It all belongs to Rowling. Standard disclaimers apply.
Author's Note: Thanks again to Yolanda for beta-ing, and thanks to the folks who have reviewed!
Chapter Four—Travelling Again
The next few weeks passed fairly calmly. Each morning, Harry would wait in his room for the Daily Prophet owl to arrive; when it did, he would skim the paper quickly before going downstairs to breakfast with the Dursleys. When he arrived at the table, Dudley would catch his eye, and Harry would let him know, by a quick facial expression, whether or not the day's paper contained more bad news. If it did not, that was the end, and the cousins would not see one another again until lunchtime. If it did, Dudley would meet Harry outside after breakfast and read the relevant article for himself. Then Harry would reassure him. Neither boy ever spoke of the events reported by the paper in Uncle Vernon's presence, and Harry was able to maintain the state of uneasy truce.
For the first time, Harry had managed to craft a tolerable schedule for himself at Number Four, Privet Drive. Mornings, before the day got too warm, were for football drills; afternoons were for study; evenings were for pleasure reading. After finishing the interesting volumes of "Works of the English Greats," Harry had politely asked Aunt Petunia if he might be allowed to go to the local library once a week. It was the only request that he had made of her all summer, and, though her mouth set in its same grim line, she had agreed that he could, so long as Dudley accompanied him. Every Thursday morning, Harry traded his football drills for a walk to the library just a mile from the Dursley house—a walk whose speed increased each week as Dudley's wind gradually improved. The library didn't have much of a selection, but Harry discovered that he liked mystery stories, and he read Dorothy Sayers and Dick Francis with gusto. He could usually figure out who the villain was, and he wondered if this ability had something to do with magic; he'd have to ask Dumbledore. Dudley read computer magazines while Harry selected his books; he never checked out any books of his own, but he sometimes borrowed videotapes. After Harry had finished selecting and checking out, the cousins would walk to the ice cream parlour on the way home; since Harry had no Muggle money, Dudley always paid, saying that Harry could repay him by promising not to tell Aunt Petunia about their stops. He only ate frozen yoghurt, though, and only a small cone, so Aunt Petunia probably wouldn't have minded even if Harry had told her. From the ice cream parlour, they would return to Privet Drive; Harry would go study his textbooks, and Dudley would watch his videos or go visit his friend Piers. It was a quiet routine, and Harry found it comforting. His school year had been too full of excitement, and Harry rather enjoyed this period when the biggest excitement was mastering a chess plan and the most important decision was which ice cream flavour to try this week.
He did not, however, enjoy the routine so much that he wanted the summer to last; rather, he longed for it to end. Though he kept in touch with Ron and Hermione—the wrote at least every other day, and sometimes daily, and they had sent wonderful things on Harry's birthday—it wasn't the same as talking, as spending their days together. He missed them. So when Pig arrived with a letter saying that Dumbledore had agreed for Harry to spend the last two weeks of vacation with the Weasley family and that Hermione's parents had said that she could come, too, Harry was thrilled. He immediately wrote back accepting the offer and telling Ron not to come and pick him up by Floo powder this time; last time had been a disaster. Harry could take the Knight Bus to London the next evening and Floo from there on his own. Harry tied the letter to Pig's leg and sent him off. He debated for a moment about whether to tell his aunt and uncle now that he would be going or whether it might be simpler, given Uncle Vernon's tetchiness, to wait and tell them as he was walking out the door. He decided that waiting would be cowardly, so he went downstairs to tell Dudley and Aunt Petunia his news.
Dudley was watching the last of his videos—tomorrow was library day, and he wanted to finish in time to take them back—but he paused the tape when Harry sat down in a chair that faced away from the television screen. "What is it, cousin?" he said.
"I'm leaving tomorrow evening. Just wanted to let you know."
"But your school doesn't start for two more weeks. Where are you going?"
"To visit my friend Ron; he just owled to invite me." Harry grinned at the thought of time at The Burrow. "Ron's whole family is great, and it'll be really good to feel like I'm a part of … you know … that world again. It feels kind of isolated here." Dudley nodded. "Do you miss your school friends when you're home?" Harry asked.
Dudley shrugged. "Not really. My only real friend from Smeltings is Piers, and he lives close by, so there's really no one to miss. I don't really like school, but at least there nobody tries to baby me all the time. I mean, it's bad, but it's a different kind of bad. Here, Mum smothers me, and there, nobody pays any attention to me except to tease me or yell at me. But, you know, it's a routine. I get used to it enough that I kind of miss it a little when I'm away." He shrugged again.
Harry shuddered inwardly. What an awful school life. He thought of Hogwarts, where he had friends, and good teachers, and Quidditch, and parties in the Common Room. Not that it was perfect—there was Snape, after all, and Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins—but it was good. Not just a different kind of bad.
