Chapter 6: The Real Trouble
The real trouble began in late August. Fred, George, Ginny and I were enjoying a relaxing afternoon at the Burrow when Arthur stormed home and tossed the Daily Prophet in my lap.
"Have you seen this?" he asked and tore off his jacket.
"No, we don't read this rubbish anymore," I said.
"There's something that concerns you." Arthur pointed to a small article at the bottom of the page. "The Muggle-Born Registration Commission."
"The what?" Fred asked.
"Muggle-Born Registration Commission," Arthur repeated, calmer this time. "A new committee from the Ministry. They interrogate muggle-borns to find out where they got their magic from."
"What?" I scanned the article—it detailed the ins and outs of the interrogation process. "Muggle-borns have their wands stripped of them and are arrested?"
"Sent to Azkaban," Arthur confirmed. "Or if you're lucky, they'll cut off your income and hope you'll go homeless."
"The article says you get a hearing." Ginny was reading over my shoulder.
"That is in no way fair," Arthur reiterated. "Michelle, I'm worried you'll get a letter."
"What happens if she does?" George asked frantically. "Could she ignore it?"
"The Ministry's employed Snatchers to go after people who avoid their hearing," Arthur responded. He took a seat in the big arm chair across from us, and rubbed his forehead. "The way I see it, we have two viable options. First, Michelle goes into hiding at a safe place. We're thinking of contacting Aunt Muriel and protecting it. Nobody would ever think to find her there. Or second, Michelle goes back home to America with her parents and waits out the war here. Snatchers wouldn't even think about trekking the Atlantic for a muggle-born; it wouldn't be worth it to them."
The color drained from George's face. "She couldn't hide with Fred and me at the shop?"
"Too obvious. We'll need to cast some extra protection around your apartment. We don't want you boys getting into harm's way."
But my mind seemed fixated on one point, "I'd have to quit work."
Arthur nodded grimly. "As soon as you get the letter I would. They know you're a Healer and they'll be searching St. Mungo's. It would be best to remove yourself from any situation the Snatchers could easily find you in."
I had worked so hard to be a Trainee Healer, and was so close to being a real Healer. I loathed the idea of giving up all of my hard work to sit on my ass while a war waged around me. But realistically, I knew it was the best way to keep me safe.
"I know," Arthur sympathized, as if he had read my mind. "But it'll be for the best."
Our easygoing afternoon of fun music and chatter had quickly transfigured into reality: the war. I tried to think about my future in London, but my mind disconnected from my brain.
"Think about what would be best for you and let me know," Arthur spoke directly to me. "The Order will arrange for your safety."
I tried to smile gratefully, but I couldn't quite get my mouth to cooperate. "Thank you."
The Muggle-Born Registration Commission did not appear in conversation again until a week or so later, after Ginny had gone on the train to Hogwarts—a suddenly compulsory move for all witches and wizards. Once the students had boarded the train for school, business in the twins' shop was essentially non-existent. Hermione's name had appeared in the Prophet a few days ago for the Commission, and the fact that my name could soon follow was quickly becoming a reality.
"I don't want you to go to America," George said abruptly one evening. We were lying in bed together, waiting for sleep to greet us. "For incredibly selfish reasons."
"Such as?"
"I don't want you to be that far away from me. At least when you're at Muriel's I know where you are. And I could potentially visit. But if you go to America, who knows when I'd see you again…"
"America might be better only because I'd be farther away." I closed my eyes, and tried to imagine living with my parents for an undetermined amount of time. "I could work as a Healer in America, maybe finish my training."
"I know," George said mournfully. "I know it'd be better for you. I just don't want it to be."
I felt bad for George. Even when he and Fred left school in our seventh year, George later complained that he had been desperately lonely without me—and that was with a definable end time. Who knew how long it would be until the war was over?
"I could go with you," George suggested.
"Fred couldn't stand to be without you," I joked. "What about your business?"
George made a disappointed noise. "We could manage it by owl post. But I suppose you're right… it would be difficult to manage without Fred with me. He could come too?"
My brain concocted several silly images of Fred and George living with my parents and me. Not good.
"We'd be a tight fit," I said vaguely, hoping he'd get the hint.
"We could find somewhere else to live. You speak American, right?" I snickered.
"I've also been thinking about trying to find Kim and Kelly, but that's a long shot," I mentioned.
