(no subject)
When he woke in the morning, out by the firepit, he was all over aches and stiffness. Not from hunting, most likely, nor from aught to do with looking out for the Bar patrons in the face of what might come out of the woods. More likely it was from holding back earlier. You didn't hold the change at bay six hours and more without paying a price.
Just then, he didn't care. He lumbered to his feet, washed in the lake (cold, yeah, but he scarcely noticed), and pulled on his clothes. From there it was a short walk through the Bar and out the front door, onto the grounds of the Slayer Academy.
He wasn't there long.
In London there was a house, warded sixteen ways from Sunday and guarded by the sorcery of a man who'd long since gone back to his own world. They were good wardings, strong sorceries; they were enough that the people who lived there and the guests of the people who lived there thought very little of possible danger. Or of possible visitors, for that matter, since for some reason nearly anyone who wanted to visit paused to phone them first.
There was a knock at the door, short and sharp and sounding a bit like the knocker would sooner kick down the door than do it again. They didn't get that much in that safe little house, so the book got set aside and a few excuses got murmured to the baby. And then the door got answered, and oh, the blinking...
"Harry? Good Lord, what are you doing here? I thought you were teaching this week."
There was a lot of swallowing before the words came out.
"Sorry, Dad. I just..."
"You'd better come in, son."
"... all right."
Just then, he didn't care. He lumbered to his feet, washed in the lake (cold, yeah, but he scarcely noticed), and pulled on his clothes. From there it was a short walk through the Bar and out the front door, onto the grounds of the Slayer Academy.
He wasn't there long.
In London there was a house, warded sixteen ways from Sunday and guarded by the sorcery of a man who'd long since gone back to his own world. They were good wardings, strong sorceries; they were enough that the people who lived there and the guests of the people who lived there thought very little of possible danger. Or of possible visitors, for that matter, since for some reason nearly anyone who wanted to visit paused to phone them first.
There was a knock at the door, short and sharp and sounding a bit like the knocker would sooner kick down the door than do it again. They didn't get that much in that safe little house, so the book got set aside and a few excuses got murmured to the baby. And then the door got answered, and oh, the blinking...
"Harry? Good Lord, what are you doing here? I thought you were teaching this week."
There was a lot of swallowing before the words came out.
"Sorry, Dad. I just..."
"You'd better come in, son."
"... all right."