Mrs. Weasley chirped with cheer I could only assume was forced. "There's no need to worry. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."
And funnily enough? I believed her. This had to be the sort of situation the doctors at this St. Mungo's place handled every day. 'Magical Maladies' was in the name, after all. Maybe it was the Burrow, maybe it was the lingering feeling of magic flowing through me, and maybe it was the relentless positivity of the Weasleys rubbing off on me, but for the first time since Tom it felt like things were going to be alright. This was just a speedbump.
Telling Tales
St. Mungo's had surprised me with how little it surprised me. It was smack dab in the middle of Muggle London, which struck me as a bit strange, and the maladies the people in the waiting room seemed to be suffering from were most definitely magical, but any muggle anywhere would be able to look inside and recognise it for the hospital it was. Some things really are universal, I supposed.
The visit, too, was fairly bog standard. I'd been shown to an exam room which featured animated posters detailing the signs and symptoms of cheering charm abuse and with ways to tell if your stock of goat kidneys had gone bad. I'd waited in there for a while, and the tired looking Healer ("I don't know what a doctor is, dear, but the Healer will be right in!") had eventually shuffled in to have a look at me. He'd introduced himself as Healer Jameson, and told me he'd be to one overseeing my case. The exam was very similar to what I was used to, though had more than a few strange hiccups; the least of these was that I had literally been asked to hiccup.
The Healer waved their wand, looked into my eyes, my ears, my hair, and had measured the length of my inseam. They asked questions, many of which were the sort that I had expected ("Yes, I've been taking all the potions Madam Pomfrey assigned me every morning,"), and a few I hadn't ("No, I don't have any strong opinions on limes, why?"). The whole experience was more than a bit bizarre, but it fit well in line with the sorts of things I was coming to expect from magic. By the end of it, the Healer who had taken my case had scribbled several pages of notes and placed me under observation.
The mention of being placed under observation had worried me more than a bit, before Healer Jameson had produced a set of bracelets that I was to wear at all times. The bracelets would read my condition and report back to him as a live feed. He hadn't been willing to explain how they worked when I asked, which I felt was a bit rude, but I supposed it wasn't precisely his field of expertise. I'd also been prescribed a new battery of potions that he had been willing to explain, but I knew for a fact that I'd need to curl up around a magical medical textbook or two before I really understood what he'd actually said. Really, the hardest part of that would be finding the relevant books.
We left with my mind far more at ease than it had been when I'd entered and with a new box of tiny glowing vials in hand. The trip had been a welcome return to normalcy; Healer Jameson was a professional, whereas Madam Pomfrey was an overbearing mother with a fancy title. The most stark difference simply being that he hadn't treated me like I was stupid, which helped my opinion of him immensely. Not even the floo back had been enough to put a damper on my mood.
Mrs. Weasley and I returned to a busy Burrow. Mr. Weasley had seemingly set the family to task while we were gone. He'd got the whole of the family to start on their chores during the morning for once, admittedly with limited and varied levels of success. The second that Mrs. Weasley came through the floo, though, it seemed the collective pace picked itself up. She ushered me outside to go help Ron take care of the chickens, and I went off to do as asked without a second thought.
My week at the Burrow had outlined something to me very clearly: Mrs. Weasley had no room for laziness under her roof, whether from guests or family. I was happy to help out, of course. The Weasleys had given me a roof and three square meals when my parents couldn't. Doing a few small chores to lighten my load on them was really the least that I could do.
Ron disagreed.
I rocked up to the chicken coop to find him sitting on the fence, looking at the bag of feed he'd tipped onto its side to allow a heaping pile to form. With a huff, I climbed over the fence and sat the bag straight up.
"How'd St. Mungo's go?" He called, very clearly not moving from his spot.
"Fine," I said. "I know you know better than to leave all the food in a pile like this!" Reaching into the pile, I grabbed a handful of feed and began scattering it like I'd been shown.
"Not like the chickens care. Look at 'em. Nothing going on in there. You could float one in the air and it'd take them a minute to even get confused." As if to punctuate his point, one of them began pecking at grass on the opposite end of the field. I took some pity on it and spread some feed over by the poor thing.
"So why is everyone so busy?" I changed the topic quickly. "Is it something to do with why your Dad's home today?"
