16. The Burrow
The enchanted Ford Anglia soared through the night sky, its engine humming steadily as it cut through the cool summer air. The moon cast a silver glow over the rooftops below, making the quiet streets of Little Whinging look almost peaceful—if not for the four teenagers in a flying car, dead set on a rescue mission.
Fred gripped the wheel, his eyes scanning the rows of identical houses. In the passenger's seat, George was craning his neck out the window, peering down, while Melanie sat beside ron, map unfolded across her lap.
"Are you sure we're going the right way?" George asked, voice barely carrying over the sound of the rushing wind.
Melanie squinted at the map, tracing her finger over the winding streets. "Positive. Privet Drive should be just—there!" She jabbed a spot on the map, then pointed ahead. "That one, with the bars on the window."
Ron and Hope exchanged a troubled glance.
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered. "They actually locked him up?"
Hope felt her stomach twist as she took in the sight of the house—prim, proper, and utterly ordinary, save for the metal bars over one upstairs window. A wave of unease settled over her. She had known the Dursleys were awful, but this?
"Let's get him out of there," Hope urged.
Ron nodded, as Fred steered the car closer until it hovered just outside Harry's window. The engine let out a low grumble as he rolled it to a stop. He fumbled with the controls, lowering the window before leaning out and gripping the iron bars. They rattled loudly against the glass.
"Harry!" he whispered harshly, shaking them again. "Wake up!"
A groggy figure stirred inside. A moment later, Harry's face appeared at the window, eyes widening in shock. He stumbled back, as if he wasn't entirely sure he was awake.
Harry's mouth fell open as the full impact of what he was seeing hit him. Ron was leaning out of the back window of an old turquoise car, which was parked in mid-air. Hope leaned forward slightly, coming into view from behind Ron.
"Hiya, Harry," she greeted with a smile.
Grinning at Harry from the front seats were Fred and George.
"All right, Harry?" George called.
"What's been going on?" Ron asked. "Why haven't you been answering my letters? I've asked you to stay about twelve times, and then Dad came home and said you'd got an official warning for using magic in front of Muggles..."
"It wasn't me! And how did he know?" Harry asked, furrowing his brows.
"He works for the Ministry," Ron said. "You know we're not supposed to do spells outside school—"
"Bit rich coming from you," Harry muttered, staring at the floating car.
"Oh, this doesn't count," Ron insisted. "We're only borrowing this, it's Dad's, we didn't enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with..."
"I told you, I didn't! But it'll take too long to explain now. Look, can you explain to them at Hogwarts that the Dursleys have locked me up and won't let me come back? Obviously, I can't magic myself out, because the Ministry'll think that's the second spell I've done in three days, so—"
"No need. That's what we're here for," Hope grinned.
Ron nodded. "We've come to take you home with us."
"But you can't magic me out either—"
"We don't need to," Ron replied, jerking his head toward the front seats and grinning. "You forget who we've got with us."
"Tie that around the bars," Fred said, throwing the end of a rope to Harry.
"If the Dursleys wake up, I'm dead," Harry muttered as he tied the rope tightly around a bar. Fred revved the engine.
"Don't worry," Fred assured him. "Stand back."
Harry moved into the shadows next to Hedwig, who seemed to understand the importance of the moment and kept still and silent. The car revved louder and louder until suddenly, with a crunching noise, the bars were pulled clean out of the window as Fred drove straight up into the air. Harry ran back to the window, watching the bars dangle a few feet above the ground. Panting, Ron hoisted them up into the car.
When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ron and Hope, Fred reversed as close as possible to Harry's window.
"Get in," Ron urged.
"But all my Hogwarts stuff... my wand... my broomstick..."
"Where is it?" George asked.
"Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can't get out of this room."
"No problem," George said from the front passenger seat. "Out of the way, Harry."
Fred and George climbed carefully through the window into Harry's room. George pulled an ordinary hairpin from his pocket and started picking the lock.
"A lot of wizards think it's a waste of time, knowing this sort of Muggle trick," Fred said, "but we feel they're skills worth learning, even if they are a bit slow."
"Brilliant," Hope murmured, watching as George twisted and turned the hairpin.
With a small click, the door swung open.
"So, we'll get your trunk. You grab anything you need from your room and hand it out to Ron," George whispered.
"Watch out for the bottom stair, it creaks," Harry warned as the twins disappeared onto the dark landing.
