Sorry I haven't updated. I've had this sitting on my computer for a month!
But as it turned out, there was very little to do for the chickens. "There's no need to, er, mention it to Molly," Mr. Weasley told Harry, blocking his access to the coop, "but, er, Ted Tonks sent me most of what was left of Sirius's bike and, er, I'm hiding – that's to say, keeping – it in here. Fantastic stuff: There's an exhaust gaskin, as I believe it's called, the most magnificent battery, and it'll be a great opportunity to find out how brakes work. I'm going to try and put it all back together again when Molly's not – I mean, when I've got time."
When Harry returned to the house, Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen, so he slipped upstairs to Ron's attic bedroom. "I'm doing it, I'm doing – ! Oh, it's you," said Ron in relief, as Harry entered the room. Ron lay back down on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The room was just as messy as it had been all week; the only chance was that Hermione and I were now sitting in the far corner, Hermione's fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at her feet, sorting books, some of which I recognised as Harry's, into two enormous piles.
"Hi, Harry," I said, as he sat down on his camp bed.
"And how did you manage to get away?"
"Oh, Ron's mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me to change the sheets yesterday," said Hermione. She threw Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other.
When Harry turned to me I shrugged. "I got bored lying down all day."
"We were just talking about Mad-Eye," Ron told Harry. "I reckon he might have survived."
"But Bill saw him hit by the Killing Curse," said Harry.
"Yeah, but Bill was under attack too," said Ron. "How can he be sure what he saw?"
"Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell about a thousand feet," said Hermione, now weighing Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland in her hand.
"He could have used a Shield Charm –" I started.
"Fleur said his wand was blasted out of his hand," Harry said.
"Well, all right, if you want him to be dead," said Ron grumpily, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape.
"Of course we don't want him to be dead!" said Hermione, looking shocked. "It's dreadful that he's dead! But we're being realistic!"
For the first time, I imagined Mad-Eye's body, broken as Dumbledore's had been, yet with that one eye still whizzing in its socket. I felt a stab of revulsion mixed with a bizarre desire to laugh.
"The Death Eaters probably tidied up after themselves, that's why no one's found him," said Ron wisely.
"Yeah," said Harry. "Like Barty Crouch, turned into a bone and buried in Hagrid's front garden. They probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him –"
"Don't!" squealed Hermione. Startled, I looked over just in time to see her burst into tears over her copy of Spellman's Syllabary. I moved to put my arms around her and rubbed her back.
"Oh no," said Harry, struggling to get up from the old camp bed. "Hermione, I wasn't trying to upset –"
But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron bounded off the bed and got there first practically throwing me off, Harry managed to catch me from falling and we sat down on his bed sharing a look as we looked at Ron and Hermione. One arm around Hermione, Ron fished in his jeans pocket and withdrew a revolting-looking handkerchief that he had used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily pulling out his wand, he pointed it at the rag and said, "Tergeo." The wand siphoned off most of the grease. Looking rather pleased with himself, Ron handed the slightly smoking handkerchief to Hermione.
"Oh . . . thanks, Ron. . . . I'm sorry. . . ." She blew her nose and hiccupped. "It's just so awf-ful, isn't it? R-right after Dumbledore . . . I j-just n-never imagined Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!"
"Yeah, I know," said Ron, giving her a squeeze. "But you know what he'd say to us if he was here?"
"'C-constant vigilance,'" said Hermione, mopping her eyes.
"That's right," said Ron, nodding. "He'd tell us to learn from what happened to him. And what I've learned is not to trust that cowardly little git, Mundungus."
Hermione gave a shaky laugh and leaned forward to pick up two more books. A second later, Ron had snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she had dropped The Monster of Monsters on his foot. The book had broken free from its restraining belt and snapped viciously at Ron's ankle.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Hermione cried as Harry wrenched the book from Ron's leg and retied it.
"What are you doing with all those books anyway?" Ron asked, limping back to his bed.
"Just trying to decide which ones to take with us," said Hermione, "When we're looking for the Horcruxes."
"Oh, of course," said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. "I forgot we'll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library."
"Ha ha," said Hermione, looking down at Spellman's Syllabary. "I wonder . . . will we need to translate runes? It's possible. . . . I think we'd better take it, to be safe." She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two piles and picked up Hogwarts, A History.
"Listen," said Harry. He had sat up straight. Ron, Hermione and I looked at him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance.
"I know you said after Dumbledore's funeral that you wanted to come with me," Harry began.
