strangers in her home, meaning Harry and me. It was an excellent thing, made from herbs and with no consequences for the 'client': no nausea, no headache. Later, the person didn't even understand why they had spilled their entire life story and suddenly wanted to become your best friend. Since I had no talent for genjutsu, it was indispensable.
"May we read the manuscript?" My perverted godfather had not only traveled through different countries gathering intelligence for our village; he also wrote rather indecent novels. Because of that, I knew something about publishing. More than once I had copied his 'bestsellers' for the printer because Jiraiya's handwriting was terrible... had been terrible.
"Yes, of course." Joanna searched through her bag and handed over a bundle of pages. Harry took them, being the only one of us who could read English.
"Tell us how you decided to write this book about a boy wizard," I asked gently. "And the name is interesting. Harry Potter, I believe, if I understood your daughter correctly?"
"You see, Nart..." She shifted in her chair. "I'm... a failure. A couple of years ago, when Jessie was still very small, I moved to Edinburgh. You could say I ran away from my old life... My sister and her husband live here. I think I saw the two of you in his café today. I've dreamed of becoming a writer since childhood. I always invented stories... Then, two years ago, after arriving here, I was sitting at the station waiting for my sister when... I overheard a conversation. As wild as it sounds, two women were talking about a boy. They called him 'the boy from the prophecy,' Harry Potter. I heard the name clearly. From their conversation I understood that he had a very noticeable lightning-shaped scar on his forehead and funny round spectacles. That he had entered Hogwarts, a school of witchcraft and wizardry. They spoke about magic and all sorts of things. Then they left—as if they simply vanished... I still don't know what it was. Now I think it may have been a dream, or that inspiration visited me in an unusual form."
Joanna smiled sadly.
"The story of a little orphan who became a wizard. His birthday even matches mine... That story gave me a reason to keep living. It seized me completely. I wanted to tell it: the story of the Boy Who Lived and once again defeated the Dark Lord. It's only a pity that every publisher rejected it and advised me to find a real job. I live on benefits, but..." Joanna gestured eloquently around the small flat.
While she spoke, Harry sat beside me on the sofa, quietly snorting as he read through the yellowish pages at remarkable speed.
"It's interesting overall," he muttered. "But most of it is... complete invention. I haven't even reached the middle yet. And this part about Quidditch is wrong—the rules are completely different. The way she's written Harry Potter himself... I don't know..."
"My godfather wrote a book about a fearless shinobi when he was young," I said thoughtfully. "If he hadn't written that book, the world might never have changed. You know, this story about Harry Potter wouldn't damage your Statute of Secrecy at all. It would only strengthen it. This woman is writing about wizards, yet she didn't believe her own daughter when the child said she had seen magic."
"Doubt is human nature," Harry said with understanding. "You know, after I returned from school to the Dursleys, it felt as though everything before that had been an unusual dream. Too magical to be real. As though I'd actually fallen asleep in the cupboard under the stairs and dreamed all of it... Damn."
"I... don't understand any of this," our hostess said nervously, looking between us. "Who are you?"
"We'll step away for a minute, Joanna." I gave her a reassuring smile. "RJ and I need to clarify something."
Harry rose and followed me into the kitchen.
"Isn't the Daily Prophet enough? That Mordred-cursed rag is forever either putting me on a pedestal or smearing me so thoroughly that I can't wash it off," the wizard hissed. "Now this woman has overheard fragments about me somewhere and invented three cartloads of nonsense."
"At the moment, it isn't necessarily good or bad," I said. "You have a chance to tell this entire magical and nonmagical world what really happened, from the source, without embellishment. If the story she heard during a difficult period helped her, it may help other people too."
"And what exactly are you suggesting?" Harry asked sarcastically. "That you drop the illusion, I announce that the famous Harry Potter—terror of Dark Lords and Death Eaters—is sitting in her home, and then we revive her after the shock? Not to mention violating the Statute of Secrecy..."
"It can be much simpler." I rummaged in the backpack hidden beneath my henge. "These are psychotropic espionage pills. If you give one to a person after the drug I already gave her to establish trust, you can tell her anything you like—even instructions for killing the local ruler. She'll believe she invented it herself. Joanna won't remember that we visited her tonight. But she'll remember everything you tell her after taking the pill extremely well. As for her three-year-old daughter, Joanna will decide the child dreamed about wizards after listening to her mother's stories about them. Basic human psychology."
"You already put something in her drink? I didn't even notice," Harry said, startled.
"Sleight of hand." I shrugged. "Otherwise she'll use your name to write nonsense like those prophetic newspapers of yours. This way, at least you control the process."
"Damn. You're right..." Harry dropped wearily onto a chair. "Obliviate wouldn't help in this situation either. We'd have to erase far too much of her memory. I can't believe this. I always end up stepping into some kind of disaster, and something always happens to me."
"That's the fate of every hero." I laughed.
"All right. Give me the pill—or rather, let's do what you suggested," Harry agreed.
I nodded and returned to the sitting room, where our hostess waited patiently.
"Would you like more tea, Joanna?" I asked with a smile.
* * *
Dawn had begun to lighten the sky by the time Harry finished telling her about the Triwizard Cup that had turned out to be a Portkey to a graveyard. About Cedric Diggory, who had touched it with him. About the boy's death and Voldemort's resurrection. About how Harry escaped, how he gave his prize money to his friend's twin brothers, and how his female friend caught a reporter who could turn into a beetle.
Harry had exhausted himself. He looked utterly drained, reliving everything as he spoke.
"That's enough. The drug will wear off soon, your tongue is already starting to stumble, and Jessica will wake up. It would be bad if she found us here," I stopped him.
"Yes." He nodded.
We went into the kitchen, and Harry called Kreacher.
"Home," my friend asked the elf. Yes—friend. Definitely a friend now.
The elf transported us to the mansion, apparently directly into Harry's room.
"Naruto." He clutched at me. "Could you stay in my room? Cedric..."
"You feel guilty about his death?" I asked.
"I decided to play the noble hero, and he died because of it. The truth is, I wanted to win, but I thought everyone would finally leave me alone if Cedric and I shared the victory—that they would stop mocking me... I'm no hero."
"Quiet, quiet." I had to embrace him and stroke the dark hair I had nearly forgotten because of the henge.
"I'm pathetic," he sobbed into my chest.
"Calm down and sleep. Whether you're a hero or not, time will show."
His breathing gradually became even, and he fell asleep without releasing his tight grip on my clothes.