"Summerly Storytelling. Don't have the car anymore, so half of us are gonna be walking out to the Story Ring right after lunch. Mum and Dad won't apparate us, we don't have enough brooms for everyone, and there's no floo out there. Honestly, it's like we're muggles."
My attention snapped up. "And what's wrong with that?"
He shrugged. "Only we've got magic, and we're walking. It's daft is what it is."
I let out a deep breath, and took a moment to remind myself that I was in a good mood. "So, what's this Story Ring?"
"It's just this big campfire ring out in a field, s'got a whole bunch of benches around it. More benches than people, actually. Percy asked why once, Lovegood just said it was from some dark wizard he'd read about. Salmon or summat."
"I don't know about any wizard named Salmon, but—"
"Told you, he's a nutter." Ron gave me a significant look and went to go put away the feed. "Dad says we're gonna be staying the night, so you might want to go pack a bag. I'll tell Mum that we're done."
The plan turned out to be a simple one. Mrs. Weasley would be taking Percy, Ginny, and I out to the Story Ring via brooms with everyone's things (loaded into broom saddlebags of all things), while Mr. Weasley would be walking out with Fred, George, and Ron. All three of them had complained loudly before Mr. Weasley had said something about making it a boys only thing, and they'd all proceeded to make themselves feel better by making fun of Percy.
"Make sure you all behave yourselves tonight!" Mr. Weasley called once everyone gathered to leave. "Your mother and I have something very exciting to tell you when we get back, but we'll only do it if you all behave. No muffling charms, no exploding snap during the stories," he gave the twins a look, "and no running off in the middle of the night. Sent everyone into a panic last time, so let's not do that again. Our little announcement will be much more exciting than disturbing the peace, even if it was—" Mrs. Weasley shot him her own glare. "—er, nothing. Now then, let's get going, shall we?"
With that, we kicked off and away. The flight itself was… I lived, that's what mattered. Brooms were a better way to get around than the floo, at least, but not by much. At one point I almost managed to take out Ginny with my wobbling, but she was good enough on a broom to keep the both of us upright.
When we landed (and I did not kiss the ground, though I was tempted), it was next to a neat little ring of twenty stone benches. All of them were painted different colours in oddly sized groups, and surrounded what looked to be a pit recessed into the ground. About as quickly as I took all that in, Mrs. Weasley set us to work gathering up dry brush and sticks. Once we had a nice pile going, she shoved it in the pit in the centre and began working on a fire.
Not too long after that, people began showing up. First was a family of three, who introduced themselves as Amos and Catherine Diggory, and their son as Cedric. Mr. and Mrs. Diggory both quickly found themselves wrapped up in conversation with Mrs. Weasley, and Cedric gave me a warm smile before engrossing Ginny with quidditch stories. Soon after, a mother and her two daughters appeared suddenly with a loud Crack! One of the daughters looked to be a few years older than me, another looked as if they had aged out of Hogwarts entirely.
Not long after that, the other half of the Weasley clan crested over the hill, hooting and hollering the whole while. With a hefty sigh, Ron plopped down next to me. "Never thought that walk was gonna end. My legs are killing me, they are!"
No sooner had the sun began to set than the fire in the pit flashed green and two figures stepped out. One that I assumed to be Luna Lovegood based on the glasses she was wearing upside-down, the other clearly her father.
"I thought that fireplaces had to be connected to the floo network so you could floo in?" I whispered.
"Yeah, but that one's not, I don't think," Ron answered. "Dunno. The Lovegoods are just like that."
We were interrupted by Mr. Lovegood suddenly calling out, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to another year of the Summerly Storytelling! It's a pleasure to see you all, as always." He looked around with a smile. "My family's been putting this on for as long as we've been around, and it makes me very happy to play host once again."
He whipped his wand out, and what looked to be a white sheet unrolled itself in front of the lone black bench and hung tight as one end lifted into the air. It looked rather like a projector screen.
"Now, everyone find your seats, and let's begin." Everyone shuffled around, quickly finding a place for themselves. Ron had been right, it seemed. It was a bit odd with so much empty space, and some people spread out awkwardly, but nobody seemed to find it all that strange. As this happened, Mr. Lovegood waved his wand around a few times, and the fire contorted in strange ways, casting shadows in ever more peculiar shapes. After a moment or two of this, the shadows against the screen settled into three figures looking up towards a massive robed figure holding up a strange sigil.
