Chapter 8
Ginny
Dad woke them after only a few hours' sleep. He used magic to pack up the tents, and they left the campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts had a strange, dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a vague “Merry Christmas.”
“He’ll be all right,” said Dad quietly as they marched off onto the moor. “Sometimes, when a person’s memory’s modified, it makes him a bit disorientated for a while... and that was a big thing they had to make him forget.”
They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot where the Portkeys lay, and when they reached it, they found a great number of witches and wizards gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all clamoring to get away from the campsite as quickly as possible. Dad had a hurried discussion with Basil; they joined the queue, and were able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had really risen. The Potters and Blacks had already taken their own different portkey.
They walked back through Ottery St. Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because they were so exhausted, and thinking longingly of their breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane.
“Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!”
Mum, who had evidently been waiting for them in the front yard, came running toward them, still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand.
“Arthur — I’ve been so worried — so worried —”
She flung her arms around Dad’s neck, and the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the ground. Looking down, Ginny saw the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops.
“You’re all right,” Mrs. Weasley muttered distractedly, releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at them all with red eyes, “you’re alive... Oh boys...”
And to everybody’s surprise, she seized Fred and George and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads banged together.
“Ouch! Mum — you’re strangling us —”
“I shouted at you before you left!” Mrs. Weasley said, starting to sob. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn’t get enough O.W.L.s? Oh Fred... George...”
“Come on, now, Molly, we’re all perfectly okay,” Dad said soothingly, prising her off the twins and leading her back toward the house. “Bill,” he added in an undertone, “pick up that paper, I want to see what it says..."
When they were all crammed into the tiny kitchen, and Ginny had made Mum a cup of very strong tea, into which Dad insisted on pouring a shot of Ogdens' Old Firewhiskey, Bill handed Dad the newspaper. He scanned the front page while Percy looked over his shoulder.
“I knew it,” Dad said heavily. “Ministry blunders... culprits not apprehended... lax security... Dark wizards running unchecked... national disgrace... Who wrote this? Ah, of course. Rita Skeeter.”
“That woman’s got it in for the Ministry of Magic!” Percy scowled furiously. “Last week she was saying we’re wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it wasn’t specifically stated in paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans-"
“Do us a favor, Perce,” Bill yawned, “and shut up.”
“I’m mentioned,” Dad said, his eyes widening behind his glasses as he reached the bottom of the Daily Prophet article.
“Where?” spluttered Mum, choking on her tea and whiskey. “If I’d seen that, I’d have known you were alive!”
“Not by name,” Dad said. “Listen to this: ‘If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged sometime after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen.’ Oh really,” Dad said in exasperation, handing the paper to Percy. “Nobody was hurt. What was I supposed to say? Rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods... well, there certainly will be rumors now she’s printed that.”
He heaved a deep sigh. “Molly, I’m going to have to go into the office; this is going to take some smoothing over.”
“I’ll come with you, Father,” Percy said importantly. “Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck. And I can give him my cauldron report in person.”
He bustled out of the kitchen. Mum looked most upset. “Arthur, you’re supposed to be on holiday! This hasn’t got anything to do with your office; surely they can handle this without you?”
“I’ve got to go, Molly,” Dad sighed. “I’ve made things worse. I’ll just change into my robes and I’ll be off. . . .”
“Mum,” Ginny said suddenly, unable to contain himself, “Can I please go up to my room? I have a few letters to write.”
"Letters?" Mum narrowed her eyes. "To whom?"
Ginny shrugged casually. "Amy and Josephine. I need to know if they're alright, and all... they are my best friends."
Mum frowned for a minute before sighing. “Go, then, Ginny."
Ginny gave her mother a quick hug before marching out of the kitchen and up the stairs, feeling Ron's suspicious glare at her back.
The truth was that she needed to talk to someone - anyone. After what Ron had told her about Draco, she'd been in a right emotional state. She didn't know why she cared so much - after all, she'd not been his friend for long. But she just felt a connection to him. She valued his friendship, even if he was a prick.
Dear Amy,
You okay? I didn't see you after the match... but I have something to tell you... it's about Draco...