"Here he goes," Ron said to Hermione and I, rolling his eyes. "As we knew he would," he sighed, turning back to the books. "You know, I think I will take Hogwarts, A History. Even if we're not going back there, I don't think I'd feel right if I didn't have it with –"
"Listen!" said Harry again.
"No, Harry, you listen," I said as I interlocked our fingers. "We're coming with you. That was
decided months ago – years, really."
"But –"
"Shut up," Ron advised him.
"– are you sure you've thought this through?" Harry persisted. "I mean look what happened to Belle a couple days ago."
"Let's see," said Hermione, slamming Travels with Trolls onto the discarded pile with a rather fierce look. "I've been packing for days, so we're ready to leave at a moment's notice, which for your information has included doing some pretty difficult magic, not to mention smuggling Mad-Eye's whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right under Ron's mum's nose. I've also modified my parents' memories so that they're convinced they're really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life's ambition is to move to Australia, which they have now done. That's to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them down and interrogate them about me – or you, because unfortunately, I've told them quite a bit about you. Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I'll find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don't – well, I think I've cast a good enough charm to keep them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don't know that they've got a daughter,
you see."
Hermione's eyes were swimming with tears again. Ron got back off the bed, put his arm around her once more, and frowned at Harry as though reproaching him for lack of tact. I could not think of anything to say, not least because it was highly unusual for Ron to be teaching anyone else tact.
"I – Hermione, I'm sorry – I didn't –"
"Didn't realize that Ron, Belle and I know perfectly well what might happen if we come with you? Well, we do. Ron, show Harry what you've done."
"Nah, he's just eaten," said Ron.
"Go on, he needs to know!"
"Oh, all right. Harry, come here." For the second time Ron withdrew his arm from around Hermione and stumped over to the door. "C'mon."
"Why?" Harry asked, following Ron out of the room onto the tiny landing.
"Descendo," muttered Ron, pointing his wand at the low ceiling. A hatch opened right over their heads and a ladder slid down to their feet. A horrible, half-sucking, half moaning sound came out of the square hole, along with an unpleasant smell like open drains.
"That's your ghoul, isn't it?" asked Harry, who had never actually met the creature that sometimes disrupted the nightly silence.
"Yeah, it is," said Ron, climbing the ladder. "Come and have a look at him."
Harry followed Ron up the few short steps into the tiny attic space. His head and shoulders were in the room before he caught sight of the creature curled up a few feet from him, fast asleep in the gloom with its large mouth wide open. "But it . . . it looks . . . do ghouls normally wear pajamas?"
"No," said Ron. "Nor have they usually got red hair or that number of pustules."
Harry contemplated the thing, slightly revolted. It was human in shape and size, and was wearing what, now that Harry's eyes became used to the darkness, was clearly an old pair of Ron's pajamas. He was also sure that ghouls were generally rather slimy and bald, rather than distinctly hairy and covered in angry purple blisters.
"He's me, see?" said Ron.
"No," said Harry. "I don't."
"I'll explain it back in my room, the smell's getting to me," said Ron. They climbed back down the ladder, which Ron returned to the ceiling, and re-joined Hermione and I, who was still sorting books.
"Once we've left, the ghoul's going to come and live down here in my room," said Ron. "I think he's really looking forward to it – well, it's hard to tell, because all he can do is moan and drool – but he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway, he's going to be me with spattergroit. Good, eh?"
Harry merely looked confused.
"It is!" said Ron, clearly frustrated that Harry had not grasped the brilliance of the plan. "Look, when us four don't turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone's going to think Hermione, Belle and I must be with you, right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight for our families to see if they've got information on where you are."
"But hopefully it'll look like I've gone away with Mum and Dad; a lot of Muggleborns are talking about going into hiding at the moment," said Hermione.
"I'm a half blood, they'll assume I've gone into hiding with the muggleborns, plus my mother is in America and my brother's with the order." I explained to Harry.
"We can't hide my whole family, it'll look too fishy and they can't all leave their jobs," said Ron. "So we're going to put out the story that I'm seriously ill with spattergroit, which is why I can't go back to school. If anyone comes calling to investigate, Mum or Dad can show them the ghoul in my bed, covered in pustules. Spattergroit's really contagious, so they're not going to want to go near him. It won't matter that he can't say anything, either, because apparently you can't once the fungus
has spread to your uvula."
"And your mum and dad are in on this plan?" asked Harry.
"Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the ghoul. Mum . . . well, you've seen what she's like. She won't accept we're going till we're gone."