Harry dashed around, gathering his things and passing them out the window to Ron and Hope. Then he hurried to help Fred and George heave his trunk up the stairs. After a few minutes, they were back in Harry's room, panting as they carried the trunk to the open window. Fred climbed into the driver's seat so they'd be ready to go as soon as Harry's things were in the car.
Hope and Ron pulled while Harry and George pushed from the bedroom side. Inch by inch, the trunk slid through the window.
So focused on the trunk, they didn't hear Harry's uncle cough.
"A bit more," Hope panted, "one good push..."
Harry and George threw their shoulders against the trunk, and it slid out the window into the back seat of the car.
"OK, let's go," George whispered.
But as Harry climbed onto the window-sill, a sudden loud screech filled the air, followed immediately by Uncle Vernon's thunderous voice.
"THAT RUDDY OWL!"
"I've forgotten Hedwig!" Harry gasped. He tore across the room just as the landing light clicked on. Snatching up Hedwig's cage, he dashed to the window and passed it out to Ron. He was scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when Uncle Vernon hammered on the now-unlocked door—and it crashed open.
For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway. Then he let out a bellow like an angry bull and lunged at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle.
Hope, Ron, Fred, and George seized Harry's arms and pulled with all their strength.
"Petunia!" Uncle Vernon roared. "He's getting away! HE'S GETTING AWAY!"
With one gigantic tug, Harry's leg slid out of Uncle Vernon's grasp. As soon as he was in the car and had slammed the door shut, Ron shouted, "Put your foot down, Fred!"
The car shot suddenly toward the moon.
Harry couldn't believe it—he was free. He rolled down the window, letting the night air whip through his hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley stood dumbstruck at the window.
"See you next summer!" Harry yelled.
Laughter erupted inside the car. Grinning from ear to ear, Harry settled into his seat. "Let Hedwig out. She can fly behind us; she hasn't had a chance to stretch her wings for ages."
George handed the hairpin to Hope. A moment later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window, gliding alongside them like a ghost.
"So, what's the story, Harry?" Ron asked impatiently. "What's been happening?"
Harry told them everything—Dobby, the warning, and the disaster with the violet pudding. A long, stunned silence followed.
"Very fishy," Fred said finally.
"Definitely dodgy," George agreed. "So he wouldn't even tell you who's plotting all this?"
"I don't think he could. Every time he got close, he started banging his head against the wall."
Fred and George exchanged a knowing glance.
"Think he was lying to me?" Harry asked.
"Well," Fred said, "house-elves have got powerful magic, but they can't use it without their master's permission. I reckon someone sent him to stop you coming back to Hogwarts."
"Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against you?"
"Yes," Harry, Hope, and Ron said together.
"Draco Malfoy," Harry explained. "He hates me."
"Draco Malfoy?" George repeated, turning around. "Not Lucius Malfoy's son?"
"Must be, it's not a very common name, is it?" Harry said. "Why?"
"I've heard Dad talking about him," George said. "He was a big supporter of You-Know-Who."
"And when You-Know-Who disappeared," Fred added, craning around to look at Harry, "Lucius Malfoy came back saying he'd never meant any of it. Load of dung—Dad reckons he was right in You-Know-Who's inner circle."
"No wonder my dad said never to trust a Malfoy," Hope muttered.
"I don't know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf..." Harry said thoughtfully.
"Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding family, and they'll be rich," Fred said.
"Yeah, Mum's always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing," George added. "But all we've got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the garden. House-elves come with big old manors and castles and places like that. You wouldn't catch one in our house..."
Hope figured that even if Dobby wasn't the Malfoys' elf, they must have had one of their own. With how pompous Draco was, always turning his nose up at the sight of the Weasleys or her, always bragging about having the best of everything, it made sense. And considering how much of a git Draco was, she wouldn't be at all surprised if he'd sent that poor house-elf to trick Harry.
"I'm glad we came to get you, anyway," Ron said. "I was getting really worried when you didn't answer any of my letters. I thought it was Errol's fault at first—"
"Who's Errol?" Harry asked.
"Our owl. He's ancient. It wouldn't be the first time he'd collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow Hermes—" Ron continued.
"Who?" Harry questioned.
"The owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was made a prefect," Fred supplied from the front.
"But Percy wouldn't lend him to me," Ron said. "Said he needed him."
"Percy's been acting very oddly this summer," George said, frowning.
"It's Percy," Hope said, quirking a brow. "Isn't he always acting odd?"
George chuckled. "Yeah... but he's been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room..." He said thoughtfully, "I mean, there's only so many times you can polish a prefect badge... You're driving too far west, Fred," he added, pointing at a compass on the dashboard.
