I am so sorry that it has been so long! I've been very busy with Uni and haven't had the time to write, but here is the chapter. Hopefully the next one won't take so long. Enjoy!

OLIVIA:

A sudden crash somewhere in the common room jolted me out of my sleep. Once again, I had nodded off while slumped over a homework assignment at the table. I lifted my head and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, glancing around the room to find the culprit. A small shadowy figure fumbled about by the fire trying to turn the fireplace tools upright, having knocked them over. I vaguely recognized the elf to be the one that Harry had freed several years ago. "Dobby?" I called into the dark.

The poor house elf jumped, startled. "Olivia! Olivia Riddle! Friend of Harry Potter?"

"That's me," I said groggily, standing up and crossing the room in his direction.

"Dobby is so sorry to disturb Ms. Olivia Riddle," he said hastily, still struggling with the tool rack. I leaned down and fixed it for him. "Dobby will be going now!"

"Dobby, wait!" I called after him as he hurried for the door.

He stopped dead in his tracks, wringing his hands nervously, "Yes, Ms. Riddle?"

I stepped closer to him. "Dobby, is it true that you used to serve the Malfoy family?"

He looked stunned at the sound of his previous Master's name. "Y-yes, ma'am," he muttered, nodding his head furiously.

I felt a smile start to play at my lips as I gently sat down on the edge of a chair by the fire. "Is there anything that you can tell me about them, the Malfoys?" I asked, trying not to sound too suspicious.

Dobby looked taken aback, but he answered anyway. "Dobby could tell Ms. Riddle…" he hesitated, "Dobby could tell Ms. Riddle that his old masters were — were — bad Dark wizards." He looked appalled at his own daring, rushing over to the table in front of me and abruptly began to bang his head on it very hard muttering "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"

"Dobby!" I whispered, seizing him by the back of his jumper (which had clearly been given to him by Ron) and pulling him backwards. "Of course they are. Everyone knows that." He stared at me with his big tennis ball eyes, bewildered. "But what about the boy, Draco, your Master's son? Can you tell me anything about him?" I asked daringly, hoping no one else was around to hear.

His eyes brightened. "Dobby likes Draco, Miss. Draco was kind to Dobby."

I smiled bigger, "Was he?"

"Y-yes! Draco would give Dobby food." The house-elf was smiling too.

I nodded, though that wasn't quite what I wanted to know. "What about his parents? Were his parents kind to him?"

Dobby shook his head. "Oh, no! They was mean to Draco. Dobby's master would punish Draco."

Though I already knew this, hearing it from someone other than Draco made my heart clench. "Was Draco a Dark wizard?"

He seemed to ponder that for a moment. "No. Draco was not bad," he said finally, "Draco was made to do bad things."

I bit back from asking what things he was forced to do, not knowing if I could handle the answer.

"Dobby saw Draco last year!" He said happily, "Dobby gave him food from the kitchen!"

I smiled again, knowing exactly what Dobby was talking about. I remembered that night out by the lake like it was yesterday, everything from the conversation to the cheeky glint in his eye when he talked to the basket full of butterbeers and snacks. "Yes, he did," I nodded.

"Harry Potter does not like Draco Malfoy," he said, looking down at the floor. I shook my head, though this was something that I definitely already knew. If only I could get Harry and the others to see Draco the way Dobby and I did.

"Okay," I sighed, drifting into thought, "That's all. Thank you, Dobby."

The house-elf gave a sharp nod before turning away and exiting the common room. I watched him disappear into the dark corridor, alone once again. The crackling fire was the only thing that filled the eerie silence. I sat back in my chair and pulled my knees to my chest, staring into the blaze. Though I hadn't learned anything profoundly new about the Malfoy family, hearing it from someone who had experienced it first hand made it so much more real.

Draco was stuck in my mind, but not in the same longing way that he had been before. This time, all that I wanted to do was help him. Witnessing his outburst at the Quidditch match made me realize just how much his parents affected him. He was so afraid after loosing the match to Harry. A nagging thought tugged at my mind. That tantrum wasn't entirely about his parents or loosing. I had seen the looks that he had given Fred during meals and in the corridors. He had so much anger built up towards Fred, and thus, the Weasleys altogether. It was partially my fault.

Another loud noise pulled me away from my thoughts, this time from the boys' staircase. I wiped around to see who it was. "Neville?" I called into the darkness.

His wide eyes flashed up at me. "Olivia!" he said, his voice sounding panicked. Immediately, I knew that something wasn't right.

"What's wrong?" I asked, standing up.

"H-Harry. Harry is ill," he said hurriedly, "I need to find Professor McGonagall."