"Today, I will be starting us off with perhaps the oldest story of all that I have told, but sometimes it is the oldest tales which hold the most salient of truths. That's all stories are, after all, aren't they? Truth seen from a certain light." At this, he made a grand gesture. "And I have a feeling that this truth would be best told tonight, for tonight we tell the tale of Death and his Hallows."
Mr. Lovegood launched into the tale of three brothers and the poisoned gifts they had received from Death. Shadows danced and shifted to illustrate as he spoke, and Luna provided sound effects with a selection of props she pulled out of a small bag. He was a skilled storyteller, and between all the effects and ambience, I quickly found myself wrapped up in his words. It was the sort of thing that one would expect from a folk tale, like it would wrap up in one big lesson about kindness or sharing, but evocative nonetheless. The eldest of the three brothers was given a wand that seemed to almost certainly be a metaphor for greed, the next a stone that was undoubtedly a metaphor about the dangers of not letting go, and the youngest received what was undoubtedly the most useful item: an Invisibility Cloak which seemed to be a metaphor for living within one's means.
The story struck me as reminiscent of the stages of grief—albeit simplified—the eldest brother telling the tale of denial and anger, the middle bargaining and depression, and the youngest speaking to acceptance. It was more than a bit fascinating to hear how a wizarding folk story differed from muggle ones. Magic, for one, was obviously an assumption, and not the sort of thing that necessarily got people into or out of problems. Instead, it seemed cleverness was the order of the day. That alone was a stark difference, and I made a mental note to go look into more stories like this when I had the opportunity. It was certainly a more appealing kind of tale than mythic heroes defeating their foes with brute strength.
"And so it is," Mr. Lovegood finally finished, "that the youngest of the three brothers shed his cloak and met Death not as a victim, but as an equal." The image of one hand reaching out to another made of bones faded, and the sigil from the beginning appeared once more. A line for a wand, a circle for a stone, and a triangle for a cloak. "But that was not the end of this particular story. No, this truth is not one of the past, but one of the present, and one of the future. As long as there is Death, there exist his Hallows. The Elder Wand, passing to conqueror from the conquered. The Resurrection Stone, found and lost for eternity. The Invisibility Cloak, passed from father to son forevermore. None know where they are now, but the marks of their passing are evident."
"This truth is a warning for those who care to listen. Beware of Death, yes, but he is patient. Instead, beware of his Hallows, for they lead only to ruin." Mr. Lovegood bowed then, and the fire returned to burning far more naturally. The shadows on the sheet flickered to formlessness. "Thank you for coming, and thank you for hearing my tale. Now then, let's eat, shall we?" The realisation struck me then that the sun had well and truly set already. Looking around, it seemed that everyone else was having that same moment of clarity.
Off to the side of the ring, it seemed as if some of the adults had set up a table with food while I hadn't been looking. "Youngest to oldest," Mrs. Diggory called out, "Ginny, Luna, get up here."
The line for food formed itself, and Ron managed to contain his enthusiasm to turn to me while we were filling our plates. "So do you think it's true?"
I rolled my eyes. "I'll bet that it's just a story. A good story that was told well, but still a story."
"Actually," Luna turned around to interrupt, "The Hallows are quite real. Daddy says that if you look back at the right histories you can see the path they've taken. Dark Lords in particular seem to love looking for the Wand. The only one that nobody can find is the Cloak, though I suppose that's the point, isn't it?"
I could see in Ron's face that Luna's believing in it had made a sceptic of him. Apparently, she had a reputation. "Er, right." He swirled a finger round his ear when Luna looked away, and I rolled my eyes.
Soon as I found a place to sit, Luna sat down right in front of me. "Ron doesn't believe me, his head's too full of Wrackspurts, but I think you might."
I took a moment to try to remember any mention anywhere of what a Wrackspurt was, but came up blank. "Wrackspurts?" I finally asked after a pause.
"Oh yes. They float all around and make people's heads go fuzzy and they forget to think." I made a note to look that up later, if only because I'd had quite enough of things getting into my head. "So, do you believe me?"