Fred twiddled the steering wheel.
"So, does your dad know you've got the car?" Harry asked, though he had a pretty good guess at the answer.
"Er, no," Ron admitted. "He had to work tonight. Hopefully, we'll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum noticing we flew it."
"What does your dad do at the Ministry of Magic, anyway?" Harry asked.
"He works in the most boring department," Ron said. "The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office."
"The what?" Harry questioned.
"It's all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle-made, you know, in case they end up back in a Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare—Dad was working overtime for weeks."
"What happened?" Hope asked.
"The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all over the place. One man ended up in hospital with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad was going frantic. It's only him and an old warlock called Perkins in the office, and they had to do Memory Charms and all sorts to cover it up..."
"But your dad... this car..." Harry trailed off.
Fred laughed. "Yeah, Dad's mad about everything to do with Muggles. Our shed's full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided our house, he'd have to put himself straight under arrest. It drives Mum mad."
"That's the main road," George said, peering down through the windscreen. "We'll be there in ten minutes... just as well, it's getting light..."
A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the east. Fred brought the car lower, and Harry saw a dark patchwork of fields and clumps of trees stretching below.
"We're a little way outside the village," George explained. "Ottery St Catchpole..."
Lower and lower the flying car descended, the edge of a brilliant red sun now gleaming through the trees.
"Touchdown!" Fred announced as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground.
They had landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Hope grinned, watching Harry's awestruck face as he took in Ron's house for the first time.
It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigsty, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high—so crooked it appeared to be held up by magic, which it likely was. Four or five chimneys perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read The Burrow. Around the front door lay a jumble of wellington boots and a very rusty cauldron, while several fat brown chickens pecked their way through the yard.
"It's not much," Ron muttered.
"It's brilliant," Harry said happily, already comparing it to Privet Drive.
"I agree." Hope nodded, already attached to the Burrow despite her short time there.
They climbed out of the car.
"Now, we'll go upstairs really quietly," Fred instructed. "We'll wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you come bounding downstairs going, 'Mum, look who turned up in the night!' and she'll be all pleased to see Harry. No one will ever need to know we flew the car."
"Right," Ron said. "Come on, Harry, I sleep at the—"
Ron suddenly went a sickly shade of green, his eyes fixed on the house. The others turned sharply.
Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens as she went, and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman, she bore an astonishing resemblance to a sabretooth tiger.
"Oh no," Hope muttered.
"Ah," Fred sighed.
"Oh dear," George added.
Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, hands on her hips, eyes sweeping over their guilty faces. She was wearing a flowered apron, a wand sticking out of the pocket.
"So," she began.
"Morning, Mum," George said in what he clearly hoped was a jaunty, winning voice.
"Have you any idea how worried I've been?" Her voice was deadly quiet.
"Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to—" Fred started.
He didn't get far. All three Weasley boys—despite being much taller than her—cowered as her fury broke over them.
"Beds empty! No note! Car gone! You could have crashed! I was out of my mind with worry! Did you care? Never, as long as I've lived—" Her voice sharpened. "Oh, and you dragged poor, sweet Hope into it!"
The Weasley brothers' heads snapped toward Hope, their expressions a mix of disbelief and outrage.
"Poor sweet Hope?" George repeated incredulously.
"Right, and I'm the next Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Fred muttered.
"Mum, it was Hope's idea," Ron blurted.
Hope nodded guiltily. "It's true, Mrs. Wea—"
"That's quite enough out of you," Mrs. Weasley cut her off, jabbing a finger in Ron's direction. To the boys' horror, she seemed to hold none of the blame against Hope, who had, in fact, spearheaded the entire mission. "You wait until your father gets home! We never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy..."
"Perfect Percy," Fred muttered.
"YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY'S BOOK!" Mrs. Weasley bellowed, prodding a finger into Fred's chest. "You could have died! You could have been seen! You could have lost your father his job—"
It felt like the shouting went on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself hoarse by the time she finally turned to Harry, who instinctively backed away.
"I'm very pleased to see you, Harry, dear," she said, her tone suddenly shifting as though the past five minutes hadn't happened. "Come in and have some breakfast."
She turned and walked back toward the house. Harry hesitated, but Ron gave him a nod of encouragement, so he followed.
The kitchen was small and cozy, the wooden table and chairs slightly cramped. Harry sat beside Hope on the edge of his seat, taking everything in with wide eyes.