Interesting, though, to hear Dudley complain about Aunt Petunia's fussing over him. For the first time, Harry reckoned that life at the Dursley house had been bad for both of the children in it. Before, he had just thought about it from his own point of view—the neglect, the way Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had always favored Dudley and treated Harry like a second-class citizen. But now he saw that their favoritism had probably been as much of disservice to their son as their neglect had been to their nephew. Perhaps more of a disservice; at least Harry had learned how to cope with adversity. Dudley, who had never faced it, hadn't ever had a chance to learn to cope with it. Now that he was growing up, he seemed to be starting to realise that not everyone would pander to him the way his parents did. Harry thought that the lesson was coming a bit late, but at least it was coming. He wondered if Draco Malfoy, the other spoiled brat of his acquaintance, would ever have the lesson come to him.
Dudley's voice broke Harry's musings. "Will we be safe when you're gone—Mum and Dad and me?"
Harry shrugged uncertainly. "I think so. I think whatever this … this protection thing is will work for as long as your mum and dad are my guardians. And, if it doesn't work like that, I'm sure my Headmaster will set up some sort of protection for you." At Dudley's alarmed look, Harry added hastily, "Not anything that your parents will notice—not anything anybody would notice. If Dumbledore doesn't want you to see it, you won't see it. But it will be there, keeping you safe." Harry fervently hoped that his reassuring words were true. He'd have to have some kind of talk with Dumbledore sometime to see just what kind of protection was guarding himself and his relatives.
Dudley nodded. "If anything happens that you think I should know about, will you write to me? You don't have to tell me every little thing, but, if there's any big disaster that you think might affect us …" He trailed off uncertainly.
"Sure," Harry agreed. "So long as you don't mind the occasional owl tapping on your dormitory window." He grinned, and his cousin grinned back. "Anyway, I should go tell your mum that I'll be leaving tomorrow. I just wanted to let you know." He rose from his chair and walked into the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia was chopping potatoes for supper. "Do you need any help, Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked.
Wordlessly, she pushed some of the potatoes across the table. Harry collected an extra cutting board and knife and set to work. They chopped in silence for a moment, and then Harry said, "I'm leaving tomorrow evening for my friend Ron's house."
Aunt Petunia stopped chopping and looked up, startled. "You can't! We won't be safe!"
"You will. Dudley and I have already talked about it. I don't know just how the protective … " Harry nearly said "protective spells," but he caught himself in time. " … protective things work, but you will be safe while I'm gone, and so will I. My Headmaster would never have given permission for me to go to Ron's if there was any danger."
"Vernon won't take you! I'll tell him not to!" Aunt Petunia's voice rose hysterically.
Harry looked at her, surprised. "You've spent the bigger part of fourteen years wanting me gone. Now I tell you that you'll have two extra weeks free of me, and you're going crazy. What do you want?"
"I want my family to be safe! And if keeping you here is the only way for that to be assured, then you need to be here."
Harry didn't know what to say to that. He decided to ignore the part of him that felt angry about Aunt Petunia thinking he was only around for her convenience and to focus instead on the part of him that wanted to avoid making a scene. "You'll be perfectly safe. And I don't need for Uncle Vernon to take me; I've arranged to get there on my own, so you won't need to take any trouble."
"I won't have those … those … people in my house again! You know what happened last time."
Harry fought to keep his face straight. He did indeed know what had happened last time, and, despite his newfound peace with his cousin, the memory still made him want to laugh. When he was sure that no trace of a chuckle would show in his voice, he replied, "They won't be coming here; as I said, I'm going on my own."
"But…."
Harry was tired of arguing. Thinking of Lord Peter, the well-mannered, smooth-talking detective whose perfect rejoinders rivaled even Elizabeth Bennet, he gently cut in on whatever objections his aunt was about to make. "Aunt Petunia, you don't seem to understand. I am not asking your permission. I am not debating with you. The matter is already decided, and I am informing you of my plans simply as a courtesy." There. Simple, to the point, and brooking no dissent. Lord Peter would approve.
Lord Peter would also sweep gracefully from the room after pinning his victim for a few moments with a steely-eyed stare. However, Lord Peter wouldn't have a pile of potatoes to finish chopping. Harry settled for the brief, steely-eyed stare followed by the obvious turning of his attention to something else, as though Aunt Petunia was no longer worth his time. He finished the potatoes, pushed them across the table without meeting her eyes, and left the kitchen. With a wave to Dudley, whose attention had turned back to his video, Harry went upstairs to pack his trunk.
Packing didn't take long, for Harry hadn't unpacked much. Most of his possessions from the wizarding world—his robes, his Firebolt, his school supplies—had stayed in the trunk all summer, and the few things that he had used, like his books and his chess set, had only come out of the trunk when he needed them. A few extra trips around the room assured that Harry hadn't forgotten anything. Now, he just had to get through the rest of today and through part of tomorrow, and then he'd be at the Burrow.
