Updates
Disclaimer: The resort featured in this chapter is a fictitious place, so don’t try to find it in RL New York. Artistic license applies.
Warnings for: filler chapter, mild swearing
Chapter notes: The “Grady family” referenced in this chapter appears much more fully in my other fanfiction, One Death Too Many of the Permutations series – for those who are curious. Tony Stark’s age is the same as in canon, hence he is 8 years older than Harry, while Daniel Jackson is 6 years older. This chapter is also the start of linkage with another fandom – can you guess which? - Rey
Central Park Resort, 19th May 2004
“Whoa. You ought to have told me! This place is mine! I could’ve given you a discount or even a freebie. Now where do you stay? I hope it’s the bestest room? Oooh this is so embarrassing to me. Sorry, buddies.”
Mr. Stark – no, Tony – chatters and jitters on and on and on. It was a nice background noise to me, after the scare of my body and mind being hijacked by whatever it was, which he and Sai’yo noticed as just me suddenly freezing in place for a minute or so. It was nice, too, to be escorted at either side by the two of them. We felt… family-like.
Now we are no longer in a busy shopping centre, though, but instead a refined-but-naturalistic resort on the outskirts of Central Park where Sai’yo and I stayed in the previous night. The lobby is mostly empty, and the presence of Tony Stark – apparently the owner of this very place – in his bespoke suit and ownery manner acts as a potant magnet to all present eyes. And, walking so close to him like we do, Sai’yo and I are instantly under scrutiny, like never before.
Now, I wish I proposed for us to go to his house instead of here, or at least not walking in glued to his side like this. It’s too late to back out, too, as he’s dragging me to the front desk by way of his arm slung familiarly round my neck, as though I were his son or little brother or close cousin or best friend or… something like that.
And then, just so, he gets our room info, and unilaterally changes it to the best suite in the hotel, citing that his friends shouldn’t stay in “squalor.”
Worse, we cannot reject it, whether now or later when he is gone, as it is a gift from the owner of the establishment and one who seeks to befriend us with apparently no ulterior motive.
And worst, this means that, for the first time since we began this meandering trip, Sai’yo and I will sleep separately, whereas we have been enjoying better-quality rest since we firstly bunked together, for several reasons.
O-O-O-O
Tony chatters about engineering with Sai’yo in the background, after signing a similar contract to what Mr. Jackson signed earlier. Amusingly and pretty ironically, the man who often proclaims himself as playboy, philanthropic, genius billionaire is presently garbed in only his undergarments – a singlet and a pair of boxer shorts – and lounging like a teenage Dudley on the bed in one of the bedrooms, while Sai’yo is seated composedly in the armchair beside the bed.
Me? Well, I am lying on the couch in the suite’s common room, doing my House-work, which is currently necessitating me to keep in touch with my properties, people and friends. Not quite a fun idea of fun, except for hearing back from people that I care for, but at least it’s better than listening to Tony jabber for hours about things that honestly don’t interest me.
It’s better than dwelling on whatever happened to me while we were in the shopping centre, too.
O-O-O-O
Another bunch of Muggle money is ready to be purchased, Clan Chief Ragnok says, although in a far less quantity than years prior, showing to me the sharply declining involvement of Muggleborn in the British Wizarding World at large. He also proposes that I unravel a set of fearsome and seemingly unbreakable wards round a pyramid for the goblins for a to-be-decided fee or favour, under “William Weasley’s” suggestion. – This could be good to build positive reputation between my collective estate and the goblins at large, not to mention adding some more funds and favours to my coffers, but talks of pyramids makes me wary and rather paranoid, by now.
House-elves in all the lands and properties ask for more work and people to care for. Tita, her brother and their cousin, especially, beg to go wherever “Master Harry” and “Master Sai’yo” go, while the elderly Kreacher fusses about the safety and comforts of “the last Black, Master Harry Black.” Some others choose the sneakier route of begging me to visit them and hear their proposal of converting the respective properties into house-elf-run commercial establishments such as hotels, daycare centres, clothing galleries and restaurants.
Teal’c admits that he and Fawkes have been ranging far and wide when picking up the needy Jaffa, not only in the main ranks of the armed forces under his leadership, and that by now there have been well-guarded rumours about Jaffa soldiers and families being saved from the displeasure of Apophis by a golden bird accompanied by a burst of etherial song. He also admits that Fawkes is thinking of thinning the ranks of the other Goa’uld, whether system lords or not, by ranging to the other side during altercations and picking up the doubters to be later briefed by Teal’c, aided by the growing legend of that pesky, gung-ho bird’s doings. During this all-too-rare chance to talk, he additionally confirms to me that many of the crates in the first trunk and the subsequent ones hold weapons and armour that I and my friends can train to use for ourselves… and the Jaffa can use to protect me. – That damned sneaky, overprotective, fussy man.
Mr. Jackson – who exasperatedly demands that I just call him Daniel – continues to wheedle an agreement for me and Sai’yo to attend his symposium out of me. His bribe is now up to: “If you promise the both of you will attend and support me, and if you get us transportation there, I’ll show you all the physical evidence of what I have been talking about, starting from tomorrow till the day of the symposium. I promise you it won’t be boring!” And, damningly for me, it is… tempting.
Ms. Fraiser – Janet, she says, too firmly to be disobeyed – wants me and Sai’yo to visit her in Colorado Springs, as I admited to her yesterday that I am on US soil now, floating round. She even dangles the possibility of me and my “guardian” attending a short course on avionics before my figurative nose. And, bugger it all, this bribe is also all too tempting to just brush aside.