That was not the answer that I was expecting. "Is he okay? What's wrong?" I asked, but it was too late. Neville had already disappeared through the portrait and I was left alone and confused. I glanced back at the staircase that Neville had emerged from, contemplating going up to investigate. But then I thought better of it. The boys probably had the situation under control, and if Harry truly was ill, he probably wouldn't want another person up in his face.

Instead, I took to pacing the length of the common room, completely abandoning the homework that I had been up working on in the first place. The sound of the fire was now joined by the steady beat of my footsteps on the cold floor and the rapid th-thump of my heart . My mind was racing again, as it always was. Most of my nights were spent like this nowadays, wide awake at the mercy of my own mind. I had been sleeping very little, and when I did, it was fitful and frequently interrupted by vivid nightmares. Being left alone was something that I had begun to fear, because when I was alone, all I had to keep me company were my own thoughts. I was beginning to understand how Draco had felt. The reality of Voldemort's return consumed me.

Luckily, I wasn't left alone for long. "Ms. Riddle, dear?" I heard from near the portrait hole. I recognized the voice immediately as our head of house. "What are you doing out of bed?"

I turned around to face her. "Couldn't sleep," I said passively. Her face was full of concern, but she didn't comment. She simply followed Neville back up to the boys' dormitory, and I was alone again.

Th-thump, th-thump. Th-thump, th-thump.

The longer I waited, the faster it grew.

Th-thump, th-thump.

There was a great racket coming down the stairs. Professor McGonagall was in the lead, followed closely by Harry, who was half-carried by Ron. The dark haired boy looked ghostly pale in the light of the fire. His hair was plastered to his forehead, sweating profusely. "Harry?" I asked at the sight of him.

"Riddle, get yourself to bed," McGonagall ordered, hurrying back through the portrait, the boys behind her.

Alone, again.

Th-thump, th-thump.

"Do you think it's You-Know-Who?" a voice asked from up the stairs. Three pairs of footsteps came pattering into the common room: Neville, Dean, and Seamus. All three of them were looking a bit jostled and confused in their bedclothes.

"What is going on?" I asked, interrupting their conversation.

Dean and Seamus looked startled. "Olivia?" Seamus asked.

"Why are you still in your robes?" Dean raised.

I looked between them. "One question at a time. What is going on with Harry?"

"He had some kind of nightmare, I guess," Dean answered, "He got sick all over the room, said something about Mr. Weasley being hurt."

That peaked my attention. "Mr Weasley? What did he say about Mr. Weasley?"

Both of them shook their heads. "Answer our questions first," Seamus said with a smirk.

"I fell asleep while working on a potions essay," I huffed, waving them off. "Now what did Harry say about Mr. Weasley?"

"Harry said he's been attacked by a snake," Dean said plainly.

Seamus shrugged when he saw the look on my face, "It was probably just a dream." I wasn't so sure of that, but I didn't say anything more, slumping back into my chair at the table. If I couldn't sleep before, I definitely couldn't now. The boys seemed to share a similar sentiment, too awake to return to their beds. Instead, they sat down at the table with me and busied themselves with a game of Exploding Snap. I looked on, too deep in thought to participate.

Mr. Weasley had always been the closest thing that I had to a father. It was he who taught me how to ride a broomstick (with the help of Bill and Charlie). He would always let me tag along whenever he did anything with the twins. He had become almost as protective of me as he was of his own daughter. I had no idea what I would do if he was hurt.

It felt like we sat there at that table for ages. I watched the games halfheartedly, though I appreciated the distraction. The boys didn't get nearly as rowdy as usual, seemingly also worried about Harry. They didn't stop playing until Professor McGonagall returned. "Children, get to bed!" she scolded. The four of us stood up abruptly, not wanting to cause any more trouble. "Except for you, Olivia. I need to speak with you."

I froze. "What is it, Professor?" I asked cautiously.

She hesitated, stepping closer to me. "I'm afraid Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured in his work for the Order of the Phoenix. I have been sent to collect you and the remaining Weasley children."

My heart dropped. It was true. Arthur was hurt. "I can get the boys," I suggested flatly.

She looked taken aback at my lack of worry, but I knew that if I let any of my emotion out, I wouldn't be able to contain them again. "Thank you, dear. I assume they would much rather you then myself."

Without another word, I made my way up the stairs. My previously overactive mind had gone completely blank, unable to fathom what had happened to Mr. Weasley. What was I doing? I couldn't possibly tell the boys that their father was hurt so terribly. I could hardly even think about it without feeling sick. No wonder Harry had looked so dreadful, if he truly had seen it happen…

I tiptoed gingerly across the year seven boys' dormitory to Fred's bedside, the farthest one from the door. He was sleeping heavily on his stomach, the sound of his familiar snores muffled into his pillow. I knelt down in front of him, a gentle hand on his back as not to startle him too terribly. "Gorgeous?" I whispered, shaking him lightly. "Hey, gorgeous, wake up."