The clock on the wall had only one hand and no numbers at all. Instead, around the edge were things like Time to make tea, Time to feed the chickens, and You're late. Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, titles like Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, and One-Minute Feasts—It's Magic! filling the space. And unless Harry's ears were deceiving him, the old radio by the sink had just announced that coming up next was Witching Hour with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck.
Mrs. Weasley bustled about, cooking breakfast in a somewhat haphazard fashion. Every now and then, she would glare at her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan, muttering, "Don't know what you were thinking" and "Never would have believed it."
"I don't blame you, dear," she assured Harry, scooping a pile of sausages onto his plate. "Arthur and I were worried about you, too. Just last night, we were saying we'd come get you ourselves if you hadn't written back to Ron by Friday. But really—" she added, cracking three eggs into the pan, "flying an illegal car halfway across the country—anyone could have seen you—"
"Oh, and not you either, Hope." Mrs. Weasley's voice turned syrupy sweet as she shoveled an equally large helping onto Hope's plate. "You poor thing, out until the crack of dawn because of those three."
She sent another glare toward her sons, who sat stiffly in their seats, looking thoroughly betrayed.
Fred, George, and Ron all turned to Hope in unison, their irritation unmistakable. She had been the mastermind, yet here she was, being doted on like an innocent bystander.
Hope merely shrugged and turned back to Mrs. Weasley.
"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."
"Oh, of course, dear." Mrs. Weasley beamed, giving Hope's cheek a motherly squeeze before turning back to the stove. "So polite—you three could learn a thing or two from her."
George nearly choked on his toast, suppressing both a scoff and a laugh. Ron grumbled under his breath, mockingly mimicking, "Be polite like Hope," as he reached over and swiped a sausage from her plate.
Hope rolled her eyes, swallowing a bite of egg before retorting, "Well, that's not very polite. You would've gotten more sausage if you were nicer."
Ron just gave her a glare as he took another bite.
She flicked her wand at the sink, and the dishes began scrubbing themselves, clinking softly in the background.
"It was cloudy, Mum!" Fred attempted weakly.
"You keep your mouth shut while you're eating!" she snapped.
"They were starving him, Mum!" George protested.
"And you," she scolded, though her expression softened slightly as she buttered Harry some bread.
At that moment, there was a distraction—a small, red-haired figure in a nightdress appeared in the kitchen, let out a tiny squeak, and bolted out again.
Hope arched a brow, chewing on a piece of sausage. "Huh. She was very talkative last night." She said, surprised by Ginny's suddenly shy demeanor.
"Ginny," Ron muttered in an undertone to Harry. "My sister. She's been talking about you all summer."
"Yeah, she'll be wanting your autograph, Harry," Fred added with a grin, but at the sight of his mother's raised eyebrow, he quickly bent his face over his plate and fell silent.
Nothing more was said until all five plates were clean, which, considering the way the Weasley boys ate, didn't take long.
Fred stretched with a yawn. "Blimey, I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed and—"
"You will not," Mrs. Weasley snapped. "It's your own fault you've been up all night. You're going to de-gnome the garden for me—they're getting completely out of hand again."
"Oh, Mum—" Fred groaned.
"And you two," she said, turning her glare on Ron and George. Then, in a far gentler tone, she added, "Harry, Hope, you two can go up to bed, dear. You didn't ask them to fly that wretched car."
"She did," Ron muttered under his breath.
But Harry, feeling wide awake, and Hope, still carrying a twinge of guilt, shared a look.
"I can help," Hope offered.
Harry nodded. "I'll help Ron. I've never seen a de-gnoming—"
"That's very sweet of you, dear, but it's dull work," Mrs. Weasley said. "Now, let's see what Lockhart's got to say on the subject." She pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece.
George groaned. "Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden."
Harry glanced at the cover. The words Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests shimmered in fancy gold lettering. A large photograph dominated the front, showing a handsome wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes, winking cheekily up at them.
Noticing Harry's puzzled expression, Hope leaned over and whispered just for him, "He's a famous wizard, has loads of books on his dealings with dark creatures. But if you ask me, he seems like a wanker."
Thankfully, Mrs. Weasley, a devoted Lockhart fan, hadn't heard.
"Oh, he is marvelous," she gushed. "He knows his household pests, all right—it's a wonderful book..."
"Mum fancies him," Fred muttered in a stage whisper.
"Don't be ridiculous, Fred," Mrs. Weasley said, her cheeks turning slightly pink. "All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can get on with it. And woe betide you if there's a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect."