That thought was enough to carry Harry through dinner and breakfast with a particularly foul-tempered Uncle Vernon (with a nearly-nightmare-free night between the two meals). He took one last walk to the library with Dudley, had one last stop at the ice cream parlour, and ate one last lunch with a sulking Aunt Petunia. He forced himself to concentrate through an afternoon of study, knowing (and relishing the knowledge) that he probably wouldn't get any work done at the Burrow. He ate his last dinner with the Dursleys and stayed upstairs, out of the way, until dusk fell; he wasn't sure that the Knight Bus worked before dark.
Once he reckoned that it was dark enough, he ventured downstairs with his trunk and Hedwig's empty cage; the owl was out delivering a letter to Sirius, and Harry had told her to meet him at the Burrow. Harry left his gear in the hall and stepped into the living room, where all of the Dursleys were sitting. "I'm off," he said. When no one replied, he added, "I hope that you all have a good year."
Vernon grunted. Petunia pressed her lips together in that grim line. Only Dudley seemed to pay any real attention, asking, "Want me to come and wait with you?" Harry nodded, and the two left the room. "Sorry about them," Dudley said when they were out of earshot.
"It's okay. Tough to change fourteen years of bad feelings in one summer."
"We seem to have done it."
Harry grinned at his cousin. "Yeah, we have, haven't we? I'm glad."
"Me, too."
The two stood awkwardly for a moment. Harry broke the silence with, "Well, I'd better call the bus. Stay back a bit; the driver's a little unpredictable." Dudley looked astonished that wizards had anything so, well, normal as busses. Harry imagined that his astonishment at this unexpected normalness would change as soon as he got a look at the Knight Bus. Harry held out his wand like hailing a taxi. Almost immediately, there was a loud BANG and a flash of light. A triple-decker bus in a lurid shade of purple appeared right in front of Harry. Dudley made a sound of sheer amazement. "Pretty neat, eh?" Harry said. "Have a good school year, Dudley."
"You, too." Dudley gawked for a moment at the purple-uniformed conductor who leapt from the bus, shook his head, and hurried back inside.
The conductor watched him go for just a second and then broke into an obviously well-practised speech. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your want hand, step aboard … " He suddenly broke off as though he had just noticed Harry. "Neville!" he exclaimed.
Harry suppressed a shudder at the memory of the last time that he had flagged down this bus, when he had used the name of one of his classmates as an ill-chosen alias. "Harry," he corrected. "Hi, Stan."
A big grin appeared on Stan's pimply face. "Hey, Ern!" he called to the driver, "It's Neville Longbottom! I mean 'Arry Potter!"
Harry heard Ern's voice reply, "Then 'elp his with 'is trunk, Stan, so we can move on, there's good lad."
Stan, suddenly remembering his job, picked up the trunk and ushered Harry onto the bus. "Where you goin', 'Arry?" he asked.
"London," Harry replied. "The Leaky Cauldron. Will eleven Sickles still get me there?"
"Firteen now. Inflation. Can't get nuffink these days for a fair price. Firteen used to get you 'ot chocolate." He accepted Harry's money and gestured back into the depths of the bus. "You can 'ave your choice of beds; just you tonight on account a' it's so early yet. Be a quick trip." Harry chose a bed about halfway back, far enough to avoid Stan's endless chatter. Stan followed him, stowed his trunk under the bed that he'd chosen, and headed back to the front of the bus. As Stan was making his way back to the front, Harry lay down on the bed and gripped the edge. Last time on the night bus, the acceleration had thrown him flat on the bed, and this time he wanted to be prepared. Stan arrived at the front of the bus and dropped into his armchair next to the driver, and Harry heard him say, "Take 'er away, Ern." There was another BANG, and, when Harry managed to sit up, the bus was barrelling down Charing Cross Road. Harry could have taken the bus straight to The Burrow, but he thought that such a move might be too dangerous. Harry could just picture Death Eaters torturing Stan for information about where the bus had taken Harry. To protect Stan—as well as himself—Harry had decided to go to London, a completely innocuous location, and to travel on from there.
The bus soon arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, and Stan helped Harry with his trunk and Hedwig's cage. "Thanks, Stan," Harry said to the conductor. "By the way, if anyone asks you about me, tell them that you dropped me off here, okay? I have some friends who might be wondering where I am—I'm not sure my owl got to them yet—so they might be looking for me."
That was half-true, anyway, and Stan wasn't sharp enough to be suspicious. "Sure fing, 'Arry! G'bye!" Stan hopped back on the bus, which disappeared with another BANG.
Harry looked for a moment at the spot where the bus had been; even though he was used to things that appeared and disappeared with no warning, the Knight Bus still unnerved him a little. Then he turned at entered the Leaky Cauldron.
