CHAPTER EIGHT

The Incongruities of Malfoy's Underwear

The next day, Harry and Ron wandered lazily downstairs for breakfast just as the twins were on their way out of the front door.

"Are you coming back for lunch, dears?" Mrs Weasley called from the kitchen.

"Probably," Fred replied. "Got to see a man about a contract this morning though, so we might take him somewhere to butter him up first!" He winked at Harry and Ron as they passed in the hall.

"You behave yourselves!" said Mrs Weasley. "And don't try anything silly."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, that'll be the day."

"Got a problem, Ronniekins?" asked George, sweetly.

"Yeah. I want that damned counter-curse for my bedroom door. I'm sick of having to freeze to death every time I need the loo in the night."

"Well maybe if you're very nice to us we might be able to sort something out," said Fred, equally as sweetly.

Ron shoved the twins aside as he came down the last few stairs. "Whatever," he muttered. "See you later."

"Byesie bye, Ronald!" sang George, bundling Fred out of the door quickly. Their raucous laughter was still audible until two loud cracks signalled that they had Disapparated.

***

Half way through breakfast, during which Mr Weasley treated Harry and Ron to a detailed account of his latest run-in with the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, an enormous owl swooped grandly in through the open kitchen door, carrying a roll of parchment. It alighted on the back of Harry's chair, dropping its burden into his lap.

"Expecting something, Harry?" Mr Weasley inquired, kindly.

"No, actually," Harry replied. He stared at the owl. Something in its noble demeanour reminded him of Professor Dumbledore's phoenix Fawkes. The same lofty posture and impressive plumage. Even that dignified glint in its eye.

"Well, open it then!" Ron nudged him and nodded to the parchment.

Harry broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The script was slightly old-fashioned, like some of the Professors' handwriting at Hogwarts. McGonagall's was very upright and bold, Snape's a fusion of elegant, italicised longhand and gothic capitals. Dumbledore himself wrote in a narrow copperplate hand with a very fine-nibbed quill. The writing on Harry's parchment belonged to no Professor, but he recognised it immediately.

"Sirius!" he exclaimed, excitedly. "I thought he was still in Russia!"

"He's back then?" asked Ron, through a mouthful of cereal.

"Yes," replied Harry, reading down the scroll. He sighed. "He says they came to the end of the road out there, and it was pretty pointless staying when they could be keeping an eye out back here."

Mrs Weasley looked anxiously at her husband.

"He says unless they get a new lead he's going to be with Lupin for the rest of the summer," Harry continued. "And - oh - "

"What?" prompted Ron.

Harry lowered his voice. "He says some things about Snape. Better not read them out in front of your parents." Ron sniggered.

"Is he all right, Harry?" asked Mrs Weasley.

"He's fine, but he sounds pretty disillusioned."

"Have they had no luck at all?" asked Mr Weasley, his tirade against Fudge forgotten in his interest in hearing what Sirius had to say.

"Not really. A few dead ends. Nothing conclusive. They managed to get hold of Macnair and Avery in Moscow, he says, but they lost them on the run. They searched everywhere for this place that they're suppposed to be using as headquarters, but there wasn't a sign."

"Damn!" exclaimed Mr Weasley, thumping his fist on the table in frustration. "So damn close!"

"They'll keep trying, Mr Weasley, don't worry," said Harry, soberly. "Sirius won't give up. None of them will."

Mrs Weasley sniffed and got to her feet. She had suddenly turned very white. "Well, I hope they find him soon. All of them."

Harry watched her leave the room briskly, then he turned to Mr Weasley. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked, anxiously.

"No, no, lad, don't worry. She's worried about Charlie and Bill, that's all. You know Dumbledore called on them to keep their eyes open on their travels, don't you? She's petrified they're going to get dragged into all this."

"They already are dragged into this, Dad," said Ron, frowning.

"I know, but there's no need to worry your mother more than necessary."

Harry knotted his forehead. "What exactly have they been asked to do?"

Mr Weasley shrugged. "They've never said exactly. Charlie being in Romania and all, he's in a good position to watch the comings and goings of people through to Russia. And Bill travels all over Europe and North Africa, so I think Dumbledore's got him acting as some kind of undercover courier. Molly doesn't know about Bill, though, so we're trying to keep it quiet for now."

Harry nodded slowly. He had known about Charlie and Bill's involvement for the past two years, but he hadn't realised just how dangerous their position was. Not for the first time Harry felt himself swell with pride in the knowledge that he was one of the few people at Hogwarts to know all about The Order and its movements.

"Is that what Bill meant in his letter to Gin when he said he'd got 'time off'?" asked Ron, curiously.

Mr Weasley nodded. "If The Order has returned to Britain then I presume they are confident that there is nothing to monitor on the continent. For the moment, anyway, the boys are relieved of their duties. I had a nasty feeling that Russia idea was a load of rubbish, but it had to be checked. You-Know-You wouldn't go that far away, when what he wants is right here - " He stopped suddenly, aware of his tactlessness. Harry returned his stare with determined fortitude. Mr Weasley seemed to understand, and leaned back in his chair with a long sigh of relief. "Maybe the lads'll be able to tell us more when they get back. In the meantime, not a word to anyone else, all right?"

Harry and Ron nodded. They had grown used to keeping secrets over the years, starting with the Philosopher's Stone and Harry's Invisibility Cloak in their first year. It was interesting how the secrets that they kept grew more perilous and critical as time went on. In all honesty, being privy to the most vital secrets of The Order of the Phoenix was about as perilous and critical as one could get.

