Dear Harry,
Professor Dumbledore has consented on your stay with us for the rest of the holiday. Everything has been sorted out for your trip. Professor Dumbledore will pick you up this Saturday at five 'o' clock, so be sure to tell your Aunt and Uncle. Everyone is looking forward to having you here.
Sincerely,
Arthur Weasley
Harry read the letter, letting each word sink into his brain, its message running through his mind like a river. This was it. He read the letter once more. A smile broke over his face, reaching the tired green eyes. He was really going to go, finally. After two horrible weeks with the Dursleys, he was going back to the Burrow, one of his favorite places. He missed his friend Ron, and all the Weasleys. He had missed them since leaving King's Cross. Harry glanced over the letter again. It was brief; most of the details of his trip had been worked out in previous letters. He folded the letter carefully, as if not wanting to disturb the message inside. He reached to the bed for the next letter from Ron. It was written in eager scrawl. He grinned again. Ron was probably as excited as he was.
Harry,
I still can't believe it's taken two weeks to get you here! Wouldn't believe how annoying Dad has been. 'Patience is a virtue Ron . . . Many things have to be put in order . . . Ron, quit bugging me and clean your room.' He's still at me about that last bit. Anyway, I'll see you this Saturday. Just hope you survive with those Muggles until then.
Ron
Harry put Ron's letter away, still smiling, and immediately began to pack. It was Friday. That meant Dumbledore would come the very next day. He pulled out his travel case, ruefully trying to think of a good opportunity to tell his Uncle Vernon that Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, would be coming here the next day. He hoped that Uncle Vernon wouldn't be really rude and say nasty things when Dumbledore arrived; Harry always felt uncomfortable introducing people from the wizarding world to the Dursleys.
Harry paused for a minute, thinking. He supposed that even if the letter had been much in advance, it was doubtful Uncle Vernon would take a different attitude than he would on short notice. He sat on his bed, remembering last year's departure. Funny as it had been, it definitely had made life even more unpleasant at the Dursleys when he returned from Hogwarts. Idly, Harry wondered if Dumbledore could be discreet about picking him up.
He let out a huge sigh, which caused the springs of his old bed to wheeze. It wouldn't do any good. There was still the problem of his spell books, broom, and wand. True to the routine of previous years, the Dursleys had locked up his things, and Harry just couldn't see Dumbledore pairing with him in a brilliant venture to rescue his magical belongings. 'Oh well,' he thought miserably. He couldn't see any possible way that the Dursleys could be more unbearable. And he would be leaving the next day.
He wondered if he should wait until the last possible minute, then figured that Dumbledore wouldn't want him to do that. Mr. Weasley either. He got to his feet abruptly. 'Just get it over with,' he told himself grimly. He covered the distance from his bed to the door in a few swift strides. His back straight and face determined, he reached for the doorknob, and with much less confidence than he looked like he had, opened the door and left his room to find his Uncle.
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"BAM!"
Ron dropped a box in surprise as a thundering blast sounded. There was a sort of silent echo that lasted several seconds after, and then another huge explosion was heard
"FRED! GEORGE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Mrs. Weasley was yelling very loudly, but her voice reached nowhere near the deafening meter Fred and George had managed. Ron opened the door to his room and was nearly knocked over by his mother, who looked ready to kill. Ron closed the door quickly. That had been a loud bang, even for Fred and George. Ron supposed that his mother wouldn't be nearly as angry, had she not known about Weasley Wizard Wheezes.
As shouting began to erupt in the other room, Ron tried to turn his attention back to his room. It was hard to believe it had been as tidy as a pin when he'd returned from Hogwarts. It now looked as though it had been turned upside down. His school things were unpacked, but lying everywhere. Ron recalled an earlier occasion that week when he had mumbled about not being able to use magic to clean up the mess. Mr. Weasley had overheard, and had been very displeased.
"Responsibility Ron," he had said. "You can't rely on magic for everything."
"Bet I could," Ron had muttered.
His Dad had heard that as well. Then he had told him he'd better clean up before Harry arrived, or no Quidditch.
Ron could not take the words very seriously for some reason. It was amazing how his parents could get so worked up over a messy room. He had figured out a long time ago that his parents' telling him to clean his room was one of those things they just had to keep nagging him about.
Ron lay on his bed, stretching his legs; he decided to take a short break. He reached over the side of his bed and shuffled around two week's worth of clutter before unearthing a comic. He smoothed the cover, frowned, and read Wendy the Witch. There was a picture of a curly-haired girl flying a broom on the cover. "Must be one of Ginny's," he muttered in disgust. The tiny picture of the witch glared at him. Ron threw it absently across the room. He had a very brief idea on how his room got cluttered so quickly. He reached behind the bed again, finding a chess piece this time. It was a pawn, and a very disgruntled one.
"Finally found me, eh!" It said shrilly. Ron raised and eyebrow.
"Sorry," he said. "You must've rolled out when I unpacked my chess set."
"I must have rolled out," it continued angrily. "You dropped me!"