It was after ten o'clock, and the pub was nearly empty. Tom, the wizened landlord, was simultaneous serving the few patrons and controlling a cloth that was wiping tables. When he caught sight of Harry, he grinned his toothless grin and called, "Evening, Mr. Potter!"
"Evening, Tom," Harry replied. He didn't know Tom's last name. Maybe pub-keepers didn't even have last names.
"Will you be wanting a room for the night?"
"No, thank you," Harry replied politely. "Just a pot of tea. And I need to borrow one of your parlours with a private fireplace so I can Floo to the place where I'm staying tonight." Tom finished pouring the drinks, Summoned the cloth, and then led Harry along a narrow passage to a small parlour. It was not, Harry noted, the same parlour that he had once sat in with Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic. Tom placed the pot of tea on Harry's table and clicked his fingers, causing a fire to burst to life in the fireplace. Harry bid him goodbye, and Tom left the room, closing the door behind him. Harry drank a bit of tea and then poured the rest into the soil around a potted plant that sat on the mantle above the fire. He hadn't really wanted the tea, but he'd felt that he should buy something since he was using Tom's fireplace. Harry left his payment on the table and grabbed a handful of Floo powder from an urn next to the plant. He tossed the powder into the fire, set his trunk and Hedwig's cage in quickly, took off his glasses and put them in his pocket, and climbed into the flames. "The Burrow!" he called.
He began to spin very fast, and the parlour vanished in a rush of emerald flames. The spinning increased, and Harry closed his eyes. Travelling by Floo powder always made him queasy. When he felt himself slowing down, he threw out his hands just in time to avoid falling on his face when he landed. Seconds later, he was sprawling on top of his trunk in the Weasleys' kitchen fireplace.
"Hello, Harry, dear!" As Harry fumbled in his pocket for his glasses, Molly Weasley's voice greeted him cheerfully. The short, slightly plump woman hugged him as soon as he was out of the fire. "So good to see you!" She took a step back and looked at him appraisingly. "You're much too thin, Harry, dear. Those relatives of yours haven't been starving you again, have they?"
Harry, amused that Mrs. Weasley was finally allowing herself to criticise his relatives' care of him, assured her that they hadn't been starving him. He didn't mention that he simply hadn't had much appetite.
"Good. At any rate, you are too, thin, and we'll have to work on that. And you've gotten so tall!" Harry realised that he had indeed grown a bit over the summer; he was now a little taller than Mrs. Weasley.
"Yeah, you're almost as tall now as, say, the average second-year." This observation was from Ron, who was grinning at Harry over his mother's head. As one of the tallest boys in their year, Ron would hardly be impressed by Harry's few inches. He stepped around Mrs. Weasley to cuff Harry playfully on the arm. Harry cuffed him back, feeling his face split into the first real grin that it had worn in ages.
His grin only widened as Fred and George, Ron's twin brothers who would be starting their final year at Hogwarts, each grabbed one of his arms and steered him to a chair at the kitchen table. The two were, as usual, talking over one another.
"… absolutely have to try our new chewing gum, it puts Drooble's …"
"…completely to shame. And we've gotten an offer from Zonko's for six …
"… no, seven dozen of our fake wands. And you know those Muggle toys, what are they called, Fred?"
"Hand buzzers. They're a ruddy brilliant concept, although the Muggles don't realise …"
"… the potential at all. We're working on some magical versions that are a little more …"
"… creative. So how has your summer been?"
Trying to listen to the twins in their more excited mode always made Harry's head spin. He managed to get out a "Pretty good" before they were off again, telling him more about their new inventions. Ron had written that the twins had acquired a "mystery investor" to finance their attempts to start a joke shop. Little did Ron know that the mystery investor was Harry himself. He had given the twins the thousand Galleons that he had won in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Given the outcome of the Tournament, Harry couldn't bring himself to keep the money, and, with the dark days that he knew were ahead, he reckoned the wizarding world would be able to do with a few more laughs.
The flow of the twins' enthusiastic banter, punctuated by an occasional addition from Ron and their younger sister, Ginny, was finally halted when their father Apparated into the kitchen with a POP. "What a day!" Arthur Weasley exclaimed, falling into his chair and looking exhausted. His wife kissed the top of his rapidly-balding head and placed in front of him the dinner plate that had, Harry knew from experience, been kept warm in the oven. He smiled his tired thanks and then seemed to focus in on Harry for the first time. "How are you, Harry?" he asked.
"Fine, thanks. Rough day?"
"You can't imagine. Everything's been crazy since the disappearances."
"Dad's basically been heading three different departments all at once," Ron supplied. "His own, of course, plus two of the ones whose heads are missing—Accidental Magical Reversal and Magical Catastrophes." There was a note of pride in Ron's voice that made Harry happy. Mr. Weasley didn't make much money working for the Ministry of Magic, and his department, Muggle Relations, wasn't a terribly prestigious one. It was nice to know that he was being trusted with more responsibility, even if it did mean more work.