"Hey, Harry, we should ask Sirius to come down for your party," said Ron, eagerly. "If he's relieved of his duties it'll be OK, won't it?"

"Can't hurt to mention it," agreed Harry, with a grin. He had never talked of it to anyone, but he missed his godfather a great deal. The Dursleys, of course, refused to have him spoken of in the house, being still under the impression that Sirius Black was a fugitive criminal fleeing from the wrath of the law. Harry had decided it was in his own interests to keep the news of Sirius' reprieve to himself. Many a private chuckle he had enjoyed over the past year on that subject.

***

During the afternoon, after the twins had returned full of mysterious, secretive mutterings and winks, Harry found himself contemplating the contents of Sirius' letter.

The Quidditch experiment he had tried to conduct with Ron and the twins had fallen apart after half an hour. Now Fred and George were idly floating above the meadow on their broomsticks, teaching Ron how to play a game of their own invention. Harry lay on his stomach on the lawn, doodling on the parchment in front of him on which he had been trying to work out some new manoeuvres for the match against Slytherin after Christmas.

He amused himself greatly with a little drawing of Draco Malfoy being turned upside down on his broomstick in mid-flight, revealing a very vivid and quite grotesque pair of boxer shorts to the entire school. Harry was absolutely determined to savage the Slytherin team this year, and walk away with the Quidditch Cup just as Oliver Wood had done three years ago. He relished the thought of the look on Malfoy's face as Harry raised that huge, shining cup in front of everyone at Hogwarts, his name going down in the sporting annals of the school just as his father's had done, and Charlie Weasley's. Harry Potter, Captain and Seeker of Gryffindor, the champion team!

But always his thoughts would come back to Sirius, and his dangerous work with The Order. Although Sirius' news was always enthusiastically received, Harry was never quite satisfied. Until recently, he had been happy to carry on at Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione and Ginny, hearing the latest from Sirius and Dumbledore. Nobody could deny that Harry wasn't right at the centre of things, even from school with all his responsibilities there - but ever since he had learned of Bill and Charlie out in Europe, working side by side with The Order, Harry had entertained a small feeling of envy. Hearing about The Order's work was no longer enough for him. He wanted to be out there working with them, like Charlie and Bill.

He hadn't told anyone else about his feelings. They were just another secret.

"Oi, Harry!" yelled Fred, hurling the Quaffle down at him. "Get yourself up here, man."

"It's mad, Harry," called Ron, nodding eagerly. "A nice break from defending hoops all the time!"

"Sacrilege!" gasped Harry, in mock dismay. He grinned as he reached for his Firebolt. "How dare you talk about Quidditch in this fashion?"

"Because I'm trying to wind up my Captain," replied Ron, with a loud laugh. "He's becoming more obsessed with Quidditch than anyone else I know, including me! In fact, on a good day he could probably give Oliver Wood a run for his money!"

"The day I turn into Oliver Wood, tip a bucket of ice cold water over my head and take away my Firebolt," ordered Harry, in all seriousness. He tossed the Quaffle back up to Fred, and kicked off from the ground to join them in the air. "What's this game you've invented, then?"

"Promise you won't go all Quidditch Captainy?" said Fred, with a glint in his eye.

"What? Me? Would I?"

"Yes," Ron replied, firmly. "We want no comments on technique, speed, rules or points, OK? But you're welcome to slag off Malfoy as much as you like."

"Do I really do all that?" asked Harry.

Ron nodded. "Obviously we don't mind the Malfoy bit at all. In fact, it's possibly one of the best parts of our day, coming to Quidditch practice and listening to you muttering profanities about everybody's favourite Slytherin."

Harry grinned. "Well, I do my best," he said.

"OK," said Fred. "Here's how we play this. Somebody goes that end, and everybody else faces him - you move, Ron - like this. Then you take the Quaffle and try to confuse the person down that end by making last minute changes to your moves - "

"A bit like the Wronski Feint then?" Harry said, instinctively. He looked up to see the twins and Ron surveying him with solemn disapproval.

"What?" shrugged Harry, innocently.

"Right, make with the bucket of water, George!" yelled Fred, pointing down to the water butt. George chuckled wickedly, and lunged forward on his broom.

"Don't you even think about it!" Harry shot after him, leaning as far forward as he could. Then a hand reached out and pulled the Firebolt out from under him just as he was gaining on George. Harry toppled off onto the grass from about four feet above the ground. George was on his feet too, dipping a bucket into the water butt.

"Vengeance in mine!" shouted Ron, landing just behind Harry, closely followed by Fred. He pinned Harry's arms behind his back while Fred sat on his ankles.

"Gerrof!" Harry yelled as he struggled furiously. "I was joking, you idiots!"

George was advancing with the bucket, peering at Harry with dramatically narrowed eyes. He cackled with theatrical laughter. Harry's eyes widened in dread anticipation as the bucket drew nearer and nearer.

"Prepare to drown, Harry!" said George, ominously. He began to tip up the bucket.

"GEORGE! What on earth are you boys DOING?"

Harry, Ron and the twins turned to look at the owner of the voice. They grinned sheepishly.

Hermione was standing on the lawn a little way off beside her trunk and some odd bags, her hands planted firmly on her hips. She was viewing them with mildly disparaging good humour, her eyes twinkling with laughter.

"Honestly! Men!"