His eyelids fluttered open, his face barely illuminated by the faint moonlight that seeped through the drapes. "Ollie?" He said quietly, lifting his head off of his pillow to see me better. I could tell that his face was scrunched in confusion.

"Hi," I said with a weak smile, "you need to get up. It's your father, he's been hurt"

He suddenly appeared wide awake. "Dad? Is he okay?" His voice was filled with a kind of deep concern that I had only heard a handful of times before.

I shrugged, not knowing what to tell him. "Professor McGonagall asked for you and George. That's all that I know." Of course, the wasn't the whole truth. I knew that Harry had dreamt it, but that seemed to be a trivial detail at the moment.

Fred sat up, his blanket falling away from his body. He had been sleeping topless, as always. I could still see the lines on his stomach in the darkness, though they had started to fade since his banishment from the Quidditch team. I leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek, to which he didn't seem to react. I didn't say anything more, moving across the room to wake George.

George's reaction was nearly identical to his brother's, stark confusion with a helping of worry. I waited silently as they both pulled on jumpers and slippers before leading the way back to the common room. Professor McGonagall was waiting, a puzzled looking Ginny by her side. Neither said a word, McGonagall beckoning for us to follow her. We did so without question.

We walked through the dark corridors of the castle, which made me feel slightly on edge. Being out of bed in the late hours of the night would typically land a student in detention, and even with a professor leading the way, I felt an odd sense of anxiety. While we walked, I watched Fred out of the corner of my eye. He trudged on with his head low, his face unreadable. As much as I wanted to reach out and grab his hand, I held back. I did not want to intrude on his thoughts, nor did I want such a public display of affection directly in front of Professor McGonagall.

In a few minutes we reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office. "Fizzing Whizbee," Professor McGonagall said, causing the gargoyle to spring to life. The wall behind it split in two to reveal a stone staircase that was moving continuously upward like a spiral escalator. All four of us stepped onto the moving stairs, the wall closed behind with a thud, and we were moving upward in tight circles until we reached the highly polished oak door with the brass knocker shaped like a griffin.

McGonagall did not reach for the knocker, instead pushing the door aside immediately. Beyond it, Harry and Ron sat in a pair of high-backed wooden chairs looking just as shaken as before. Dumbledore was stood on the opposite side of the room in front of an empty picture frame.

Ginny was the first to speak, "Harry, what's going on?" she asked, looking frightened. "Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad hurt—"

"Your father has been injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix," Dumbledore interrupted. "He has been taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you back to Sirius's house, which is much more convenient for the hospital than the Burrow. You will meet your mother there."

"How're we going?" Fred spoke up, his voice shaking. "Floo powder?"

"No," Dumbledore shook his head, "Floo powder is not safe at the moment, the Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey." He indicated the old kettle lying innocently on his desk. "We are just waiting for Phineas Nigellus to report back. I wish to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you."

The room fell oddly silent, a desolate tone in the air. I felt strangely as though I were intruding, seeing as I was not directly involved in the incident. Harry had seen the attack and the others were all Weasleys. I didn't belong here. "Professor Dumbledore," I said, breaking the quiet, "why have you summoned me? I am not a child of Arthur's."

He turned to look as me, peering over the rims of his half-moon glasses. "Arthur loves you like you are a child of his. I surely hope that love is returned," he said distantly.

I stared at him, open-mouthed, unsure what to say. Of course I loved Arthur. He was the only strong male figure that I had in my life. But he had so many children of his own to love. Surely I was second-rate to all of them. "Yes, sir," I muttered uncertainly. For the first time since we left the Gryffindor tower, Fred met my eyes. He pursed his lips, also at a loss for words.

There was a flash of flame in the very middle of the office, leaving behind a single golden feather that floated gently to the floor.

"It is Fawkes's warning," Dumbledore said, catching the feather as it fell. "She must know you're out of your beds." Instantly, I knew that he was talking about Umbridge. "Minerva, go and head her off —tell her any story—" She didn't need to be told twice, quickly disappearing back through the large door.

A new voice grabbed our attention. "He says he'll be delighted," said a bored voice behind Dumbledore; the wizard from the empty portrait had reappeared— this must have been Phineas. "My great-great-grandson has always had odd taste in houseguests."

"Come here, then," Dumbledore swiftly. "And quickly, before anyone else joins us . . ."

The lot of us gathered around his desk, eyeing the kettle. "You have all used a Portkey before?" Dumbledore asked. We all nodded and I couldn't keep my eyes from flashing towards Harry. The last time that he had traveled by Portkey, Cedric Diggory was murdered and Voldemort made his return. We all reached out to touch it, Fred's other hand finding itself clutching my shoulder. "Good. On the count of three then . . . one . . . two . ."

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