"Those are huge departments," Mr. Weasley said, "so it's a lot of work. But it means that I get to be in touch with more people, so it's easier to … you know … spread the word."
Harry did know. Minister Fudge had refused to believe that Voldemort had returned, and Mr. Weasley was quietly gaining support for Professor Dumbledore from within the Ministry. His task of sounding out other Ministry workers was probably made easier with this excuse for contact with the other departments.
"Is their any word on the missing department heads?" Harry asked.
"My people are trying, but there's nothing so far. No one in the Ministry seemed to be doing anything, so, as unofficial Head of Magical Catastrophes, I declared the disappearances a Catastrophe, and I put half the department in charge of finding the missing people. So far, though, no trace. Fudge doesn't like that I have half my people on it, but, since he wouldn't put any other people on it, I reckoned somebody had to do something."
"Nobody else was willing to take over the Department, so old Fudge can't really do anything about it," Ron said. "He either has to leave Dad in charge and let him run things the way he wants to, or he'd have to take over the Department himself, and there's no way he's going to do that. He used to be Head of Magical Catastrophes, and he couldn't handle the stress then."
"Fudge is a magical catastrophe," Harry muttered. Fred and George hooted, and even Mrs. Weasley looked like she was fighting a smile. "Well, he is. Sticking his head in the sand while his Department Heads go missing. It's ridiculous." Harry's opinion of Fudge had nose-dived at the end of the school year, and none of Fudge's actions since that time had done anything to improve it.
The conversation probably would have turned to Fudge-bashing, but the tap of a beak on the window interrupted. "That's for me," Harry said, recognising Hedwig's snowy profile. He opened the window and let her in. "Hello, girl. Did you have a nice flight?" He untied the letter from her leg and ruffled her feathers. "Why don't you go find Errol and Hermes? I'm sure they'll be glad to see you." Hedwig flew off to find the Weasley family owls, and Harry sat back down at the table. The Weasleys were watching him curiously, obviously wondering who was writing to Harry.
Harry hesitated briefly and then decided that he could tell them. He trusted everyone at this table. "It's from Sirius," he said. Ron looked like this was completely expected. Molly and Arthur looked a little wary, but not too concerned. Ginny, Fred, and George just looked perplexed. To the three confused Weasleys, Harry explained, "Sirius Black. He's my godfather. He's innocent."
The twins immediately began to talk at the same time. With Ron's help, Harry got them sorted out. Then he opened the letter to see what his godfather had to say.
Harry—
I'm fine and I'm safe, and Dumbledore's plans are moving along as well as we could hope for from my end. I've gotten in touch with a lot of people, and the word is spreading. I'm nearly finished with the project that I've been working on this summer, and then I'm hoping to have a little bit of free time—as "free" as an escaped convict's time can be, anyway. I hope to be able to see you soon.
Give my greetings to Ron and Hermione when you see them. Moony says "Hello!" to you all. I'd better sign off now and go feed Buckbeak; he's getting restless. Take care of yourself, Harry.
Sirius
Harry skimmed the letter and then read it aloud to the Weasleys. "Who's Moony?" Ginny asked.
"Professor Lupin," Harry replied. "It's a nickname from when they were at school."
They talked a bit more about Sirius's letter until Hermione appeared in the fireplace a few minutes later. Mrs. Weasley welcome her effusively, apparently trying to make up for their misunderstanding of the last school year, and Harry and the other Weasleys all rose to greet her. Hermione kissed Harry on the cheek and then did the same to Ron. Ron's ears turned pink, and Harry grinned inwardly, wondering if Ron would ever cotton on. When Fred and George whistled and catcalled, Hermione kissed each of them on the cheek, too, which shut them up, albeit briefly. She hugged Ginny and Arthur, and everyone sat back down at the table. They filled Hermione in on Sirius's letter, and she told them about her summer. She had not, as it happened, gone to Bulgaria; travelling just now seemed too dangerous. She had spent the summer helping out in her parents' dentist office, which was dull, but they paid her well. "So you'll all get good Christmas presents this year," she said.
"I already got a good birthday present," Harry said. "Kennilworthy Whisp's Beating the Bludgers.
"A must-have for any home Quidditch library," Fred intoned, sounding like an advertisement.
"And I have more presents for the two of you right now," Hermione continued. "I don't expect you to like them, but you need them, and I knew you wouldn't get them on your own, so I took care of it for you." She opened her school trunk and produced two identical packages wrapped in brightly-colored paper, and she handed them to Harry and Ron. "Sorry about the wrapping paper; it was left over from a baby gift."