"I guess." George was not thrilled by the idea.
I rolled on top of my fiancé; his body loosened at my presence.
"Let's not think about it now," I kissed his chin. "Everything will be alright."
George moaned and wrapped his arms around my back. "If you insist," he smiled beneath my kiss.
Not worrying about the Muggle-Born Registration Commission didn't last long. Not even a week later, I received the letter of summons for a hearing, in addition to a spot in the Prophet calling for my cooperation with the Ministry.
I was home from work that day, and Weasley Wizard Wheeze's was so painfully slow that the twins let Verity and I go early. The letter was already waiting for me on the kitchen counter, sealed in a light purple ribbon—like it was an invitation to a ball, and not my doom.
George and I had not talked about where I should go into hiding after that night we heard about the Commission. I sat frozen at the counter, suddenly challenged with an awful task: would Aunt Muriel's or America be safer for me to live out the duration of the war? The answer was obvious, but I knew George wouldn't like it.
George rapped on the front door before sliding in. He was grinning widely, as usual. He was always in a good mood.
"Got some downtime, figured I'd come up and…" George trailed off, noticing the parchment in my hands. "What's that?"
I handed the letter to him, unable to form words. I watched his eyes dance across the page. His fist crumpled the letter.
"Fuck," he swore. "We'll let Dad know tonight; he'll know what to do."
My body felt hollow, and my heart hammered relentlessly. I was going to have to quit work, pack my things, and move. The rock on my hand felt like it weighed a million pounds.
George noticed my face fall. He cupped my cheek and reassured me, "Don't worry, Muriel's not entirely unbearable. Only mostly. I'll be sure to stop around once a week or so…"
"George," I interjected, "You know I'm not going to Muriel's."
My fiancé didn't respond. He dropped the letter on the counter, and asked, "How come?"
"We both know America will be much safer. I would be with my family, and I could continue working over there and…"
"I wouldn't be there," George muttered.
"I have to think about my safety," I insisted. But it was already too late: George's eyes were crumpled with hurt. "I'm dreading being so far away from you. But you can write me, right? It'll be like the summers we were in school."
George considered this. He exhaled slowly and deeply.
"You're right," he bobbed his head. "Your safety is the most important thing. But bloody hell, Michie, I'll miss you."
I didn't want to think about missing George because the feeling would be unbearable. I wrapped my arms around his neck and breathed in his scent. I tried to memorize the way his hands felt on my waist, or how hot his breath was on my neck. That night, I would memorize the curve of his body, the way it felt against mine, and the way he silently sobbed to himself after he thought I had fallen asleep.
"I'll miss you too," I said earnestly. George hiccupped in response.
Kingsley Shacklebolt had arranged for a Portkey to take me outside my parent's home in America. He warned that I had one shot to make it, so I had better be there on time.
The Portkey was a mangy-looking tennis shoe that had been dropped in the Burrow's front yard. I stood above it, a heavy backpack weighing down my shoulders, surrounded by Kingsley, Fred, George, Arthur, and Molly.
"It's almost time," Kingsley warned, his voice deep and booming.
"Oh, love," Molly said for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. She dabbed her eyes with a kerchief dangling from her hands.
"We'll keep in touch, sis," Fred smirked; he was already worn of goodbyes.
"We'll try to send letters as often as we can, let you know how things are going back here," Arthur added.
"Don't expect much communication though," Kingsley added gravely. "The Ministry spot checks messages, and if they find any incriminating details you'll be in Azkaban faster than you can say Quidditch."
"We'll let you know as soon as it's safe here, anyway," Arthur amended, and Kingsley nodded approvingly.
I faced George, who hadn't worn the same face since we decided I would move to America. We had said our goodbyes privately, but I still didn't feel right leaving him.
"I'll be alright," he said lazily, as if he had read my mind. "Be safe. I'll be thinking about you."
"I love you," I told him.
George smiled. "I love you too."
"It's time," Kingsley urged.
"Go," George said, "I'll see you soon."
I kneeled to the ground, my fingers barely grazing the shoe leather. And then it felt like I was being pushed through a tiny tunnel, suctioned even, spinning so fast I couldn't see straight.
Before I had time to think, I landed on my parent's front lawn.
A/N: Was America the right choice? Will Michelle stay put at her parents? Let me know what you think!