Ron said that he spotted him. Draco, I mean. That the blonde was seemingly enjoying the destruction... I mean, I'm not really surprised. And I do know how he is - how his bloody family is...
What I don't understand, however, is why I care so much! I've not known him long and we're hardly friends... but I couldn't even sleep, thinking about it! It's pathetic, but I can't stop!
I'm worried, Amy. What do I do?
Anyway, I suppose we'll talk more on the train.
Ginny
Charles
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Charles said. “On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar hurting again.”
Ron’s and Hermione’s reactions were almost exactly as Charles had imagined. Hermione gasped and started making suggestions at once, mentioning a number of reference books, and everybody from Albus Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse. Ron simply looked dumbstruck.
“But - last time your scar kept hurting, he was at Hogwarts, wasn’t he?”
They were currently sitting in Ron's bedroom, two days after the disastrous Quidditch World Cup. Hermione was staying at the Burrow, and Charles had come over sometime ago.
Charles sighed. “I was dreaming about him... him and Barty Crouch. I can’t remember all of it now, but they were plotting to kill... someone.”
He had teetered for a moment on the verge of saying “me,” but couldn’t bring himself to make Hermione look any more horrified than she already did.
“It was only a dream,” said Ron bracingly. “Just a nightmare.”
“Yeah, but was it, though?” Charles said, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. “It’s weird, isn’t it? My scar hurts, and three days later the Death Eaters are on the march, and Voldemort’s sign’s up in the sky again.”
“Don’t — say — his — name!” Ron hissed through gritted teeth.
“And remember what Professor Trelawney said?” Charles went on, ignoring Ron. “At the end of last year?”
Professor Trelawney was their Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione’s terrified look vanished as she let out a derisive snort.
“Oh Charles, you aren’t going to pay attention to anything that old fraud says?”
“You weren’t there,” Charles coutered. “You didn’t hear her. This time was different. I told you, she went into a trance - a real one. And she said the Dark Lord would rise again... greater and more terrible than ever before... and he’d manage it because his servant was going to go back to him... and that night Barty escaped.”
There was a silence in which Ron fidgeted absentmindedly with a hole in his Chudley Cannons bedspread.
"You should tell an adult, you know," Hermione said at last. "You have your parents and everyone. They'll know what to do."
“Yeah, I know,” Charles said, but there was a leaden feeling in his stomach as he looked out of the window at the bright sky.
“Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard, Charles,” Ron urged. “Come on - three on three, Bill and Charlie and Fred and George will play... You can try out the Wronski Feint...”
“Ron,” Hermione said, in an I-don’t-think-you’re-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, “Charles doesn’t want to play Quidditch right now... He’s worried, and he’s tired...”
“Yeah, I want to play Quidditch,” Charles said suddenly. “Hang on, I’ll get my Firebolt.”
Hermione left the room, muttering something that sounded very much like “Boys.”
Sirius
"Hey, Reg," Sirius called. A minute later, Regulus appeared on the staircase, an eyebrow raised.
They were currently at Grimmauld Place, the ancestral house of the Black Family. Sirius had inherited it after becoming the Lord, of course, but he'd never used it. They had their own manor, which was a secondary manor of the Black family, not used much during Sirius' childhood.
Jéricho and Lyra were staying with Sirius, of course. With Regulus. They still hadn't cleared it all. The place was very big, after all. Oh, the dust and everything was now gone, but it was still too dark a place for the children. Too many cursed objects in the house...
Sirius had taken to sending his children to their friends' houses a lot this summer. Not just because of how dangerous the place was, but also because Jéricho clearly wasn't ready to be under the same roof as his biological father at the moment. Jéricho steered clear of Regulus, who didn't, in turn, push him.
Taking in Sirius' appearance, Regulus frowned. "Going somewhere, Sirius?"
"Yeah," Sirius said, "And Remus would be staying with you... Ah, here he is."
Remus had just arrived through the fireplace, and was also looking at Sirius with curiosity.
"You didn't tell me where you're going, Sirius."
Sirius just shrugged. "Just out. I need some air."
They couldn't leave Regulus alone, and so had to have someone on the watch. Usually it was Remus, with Lily and James taking occasional shifts.