Harry looked more closely at the paper and saw that it had rocking horses on it and said, "It's a Girl!" Ginny, looking at Ron's package over his shoulder, muttered something about whether Hermione should have wrapped herself in that paper for Ron's benefit. Harry watched the twins glance at one another in confusion; they hadn't been around for the fight in which Hermione had accused Ron of taking four years to notice that she was a girl. Harry was careful not to look at Hermione or Ginny as he opened his package; he knew that, if he made eye contact with either of them, he would burst out laughing.
Once he had the package open, he did laugh; the present was completely typical of Hermione. It was a copy of How To Survive the OWLs While Still Managing to Eat and Sleep at Least Five Days Out of Seven: A Study Course. The OWLs (Ordinary Wizarding Levels) were exams that all Hogwarts students had to take at the end of their fifth year, and they were notoriously difficult. Leave it to Hermione to plan ahead. "Thanks, Hermione," Harry said.
"Yeah," Ron added. "With you standing over us to make sure we use these, we might get a little studying done before, say, mid-May."
"Mid-May?" Hermione repeated in disbelieving tones. "That book sets a twelve-month course; you're already three months behind."
"A whole year on the stupid OWLs? Are they barmy?" Ron wondered aloud.
Hermione drew herself up straighter, and Harry could feel a full-blown Ron-and-Hermione spat coming on. Hoping to head off the danger, he interrupted with, "I'm sure you'll catch us up in no time, Hermione. We can start tomorrow." When he saw Ron's shocked expression, he added, "In the afternoon, after Quidditch practise. We've got to get Ron ready for Keeper try-outs, right?"
"Right!" said the twins, in unison, and the tips of Ron's ears turned pink again. He and Harry had never discussed it, but Harry knew that Ron had to want the open position on the Gryffindor team. Oliver Wood, the previous Keeper, had finished school at the end of Harry's third year, and there had been no Quidditch last year because of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, so the position was still up for grabs. Tall, lanky, long-limbed Ron was just the right build for Keeper, and Harry would love to have his best friend on the team with him.
"What about Quidditch Captain?" Harry asked. Oliver had been Captain as well as Keeper, so that position, as well, remained unfilled. "How does a new one get chosen?"
"Team vote," answered Fred. "And, prepare yourself now, Harry, because it'll probably be you."
"Me?" Harry hadn't been expecting that. "But I'm just a fifth-year," he protested.
George apparently agreed with his brother, for he immediately replied, "And the rest of us are seventh-years, which means we won't be around after this year. Have to take the long view when you're selecting a Captain, and you're the only current player who could do the job for more than one year. Continuity, and all that."
"Of course, we older, more experienced types will have to help you with the plays at first," Fred continued.
"Not that any of us have ever actually developed a play in our lives …"
"That was Oliver's line—but it'll be a breeze. If Wood could do it …"
"… how hard can it really be?" The twins grinned identical grins at Harry as if the matter were settled.
Harry couldn't help grinning back, even though he wasn't convinced that he was the best choice for Captain. Best to humour the twins for now and discuss it further when the rest of the team was assembled.
A disapproving voice at Harry's back turned the twins' grins to eye-rolls. "I can't believe you two are focussing on Quidditch. With NEWTs coming up, you really ought to be concentrating on your studies this year, not on games. And you really shouldn't be diverting Ron and Harry, either—they have OWLs to worry about." Percy Weasley, third-oldest of the Weasley children, had apparently arrived in time to catch part of the conversation.
"Oh, good, you're home," his mother said, tactfully ignoring the substance of her son's remarks (with which, Harry knew, she privately agreed, but she had realised by now that there was little use in pushing the academics-versus-athletics debate with any of her Quidditch-mad offspring). She took another plate of food from the oven and set it in front of Percy.
"How's your department?" Mr. Weasley asked.
Percy, looking up from his plate, replied, "Chaos, as usual. No one is really in charge. Fudge refuses to appoint a new Department Head without concrete evidence of Mr. Crouch's death, and, since there isn't any such evidence, it's anyone's guess as to when we get a new Head. I've been trying to deal with the Head's correspondence, but much of it involves things that need decisions made—decisions that no one but a Head is authorised to make. So have to keep putting everyone off. And a good bit of the correspondence lately deals with rumours about Dark activity. The foreign Ministries want information, and I don't have any information to give." Percy raised his hands in a what-can-I-do gesture. "It's very frustrating."
Harry noticed that, for all his complaining, Percy seemed different somehow. Less self-important, maybe, and less pompous. Perhaps being an underling was improving his personality.
"Barty's Department is the one that gets all the foreign requests for information about You-Know-Who," Arthur said, clearly explaining for Harry's benefit. "I think that's part of why Fudge won't let me assume control of that Department as well as the other two: He's afraid I might tell them the truth."
"Who is in charge of that Department?" Harry asked.