Ron wasn't listening however. He tucked the shrieking chess piece in its box, thinking about tomorrow. He was looking forward to playing chess with Harry. After all the time it took just to have him over, he was very much looking forward to seeing his best friend. He frowned suddenly. 'You know what would be better,' he thought dully to himself. '. . . if both your best friends were coming over. It's not like he hadn't invited Hermione. He had written twice to her since school had let out, and hadn't got a response yet. 'Of course it would be very difficult for her to get a letter,' he thought bitterly, 'if she isn't at her house to receive it.'
Trying not to think of the possible places Hermione might be, (that would lead to more infuriating speculation) he instead wondered if Harry had got his letter. It was a quick letter, since Ron would be seeing him the next day. His parents had been very anxious about Harry coming. They acted as though he were making some deadly passage. They worried about him a lot, and talked of him often. Mr. Weasley, who had come home late every day this past week, always had some news to tell Mrs. Weasley. Their conversations seemed to be nothing but whispers, and serious ones at that. They didn't talk to Ron about these matters, but Ron heard snatches of their conversations.
Voldemort. Ron still had difficulty saying the name, even had difficulty thinking it. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were discussing Voldemort and Harry's encounter with him last year. Very few believed it, but it was true.
Voldemort had risen. It was hard to grasp. Ron knew it meant many things. Mostly, many terrible things. He thought he heard his parents discussing the Dark Mark one night. Mr. Weasley had explained to Ron, Harry, and Hermione about the Dark Mark. 'Imagine sighting that over your house,' thought Ron sullenly. 'Imagine knowing your family was already dead before even getting home.' The thought unsettled him deeply. Nobody was safe. Muggles, Muggleborns, half bloods, pure bloods . . . nobody was safe from Voldemort if he ever became as powerful as he was before.
A door slammed shut. Ron blinked at the ceiling. The flying figures of the Chudley Cannons became clearer above him, and angry steps were descending the stairs. Ron shook his head involuntarily, attempting to deter his current mind set by focusing on the team Seeker, who was zooming as fast as a bullet throughout the posters. Ron considered it very melodramatic to think about the end of the world.
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He was walking on thin air. Each step felt like he was loosing his footing on a stair; it killed him to walk. Where was he? He couldn't see an inch in front of his face. Every step was torture, but he had to get out, and all he could do was keep walking.
"No. . .Harry. . . not – "
He shivered. Was that his mother's voice? Where was she? She sounded so fearful, and so far away. He heard her again. Her words seemed to tug at his soul.
"Please don't kill him . . ."
His breath intakes became sharp and painful. He stood still, feeling an odd shift in the atmosphere. The air was tightening around him, closing him in until he could taste it. It tasted like blood.
"Blood?" he asked himself. His voice seemed detached from his body. It came from somewhere beyond the darkness, floating to his ears a short while after he said them. He put his hand to his mouth.
"No, not in your mouth, on your hands . . . "
Who said that? He looked around. He was no longer standing on nothing. The pressure about him lessened, and the ground became very firm. Moonlight spilled from above, illuminating the whole area. The scene was familiar. Was he at Hogwarts? He was conscious of voices, but not bodies. Then earsplitting shrieks began to echo all around him. They sounded like a thousand wine glasses shattering all at once.
"He's dead . . . Cedric Diggory is dead!"
He felt his stomach drop. Why was he here? He couldn't do anything now, and where . . where was Cedric's body? His head began to pound from the innumerable screams. He began to run, the horrible voices following him, until he too was saying their words. Faster, faster . . . faster than he could get them out.
"Cedric is dead. Cedric is dead." Another shriek pierced his eardrum. Panting, he broke into a heavy run. He desperately wanted to get away.
"You can't escape."
Go away, he pleaded, but no sound came from his mouth. Black, pitch black was closing him in yet again. It filled his mouth, suffocating him, preventing any breath from entering him, any word from escaping his lips. He was getting no oxygen, but kept running. His sides seemed ready to burst, and waves of dizziness washed over him.
"Please, kill me instead . . ."
He stopped sharply. A faint green light was glowing ahead. He had stopped running, but the light came closer. It wasn't traveling at an incredible speed, but he found it impossible to move backwards. He could hear his mother faintly. He could also hear the choked sobs and screams of many other voices. The screams were overlapping each other, reverberating – unbearable. His scar began to throb.
"No, not Harry, please not – "
" – Diggory . . .He-he's dead!" His head was in excruciating pain, and the voices intensified his agony. He could barely hear his mother, her voice mingled with so many screams of panic . . . and horror.
"Stop," he managed through his gritted teeth. His voice was lost in many others. The green light was growing brighter, tucking all corner shadows of his vision. He wanted to clutch his head for the pain, but his limbs were frozen. He tried to swallow, suck in a breath, but was unable to. He himself could not have screamed if he wanted to . . .
"Avada Kedavra!"
Harry opened his eyes. They were watering. He was dimly aware that he couldn't see anything. He couldn't breathe either. Then he knew why. Gasping for air, he pulled his head away from his pillow, which had been smothering him. His torso was half off the bed.
"Oh God . . ." he breathed. His scar was burning with fresh pain, his whole body tense. He swallowed hard and buried his face into his pillow, despite his aching lungs. "When will it stop . . ."
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Disclaimer: I own nothing. The magical world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.