Ms. Langford wonders politely when Sai’yo and I are going to visit, and if we are all right, roaming New York on our lonesome, and if we have visited a number of famous tourist sites. She also forwards me the mobile number for “Daniel Jackson, a young but brilliant man in the field of archeology and ancient languages.” Small world….
Neville natters about new and rare plants he’s finding while exploring with Luna, gallivanting all over Indonesia, and invites me and Sai’yo to join their expedition.
Luna natters about the animals she has found while keeping Neville company, and her frankly uncomfortable – to me – musings on seducing the poor blogue.
Bill worries about his family members who still live in England – and worse, work in the Ministry – as the British Wizarding World seems to head to another blood-based conflict, egged on by the Daily Prophet and the Ministry, which started to rise after the deaths of Andy, Teddy and Hannah and the on-the-spot resignation of Neville, Susan and I from the Auror Corps. He admits that he is thinking of asking me to help him ward the land round the Burrow, as he knows that his parents are too stubborn to move away for their own safety, although they have been targeted before.
George lays out his plans for many inventions, and demands that Sai’yo return as soon as possible to help him, or at least be fitted with his own set of comm journal and mirror for easier brainstorming and consultation sessions. Sadly, his inventions are increasingly less jocular or frivolous in nature, nowadays, though Weasleys’ Wizarding Wizzes were a bit of needed humour during the war.
Justin complains about the Muggleborn students of our new school being more accident-prone than the mixed group that we got at Hogwarts, given how enamoured of magical experiments they are. He also demands that the calm, fatherly Sai’yo be trained as a nurse to help him out, plus one more doctor-healer as extra hand and knowledge, the curriculum vitae of whom he forwarded to me in the previous exchange of messages. And he demands that I go home for his engagement party with Milla next month, too.
Hermione alarmingly muses about breaking into the Department of Mysteries again, to see if the Unspeakables have done more horrors to anybody else or gathered more items related to Arga and her people, citing that the both of them are bored. – That damned gung-ho witch….
Susan natters about all the political manoeuvrings that she has been up to with her Pureblood-heir circles, to both safeguard us from persecutions from that front and try to salvage the dying community as a whole. She is looking to preserve some of the Wizarding customs, too, by requesting that a Wizarding Studies subject be added to our school, which curriculum she has secretly prepared and now forwarded to me. And she has also been feeling out potential students who are not Muggleborn but open-minded and circumspect enough to study in a secure Muggleborn environment like our school. All, sensitive complications that I can do without thinking, right now, as this trip is supposed to be my holiday.
Chilla timidly wonders on behalf of her people about when I will return and be among the Residents once more, and on behalf of herself about when we will hold another “movie night.” On another note, delivered in a painstakingly detailed and factual argument that suggests long, careful thought, she proposes that, if possible, the Jaffa are integrated into their community, as it has been well established in a safe environment. Sigh….
The Grady family, who lives in and takes care of the Potters’ townhouse in Washington DC, asks yet again when I would favour them with a visit. The eight-year-old son, Mitchell Grady, even uses his childlike charms to cutely and sincerely beg to be a tour leader for when I come there. And in the meantime, his parents wonder – again, not for the first time – if I would like to retake the expedition that the late Charlus and Dorea Potter often went in in hope of recovering the bodies of their “wartime friends.” More sigh….
Aaand, Zabini puts out a worrying one-liner of “No more need to study so hard about potions. I am already studying it”. Damn that sod.
I admit, after all that, I spent the time napping on the couch, with the comm journals, notebooks and case of comm mirrors and phone as my pillows for my head and arms.
And now Tony Stark the overgrown spoiled brat is waking me up, in not a pleasant manner, by trickling ice water down my temple.
I drench him in gallons of conjured ice water, in retaliation.
His yelp of shock and indignation is like music to my ears.
O-O-O-O
“Oh come on. Sais told me you’ve got no definite destination in mind. You can keep me company observing that dino island Hammond got. Otherwise I won’t go and then I’ll be in trouble with Pepper and Obi.” Tony collars me with his arm, practically cuddling me sidewise on the couch, wheedling all the while.
“Sais?” – I try to wriggle free without magic, to no avail. For a short, seemingly so-so man, the prat’s so strong!
“That one.” The said prat points a thumb at Sai’yo, who has been watching us carefully from one of the two armchairs positioned across the couch, probably ready to pounce in should he judge that I am truly in trouble. – Embarrassing. I’m not a “maiden in distress”!
I relax a little, laughing. “Sais,” I repeat, bemusedly. “What a nickname. You should ask if he’s okay with it first, though.” Then I jab an elbow into his side, channeling a Tickling Hex through it at the same time, and flee to the empty armchair beside Sai’yo when he yelps and lets me go.
“Things changed,” I tell him when my laughter has subsided, before he can spew out more words. “We’ll be busy doing things this week till the next one, and next month we need to return home, at least briefly.”
“Well, I’m rescheduling the visit to the island for some time next week or the week after, then,” is his flippant response, before he bounces up from the couch and prances away to where he has discarded his outer garments and shoes, probably for his mobile phone. “I’ll chase you down to good ol’ England if you chicken out of it!”
I sputter out my protest, but he is already dialing up a number and talking to someone, ordering… her?… to, as he said, reschedule his appointments so that he and entourage can go visit “Las Cinco Muertes” at the end of next week.
Oh, damn.