"No one," Percy and Arthur said in unison. Each looked at the other as if waiting to see which of them should continue. "It's your Department, Percy; you tell him."
"Althea Simmons from Mysteries was in charge, but, since she disappeared, no one has been put in to replace her. No one will take the job because of the disappearances. And, as Dad said, Fudge won't let him do it."
"Why don't you do it?" Harry asked.
"Fudge won't let me do it, either. He's afraid I'd pass on the same information that he thinks Dad would pass on." He added in undertone, "As if I don't know better than to go against Ministry policy."
Molly stared at her son in shocked disapproval. "Do you mean to say that you wouldn't warn the other Ministries even if you had the chance?"
"Of course I wouldn't. I mean, since there's no evidence of any rise in Dark activity…."
The table exploded into talk as Hermione and the other Weasleys rushed to list instances of evidence. Only Harry and Percy said nothing. Their eyes locked across the table. "Do you think so little of me, Percy?" Harry asked quietly.
Percy looked stunned. He opened his mouth and then closed it again as if rendered speechless. Finally, he managed to get out, "What do you mean?"
"You've been told, haven't you? About what happened that night when I watched Voldemort be reborn." He raised his sleeve and held out his arm to Percy. "You see this scar just inside my arm? That's where Voldemort's servant took my blood to use in the spell that brought him back." Harry stopped and took a breath; he was getting agitated, and he knew that a tone of blame would only make Percy defensive. When he continued, he spoke more gently, careful to keep his tone from becoming accusing. "You know me, Percy, and I give you my word. Isn't that evidence enough?"
Percy waited for a long time, and Harry could feel everyone at the table holding a collective breath. Finally, Percy answered, "It's enough for me as your friend. I believe you. But it's not enough for me as a Ministry worker. I have to respect the chain of command. I can't work against the Minister." When Harry didn't look satisfied, Percy added, "I'm sorry."
Harry could feel the tension around the table. He knew that he could break it easily—just a shrug and an "It's okay, Percy; I understand" followed by a change of topic were all it would take. But it wasn't okay, and he couldn't quite bring himself to say that it was. Instead, he settled for the neutral, "It must be tough for you, being stuck in the middle. Rock and a hard place, and all that."
"Kind of like refereeing for Gryffindor and Slytherin," Fred interjected. Everyone laughed, even Percy, and talk shifted to happier subjects. After another round of hot chocolate, Mrs. Weasley shooed them all off to bed. Harry followed Ron up to Ron's bedroom, where an extra bed was ready for him. He snuggled under the bedclothes and drifted into relatively untroubled sleep.
*
The next morning, Ron pulled Harry, Hermione, and his siblings out for Quidditch training the second that breakfast was over. Hermione, less comfortable on a broomstick than the others, offered to provide the audience. Since they had nothing to use as a Snitch, they played without a Seeker, so Harry played Chaser with Ginny. Fred and George suggested that they play with only one Beater, insisting that their combined Beater prowess would be too much for "the little ones." They switched off between that position and Chaser.
Once they settled the rules and positions, they settled down to play. Harry loved the feeling of being back on a broomstick, even if not in his usual position, and he held his own pretty well, although he was never able to score. Ron's Keeping skills were very promising. Although none of today's Chasers were as good as experienced House Chasers, Harry thought that, if Ron could do half as well guarding against the real Chasers as he could against his current opponents, the Keeper's job would be his without question.
To Harry, the real surprise was Ginny. She was the only one who scored on Ron, and she handled the Quaffle beautifully. After the game, as they were all walking to the house for lunch, he encouraged her to try out.
"But there won't be any Chaser positions open," she said, blushing as she always did when Harry spoke to her but managing not to stammer, "and I'd never try against Ron for Keeper."
"But we need reserves badly," Harry replied. This was one of the very few areas that Oliver Wood had neglected. "We lose five players after this year—the twins and all three Chasers. We really need to work on training up some people this year to fill in those gaps. If we don't, next year's team is going to be pretty sad."
"You see?" Fred said sounding pleased with himself. "He's already thinking like a Captain."
"Yes, he'll make a fine one," George agreed. "Never make a Chaser, though."
Harry just grinned and rolled his eyes. He still wasn't sold on this Captain idea. Fortunately, the arrival of lunch saved him from having to reply any further.
As soon as they finished the meal, Hermione ushered Harry and a complaining Ron up to the relative peace of Ron's room for OWLs work. Ron quieted down a bit while they covered the first lesson ("Things You Learned So Long Ago That You Thought You Could Forget About Them By Now But That Will Surely Show Up On The Test—Part One") of the four that Hermione had planned for the afternoon, but, as soon as they finished it, he started again, hoping to wheedle his way out of further study for the day.
