Disclaimer
I don't own Harry Potter and I have way too many bills to list.
I have not invented a foolproof method of predicting the stock market and I have no intention of selling my body parts on the black market.
If I feed my feline paper, the output is unfortunately not cash.
Therefore, if you sue me you can expect a half empty bag of cat treats as payment.
Chapter Six
The Burrow was unnaturally quiet. No one was shrieking or screaming about this or that perceived sibling injustice. No one was wondering where her missing jumper was. If anyone asked, the nonexistent neighbors would have said no one was home. This was not the case.
McGonagall was sitting in the living room, on the Weasley's threadbare sofa. Her hair was unkempt, and her robes were rumpled to the point of Ginny thinking that they were made of that strange wrinkly fabric muggles sometimes wore. Her tea, an excellent variety of Molly's own design, was growing cold on the table. Every now and then, she would pick an imaginary speck of dust off her robes.
Moody, in a relatively good humor, was standing in a nearby corner and occasionally commenting on how far along old You-Know-Who must be in brainwashing Harry. He completely ignored Minerva's pleading glances, and would wax poetically about those he'd found on raids. He was rather graphic, and Ginny was certain that she'd have nightmares until they found Harry.
Molly could be heard – and readily identified – by the sounds coming from the kitchen. She'd been cooking for almost the entire time Harry was gone, two days. In fact, she was the reason everyone was here. Arthur had taken one look at the amount of food she'd made and called for emergency gastric systems. He had had no doubt that it would go bad with only his fellow Weasleys to eat it.
Lupin and Tonks were sharing a chair. If Molly hadn't been so obsessed with cooking at the moment, they would have been on the receiving end of her temper for setting a bad example in front of the children. As it was, they were left to cuddle and comfort as best they could. Tonks' hair was a dusty shade of black at the moment, which Ginny supposed was to reflect her mood.
Even the twins weren't up to their usual antics. They hadn't passed anyone a canary cream since they'd arrived. They seemed to be sitting, side by side on the floor, saying absolutely nothing to anyone. Ginny, knowing that they sometimes spoke in ways that didn't include words, found herself wondering if maybe they were hatching some glorious plan to rescue Harry. She knew that they had the brains to pull if off, even if they didn't get the test scores their mother had wanted.
The person of most concern to Ginny at the moment was her father. After his initial calls to the others, he'd vanished upstairs to her parents' room. He hadn't been seen or heard from in hours. She hoped he didn't plan on doing anything… rash.
She was sitting by the fireplace, watching the others, when Kingsley Shacklebolt came barreling out of the Floo. She fell to one side, a bit miffed that he didn't even apologize for nearly trampling her. His next words stopped her cold, though.
"The Dark Mark's up all over London!" Everyone in the room turned to look at him in horror. He quickly elaborated. "It doesn't seem that anyone was hurt, but the Obliviators are having a hell of a time trying to reach all the muggles. I swear, half of muggle London saw it tonight."
Ginny ran upstairs. Her father may not want to face the world, but he was pretty good with an Obliviate and it sounded like they needed him.
Bellatrix, having just returned to the hideout from another little excursion, walked into her small room. She and Rodolphus hadn't been able to share a room since they'd left Azkaban, it just didn't feel right. It didn't help that he seemed incapable of fulfilling his duties as her husband, either. But, as that gave her more privacy than she'd ever dreamed of having, she was fine with it…. At least, that's what she told herself.
Here, in her private sanctuary consisting of a room the size of a middle class bathroom, she could be herself. If she felt like hexing her small bed, then it was her business. If she broke her tiny desk into kindling and started a fire on the unadorned stone floor, no one else would either know or care.
As it was, she did none of these things tonight. She merely settled on her bed and pulled her diary out from under her pillow. It was an unremarkable little book by appearance, with creamy pages bound in red leather. When she opened it, she did so with the reverence of a family matriarch who was first showing her grandchildren the letters she and her husband wrote back and forth during courtship. Her smile lit up her face as she stared at the pages in front of her, lending it a bizarre beauty.
In the beginning of the book were pictures of Tom Riddle from his Hogwarts year books and school events. Toward the middle was clipping after clipping of Lord Voldemort's impressive mentions in the Daily Prophet and other newspapers. When she'd returned after his resurrection, she'd added a sketch she'd drawn of how he looked now. The only color in the sketch was where she'd used blood to fill in his eyes. She was still a little disappointed that her spell hadn't kept it red, instead of turning brown.
She looked at the sketch and frowned, visions of Potter and Voldemort dancing in her head. Slowly rocking back and forth, a quiet muttering came from her mouth. It increased in volume, until the words were clear. "He's mine. Potter can't have him. He's mine. Potter can't have him. He's mine. Potter can't have him."
She realized she was speaking out loud when her voice rose to nearly a shout. Giving a tiny giggle, she covered her mouth with her hand and looked around. Seeing no one to chastise her for making a scene, she closed the book and began preparing for bed.
Lucius, looking somewhat bedraggled, walked into the parlor where Voldemort and Harry were still sitting. He glanced at the nearby clock and shook his head. "Potter, it's almost one in the morning. Shouldn't you be in bed?"
Harry shrugged. "No one's told me where my bed is, yet." He glanced behind Lucius. "Where's Narcissa, anyway?"
Lucius sighed. "I convinced her to go home. It would look strange if she didn't live in the house she fought so hard for at the Ministry, now wouldn't it?" He frowned and looked between Harry and his Lord. "What are we going to do about the sleeping arrangements?"
Voldemort yawned. "I suppose we're going to share my room. I have no desire to find out if the bond will disturb my slumber because it feels the next bedroom over simply isn't close enough proximity. Besides, my bedroom is the only one with a bed that will fit the three of us."
Harry's lips twitched. "Well, you certainly need your beauty sleep. When was the last decade that you got some, anyway?"
Lucius was caught mid-yawn and startled into laughter. Voldemort, as quick as ever, fired off a stinging hex at Harry. Harry was quicker, which Lucius really had come to expect after all their encounters with him.
Harry, however, stopped and looked at the sofa he'd been sitting on. He couldn't help but chortle at the pile of nasturtiums that was where he had been. Even Voldemort's lips quirked a bit. Lucius grinned. "Next time I forget a birthday or anniversary, I think I'll just curse Harry until I get the appropriate flower."