Yawning and grumbling, the Weasley boys slouched outside, with Harry and Hope following. The garden was wild and sprawling, full of weeds, overgrown grass, and strange plants Harry had never seen before. A big green pond sat near the back, its surface rippling as frogs plopped in and out.
"Muggles have garden gnomes too, you know," Harry remarked as they crossed the lawn.
Hope nodded. "Oh yeah, Hermione's house has some." She paused, tilting her head. "Though... they didn't look quite right."
"Yeah, I've seen those things they think are gnomes," Ron muttered, bent double with his head buried in a peony bush. "Fat little Father Christmases with fishing rods..."
There was a violent scuffling sound. The bush trembled, and Ron straightened up, holding something wriggling in his hands.
"This is a gnome," he announced grimly.
"Gerroff me! Gerroff me!" the gnome shrieked.
It looked nothing like Father Christmas. Small and leathery, with a large, knobbly bald head that strongly resembled a potato, the creature kicked out at Ron with its tough little feet. Ron held it at arm's length, then grasped it by the ankles and turned it upside down.
"This is what you have to do." He hoisted the gnome above his head, spinning it like a lasso.
"Gerroff me!" it howled, its stubby arms flailing.
Seeing Harry's shocked expression, Ron added, "It doesn't hurt them—you've just got to make them dizzy so they can't find their way back to the gnomeholes."
With that, he let go. The gnome soared twenty feet through the air before landing with a thud in the field beyond the hedge.
"Pitiful," Fred scoffed. "I bet I can get mine beyond that stump."
Though Harry had felt guilty at first, he quickly learned not to be too sympathetic. When he caught his first gnome, he decided just to drop it over the hedge. But the little menace, sensing weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into his finger. Harry yelped, shaking it off—perhaps a little harder than intended.
"Wow, Harry—that must've been fifty feet," Hope said, watching it soar.
Before long, the air was thick with flying gnomes.
"See? They're not too bright," George said, grabbing five or six at once. "The moment they know de-gnoming's happening, they storm up to watch. You'd think they'd have learned by now just to stay put."
Eventually, the gnomes began trudging away in a straggling line, their little shoulders hunched.
"They'll be back," Ron sighed as they disappeared into the hedge. "They love it here. Dad's too soft with them—he thinks they're funny..."
Just then, the front door slammed.
"He's back!" George said. "Dad's home!"
They hurried inside. Mr. Weasley sat slumped in a kitchen chair, his glasses off, eyes closed, his long green robes dusty and travel-worn.
"What a night," he mumbled, groping for the teapot as they all gathered around. "Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned..."
Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.
"Find anything, Dad?" Fred asked eagerly.
"All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle," Mr. Weasley yawned. "There was some pretty nasty stuff that wasn't my department, though. Mortlake was taken in for questioning over some extremely odd ferrets, but that's the Committee on Experimental Charms, thank goodness..."
"Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?" George asked, frowning.
"Just Muggle-baiting," Mr. Weasley sighed. "Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it. Of course, it's nearly impossible to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking—they'll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them, they'll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even when it's staring them in the face. But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn't believe—"
"LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?"
Mrs. Weasley had appeared, wielding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley's eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife.
"C-cars, Molly, dear?" Arthur stammered, suddenly wide awake.
"Yes, Arthur, cars," Mrs. Weasley said, her eyes flashing. "Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do was take it apart to see how it worked, while really, he was enchanting it to make it fly."
Mr. Weasley blinked. "Well, dear, I think you'll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if, er, he maybe should have, um, told his wife the truth... There's a loophole in the law, you see... As long as he wasn't intending to fly the car, the fact that it could fly wouldn't—"
"Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law!" Mrs. Weasley shouted. "Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harry arrived this morning in the car you weren't intending to fly!"
"Harry?" Mr. Weasley said blankly. "Harry who?" He looked around, spotted Harry, and jumped. "Good Lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet you, Ron's told us so much about—"
"Your sons flew that car to Harry's house and back last night!" Mrs. Weasley shouted. "What have you got to say about that, eh?"
"Did you really?" Mr. Weasley asked eagerly. "Did it go all right? I—I mean," he faltered as sparks practically flew from Mrs. Weasley's eyes, "that—that was very wrong, boys. Very wrong indeed..."
"Let's leave them to it," Ron muttered to Harry and Hope as Mrs. Weasley swelled like a bullfrog. "Come on, I'll show you my bedroom."
They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow passageway to an uneven staircase that zigzagged its way up through the house. On the third landing, a door stood ajar. Harry just caught sight of a pair of bright brown eyes staring at him before it closed with a snap.