Remus frowned, unconvinced, but didn't say anything. Regulus eyed Sirius with undisguised suspicion, but he, too, refrained from commenting. Sirius left the house on his bike, Alvirah, which he had charmed after the destruction of poor Elvendork. Alvirah was more advanced and a lot cooler, but Sirius still missed Elvendorn. Setimentalities, you know.
He arrived at the meeting destination on time and looked around to see Chiara already waiting there.
"Signore Black," she commented mildly, a faint smile on her face.
Sirius grinned back as he took her hand and kissed it in an act of formality. "Signora Rossi. You came."
Chiara smiled broader. "Of course I did. How could I miss the opportunity to see if you're just a bragger or not?"
Sirius shrugged. He'd met her in Diagon the other day, and after inquiring after each other, he'd off-handedly mentioned Alvirah. Chiara hadn't believed him on that, and so they'd set up a meeting.
"You wanna ride on it?" Sirius inquired. He expected her to fumble and deny it, as most pureblood ladies did. It wasn't proper, for a girl to fly, in their lineage. To his surprise, she just grinned and raised a challenging eyebrow. "Why not? Let's see what you've got."
And Sirius knew, then and there, that this was going to be a wonderful night.
Hermione
Neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy was at home much over the following week. Both left the house each morning before the rest of the family got up, and returned well after dinner every night.
“It’s been an absolute uproar,” Percy told them importantly the Sunday evening before they were due to return to Hogwarts. “I’ve been putting out fires all week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if you don’t open a Howler straight away, it explodes. Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill reduced to cinders.”
“What are they all sending Howlers for?” asked Ginny, who was mending her copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in front of the living room fire.
Hermione had noticed that the usually outgoing Ginny nowadays seemed stressed and worried. And a lot quieter, too. When she'd asked Ron about this, Ron had just shrugged and sneered. The boy was still irked at his sister for being friends with Malfoy, or something like that.
“Complaining about security at the World Cup,” Percy replied. “They want compensation for their ruined property. Mundungus Fletcher’s put in a claim for a twelve-bedroomed tent with an en-suite Jacuzzi, but I’ve got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping under a cloak propped on sticks.”
Mrs. Weasley glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Hermione liked this clock. It was completely useless if you wanted to know the time, but otherwise very informative. It had nine golden hands, and each of them was engraved with one of the Weasley family’s names. There were no numerals around the face, but descriptions of where each family member might be. “Home,” “school,” and “work” were there, but there was also “traveling,” “lost,” “hospital,” “prison,” and, in the position where the number twelve would be on a normal clock, “mortal peril.”
Eight of the hands were currently pointing to the “home” position, but Mr. Weasley’s, which was the longest, was still pointing to “work.”
Mrs. Weasley sighed. "Your father hasn’t had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You-Know-Who. They’re working him far too hard. His dinner’s going to be ruined if he doesn’t come home soon.”
“Well, Father feels he’s got to make up for his mistake at the match, doesn’t he?” Percy said. "If truth be told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of Department first-"
“Don’t you dare blame your father for what that wretched Skeeter woman wrote!” Mrs. Weasley flared up at once.
“If Dad hadn’t said anything, old Rita would just have said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry had commented,” Bill said, who was playing chess with Ron. “Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look good. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts’ Charm Breakers once, and called me ‘a long-haired pillock’?”
“Well, it is a bit long, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley gently. “If you’d just let me-"
"No, Mum."
Rain lashed against the living room window. Hermione was reading The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, copies of which Mrs. Weasley had bought for her and Ron in Diagon Alley. Fred and George were sitting in a far corner, quills out, talking in whispers, their heads bent over a piece of parchment.
“What are you two up to?” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, her eyes on the twins.
“Homework,” said Fred vaguely.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still on holiday,” said Mrs. Weasley.
“Yeah, we’ve left it a bit late,” said George.
“You’re not by any chance writing out a new order form, are you?” said Mrs. Weasley shrewdly. “You wouldn’t be thinking of re-starting Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, by any chance?”
“Now, Mum,” said Fred, looking up at her, a pained look on his face. “If the Hogwarts Express crashed tomorrow, and George and I died, how would you feel to know that the last thing we ever heard from you was an unfounded accusation?”
Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Weasley.
“Oh your father’s coming!” she said suddenly, looking up at the clock again.
Mr. Weasley’s hand had suddenly spun from “work” to “traveling”; a second later it had shuddered to a halt on “home” with the others, and they heard him calling from the kitchen.
“Coming, Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out of the room.
A few moments later, Mr. Weasley came into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He looked completely exhausted.
“Well, the fat’s really in the fire now,” he told Mrs. Weasley as he sat down in an armchair near the hearth and toyed unenthusiastic with his somewhat shriveled cauliflower. “Rita Skeeter’s been ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry mess-ups to report. And now she’s found out about poor old Bertha going missing, so that’ll be the headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he should have sent someone to look for her ages ago.”
“Mr. Crouch has been saying it for weeks and weeks,” said Percy swiftly.
“Crouch is very lucky Rita hasn’t found out about Winky,” said Mr. Weasley irritably. “There’d be a week’s worth of headlines in his house-elf being caught holding the wand that conjured the Dark Mark.”
“I thought we all agreed that elf, while irresponsible, did not conjure the Mark?” said Percy hotly.
“If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is very lucky no one at the Daily Prophet knows how mean he is to elves!” said Hermione angrily.
“Now look here, Hermione!” said Percy. “A high-ranking Ministry official like Mr. Crouch deserves unswerving obedience from his servants-”
“His slave, you mean!” Hermione said, her voice rising passionately, “because he didn’t pay Winky, did he?”
“I think you’d all better go upstairs and check that you’ve packed properly!” said Mrs. Weasley, breaking up the argument. “Come on now, all of you...”
Hermione huffed and left with Ron to go to his room, figuring that she'd maybe spend some time talking to him, not in the mood to sleep yet. Ron didn't have any objection to that. The rain sounded even louder at the top of the house, accompanied by loud whistles and moans from the wind, not to mention sporadic howls from the ghoul who lived in the attic. Pigwidgeon began twittering and zooming around his cage when they entered. The sight of the half-packed trunks seemed to have sent him into a frenzy of excitement.
“Bung him some Owl Treats,” said Ron, throwing a packet across to Hermione. “It might shut him up.”
Hermione poked a few Owl Treats through the bars of Pigwidgeon’s cage. “You excited for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I suppose...”
He started unwrapping the shopping his mother had gotten him. Apart from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, by Miranda Goshawk, he had a handful of new quills, and a dozen rolls of parchment. Hermione had been petting Pigwideon when Ron made a loud noise of disgust behind her.
“What is that supposed to be?”
He was holding up something that looked to Hermione like a long, maroon velvet dress. It had a moldy-looking lace frill at the collar and matching lace cuffs.
There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Weasley entered, carrying an armful of freshly laundered Hogwarts robes.
“Here you are,” she said, setting the pile down. “Now, mind you pack them properly so they don’t crease.”
“Mum, you’ve given me Ginny’s new dress,” Ron said, handing it out to her.
“Of course I haven’t,” said Mrs. Weasley. “That’s for you. Dress robes.”
“What?” said Ron, looking horror-struck.
“Dress robes!” repeated Mrs. Weasley. “It says on your school list that you’re supposed to have dress robes this year... robes for formal occasions.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Ron in disbelief. “I’m not wearing that, no way.”
“Everyone wears them, Ron!” said Mrs. Weasley crossly. “They’re all like that! Your father’s got some for smart parties!”
“I’ll go starkers before I put that on,” said Ron stubbornly.
“Don’t be so silly,” said Mrs. Weasley. “You’ve got to have dress robes, they’re on your list!"
"Why can't I have normal ones?" Ron demanded.
“Because... well, I had to get yours secondhand, and there wasn’t a lot of choice!” said Mrs. Weasley, flushing.
Hermione looked away, biting her lip.
“I’m never wearing them,” Ron was saying stubbornly. “Never.”
“Fine,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “Go naked.”
She left the room, slamming the door behind her. There was a funny spluttering noise from behind them. Pigwidgeon was choking on an overlarge Owl Treat.
“Why is everything I own rubbish?” said Ron furiously, striding across the room to unstick Pigwidgeon’s beak.