Harry, taking pity on Ron, decided to step in. "Hermione, do you think we could maybe put the rest off until after supper? There's some stuff that I want to talk with you two about privately, and this seems like a good time." After extracting a promise that they really would finish the other three lessons after supper, Hermione agreed. She and Ron focussed attentively on Harry, who suddenly felt a bit awkward. He wasn't really used to broaching important subjects, even with his friends. Usually, he waited for someone else to start heavy discussions, and he really wasn't sure how to begin. Should he tell them about his resolutions? Would they think him silly? Ah, well, he thought, in for a pence, in for a pound.
"So," he began, "about this year. I've been thinking a lot this summer about, well, priorities." He hoped "priorities" didn't sound too stuffy. Since Ron didn't snicker, Harry guessed that it didn't. "With Voldemort back, some things that I haven't paid as much attention to are going to be more important now. Like keeping up with the newspaper. Like really focussing on schoolwork." Ron made a face at this, and Harry grinned, half amused and half exasperated. "No, really, Ron. We're not fully trained yet, and all the Death Eaters are. Tom Riddle was Head Boy in his day. Voldemort is evil, but he's not stupid. He's smart, and he's skilled. We—and by 'we' I mean the three of us, but I also mean all of our friends, all of the students that we know are on our side—need to work on our own skills if we want to have a chance of holding our own if we ever end up in a duel with someone from the other side. And that's going to mean paying more attention in class, keeping up with our studies, that sort of thing, and maybe practising some on our own. I'm not talking about studying for the sake of our marks or the OWLs; I'm talking about studying for the sake of, well, staying alive." Harry shrugged. "I know that sounds kind of melodramatic, but…."
"No. It doesn't," Hermione said. "Two years ago, it might have sounded melodramatic. Even six months ago. But now that Voldemort is back, it's not melodrama. It's the truth. Isn't it?" She glanced appealingly at Ron.
"Yeah. Reckon it is. And, as much as I don't want to turn into a swot, I reckon I'd better go along with the plan to study harder. So long as you promise I won't turn out like Percy."
"No danger of that," Harry replied. He added darkly, "You wouldn't keep information from foreign Ministries."
"No, not me. We've gone 'round and 'round about that this summer." Ron shrugged. "It's that rule-worship of his."
Harry shrugged, too. "Anyway, back to things to work on this year. I want us to ignore Malfoy. I mean, really ignore him—not pay any attention to anything he says. We got in the last word at the end of last year …"
"… In a big way," Ron interrupted, grinning. "Wonder if he'll still have the hex marks."
Harry couldn't help grinning back. "I hope so. At any rate, though, we got him, and he'll be doing all he can to get us into trouble. He'll go out of his way to say things that make us mad, and the best thing we can do is not respond. That'll annoy him more than anything else we could do."
"That means, Ron, that you'll have to ignore all of the awful things that he says about your family," Hermione said quietly.
"I can't just let him trash my dad!" Ron exclaimed.
"Yes, you can. And I can let him call me a Mudblood every four seconds, and Harry can ignore every stupid crack about his fame. We can all do it if we just put our minds to it."
Harry found Hermione's determination heartening. They could do this; they could tune Malfoy out. "We need a plan. You know, for helping each other focus on something else we see that he's starting to get to one of us--something that we can talk about among ourselves to drown him out. We could talk about …" Harry trailed off, casting about for a good topic.
"Ferrets!" Ron suggested. "We could talk about ferrets."
"That's not ignoring him, Ron; that's baiting him," Hermione said. Ron muttered something about never getting to have any fun, but Hermione ignored him. "How about homework? We always have that to talk about."
"Really dull homework," Harry said.
"History of Magic. Just thinking about Binns up there droning on should dull our brains so much that we won't be able to get mad about whatever Malfoy's saying." Now Ron was getting into the plan.
"Sounds great." Harry felt much better now that he had his friends on board for his plans for the year. He knew that they would never leave him to do things alone (not even if he wanted them to), but it was nice to be reassured. "That's mainly what I wanted to talk about."
"There is one thing that Ron and I wanted to talk about with you," Hermione said, looking a little nervous. "It's about, well, safety."
"We don't want you going off by yourself, mate. Not anywhere. Not from the castle to the Quidditch pitch, or even from the Common Room to the library. We want you to take one of us with you wherever you go."
Harry thought about that for a bit. The independent part of him felt a little cranky about agreeing to this arrangement, but his more rational part knew that his friends were right to be worried about him. Finally, he said, "Okay. I promise. So long as you two will make the same promise. You're both in nearly as much danger as I am, so neither of you gets to run around alone, either."
Ron and Hermione glanced at one another and then nodded in agreement. Harry could see that they were relieved; they had probably expected him to argue.
"Good," Hermione said. She added briskly, "Now that we have that settled, I think there's time for another lesson before supper." Ron groaned and put his head in his hands. Harry, grinning, shook his head and opened his book. Unlike Ron, he knew when he was beaten.