"Ginny," Ron said. "You don't know how weird it is for her to be this shy. She never shuts up normally—"
They climbed two more flights until they reached a door with peeling paint and a small plaque that read "Ronald's Room."
Harry stepped inside, his head nearly touching the sloping ceiling. He blinked, taking in Ron's very orange decor. It was like walking into a furnace—nearly everything in Ron's room seemed to be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling.
"Your Quidditch team?" Harry asked, nodding toward the posters of seven witches and wizards in bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks and waving enthusiastically.
"The Chudley Cannons," Ron said, pointing at the orange bedspread, which was emblazoned with two giant black Cs and a speeding cannonball. "Ninth in the league."
"Which isn't very good," Hope quipped in a sing-song tone.
"Oh, don't you start, Hope," Ron pointed at her. "The Holyhead Harpies are only seventh."
"Still better than ninth," she mumbled.
Ron's school spellbooks were stacked haphazardly in a corner, next to a pile of comics featuring The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. His wand lay on top of a fish tank full of frogspawn on the windowsill, next to his fat grey rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of sunlight.
Harry stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and looked out the tiny window. In the field below, he could see a gang of gnomes sneaking, one by one, back through the Weasleys' hedge. Then he turned back to Ron, who was watching him almost nervously, as though waiting for his opinion.
"It's a bit small," Ron said quickly. "Not like that room you had with the Muggles. And I'm right underneath the ghoul in the attic—he's always banging on the pipes and groaning..."
But Harry, grinning widely, said, "This is the best house I've ever been in."
Ron's ears went pink.
"It's bigger than my room back home," Hope added, making Ron break into a grin.
Hope let the boys talk, slipping away quietly as Ron launched into another passionate speech about the Chudley Cannons. She padded back down the narrow staircase to Ginny's room, hesitating for a moment before knocking.
There was a shuffle of movement inside, the sound of something—possibly a book—thudding onto the floor, then silence. A second later, the door creaked open just enough for a pair of bright brown eyes to peek out.
Ginny exhaled sharply. "Oh. It's only you."
Hope smirked. "Nice to see you too." Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped inside.
Ginny's room was small but cozy, bathed in warm afternoon light filtering through the window. The walls were covered in posters of the Holyhead Harpies, their players frozen mid-air, broomsticks angled sharply, as though caught in the middle of a match. A stack of books leaned precariously on her nightstand, and a tattered old stuffed bear sat on her pillow, looking well-loved.
Hope plopped onto the bed beside Ginny, bouncing slightly on the soft mattress. She grinned knowingly. "So... Harry."
Ginny's cheeks went pink in an instant. "What about him?" she asked, suddenly very interested in smoothing out the wrinkles in her bedspread.
Hope chuckled. "Oh, nothing. Just that you let out the biggest sigh of relief when you saw it was me at the door. What, expecting him to show up?"
Ginny shot her a glare, but it lacked any real bite. "Shut up."
Hope leaned back on her elbows. "I think it's sweet, honestly. He's nice."
Ginny groaned and pulled a pillow over her face. "Stop."
Hope laughed, leaning back against the headboard. "Alright, alright. But if you want him to actually notice you, maybe don't go all weird and panicky whenever he's around."
Ginny peeked out from behind the pillow. "I don't always go weird," she argued, sitting up and crossing her arms. "I was just surprised! He's Harry Potter!"
Hope raised an eyebrow. "And? He's still just a boy." She waved a hand dramatically. "Honestly, there's not much to say about the boys at Hogwarts."
Ginny perked up. "Really? None of them?"
She tried to think about it. Neville was nice. A little clumsy, always trying his best, but he wasn't the kind of person she ever thought about that way. Dean was fun, and he was always sketching something cool in the common room, but... he was just Dean. And Ron? Absolutely not. The thought alone made her shudder. He was like a messy, annoying brother, perpetually covered in crumbs from whatever he'd last stuffed into his mouth. Her thoughts settled—on one particular face.
George.
She quickly brushed the thought aside, shrugging. "I dunno. I guess most of the boys at Hogwarts are just... there."
The conversation stretched on, easy and warm. Hope told Ginny what to expect at Hogwarts—not that she hadn't heard it all before from her brothers, but she still listened eagerly, eyes bright with anticipation.
Ginny hung onto every word. "I can't wait," she whispered.
Hope smiled, watching the excitement on Ginny's face. She had a feeling Ginny Weasley was going to fit right in at Hogwarts.