"I'm not sure," I said honestly. "It would be fascinating if it were true, but it seems hard to prove. People can be powerful without some mystic wand, and any accounts of some mystical resurrecting stone could be just as easily explained by simple necromancy." Not that necromancy was simple by any means, soul magic never was, but it was certainly more explainable.
She nodded as if I'd spoken some great wisdom. "Well, I think that you should."
"That I… should?"
"Yes," Luna said. I waited for her to elaborate. She did not.
"Right, well, I just think it's hard to believe."
She nodded her head from side to side as if letting the idea bounce around. "What about the cloak?"
"That would be even harder to find, even you said so."
"I suppose. There's a surefire way to tell with that one, though," she said. "After all, the magic on normal invisibility cloaks fades in a few years." With that, she stood and wandered off to sit with Ginny.
Despite my best efforts, I found my imagination fixated on the strange conversation. Harry had said his cloak was a hand-me-down from his father, hadn't he? And it still worked just fine. It was… well, a ritual to identify the arithmantic leanings of a particular object really wasn't all that hard. Surely if they were real, the Hallows would be so heavily aspected towards Death that it would be unmistakable, right?
Still. It was silly. I was being silly. Even if the story were true, which I doubted, what would the odds even be?
I was interrupted from my musings by the sight of Fred and George getting a small circle gathered around what I realised must have been the dedicated story telling bench. I made my way over, and found them in the middle of what seemed to be the tale of one of their many detentions. This one, so they said, was assigned by Snape and had led them into the Forbidden Forest, where they had been ambushed by what they claimed was a wendigo.
Really, I could have believed them until they'd claimed that. "Oh please, there aren't any Wendigos on this side of the world," I interrupted.
Fred (George?) smiled. "That's exactly why it was such a shock!"
They wrapped their story up with the 'valiant' tale of how they managed to wrestle the wendigo away bear-handed (literally, they claimed to have an enchanted bear paw that gave them the strength to do it), and warned of how it was still out there in the Forbidden Forest ready to eat up the students. Really, as if they expected us to believe—
Percy's jaw was clenched, and Ron looked even paler than normal. Right, should have expected. No doubt Tom would say something about how weasels are easily scared, and— No. No, I was not going to miss him. I refused.
Fred and George finishing up seemed to open up the floor for more scary stories. Percy took the bench and told one about a ghost, Cedric talked about a monster in the woods nearby, Serena—the younger Fawcett girl—talked about a haunted cauldron, and eventually it came to my turn.
"Really," I tried, "I'm no good at telling stories."
"Neither is Percy, but he still took a turn," one of the twins said, launching a round of laughs and a distinct, "Hey!"
After a few more moments of cajoling and reassurance, I took my seat at the black bench setting off a cry of celebration from all around.
"Right, so, um," I started, feeling distinctly out of my depth. What was I even meant to talk about? Magic made it all so strange! Ghosts were real, werewolves and vampires were just people trying to get by, and I didn't exactly make it a habit of reading fiction—wizarding or otherwise. Really, the only scary things (or scary to other people; I knew Ron and Harry liked to laugh at some of the things that I found scary) I'd ever experienced were the search for the Philosopher's Stone and… Well. I supposed that would probably work.
"Beneath Hogwarts, deep in the bowels—" Oh God had I really said bowels? Just kill me now. "—of the school, there is a secret chamber filled with… secrets." A couple snorts echoed around, and I was suddenly very glad for the dim light hiding my embarrassment. "It's said that Salazar Slytherin himself was buried there, forever interred in his own personal study." That was a blatant lie. Slytherin had left the school behind after a political disagreement over whether or not the school would allow Christians years before his death, even if more modern politicking had led to 'common knowledge' being that it had been about muggleborns instead (admittedly, there was some significant overlap; wizarding society had been far more pagan than muggles were at the time, but the magic/muggle divide wasn't the actual reason he'd left).
"In his crypt, there was a horde of incomparable wealth: ancient books and tomes sure to make even the weakest wizard stand head and shoulders above their peers." I ignored Ron's scoff. "He was a jealous man, though, and wanted to ensure that his final treasures only went to the worthy, so he put in a series of tests meant to weed out the chaff and find the one who would be his heir."
"First, a hidden door, one only able to be opened by those who could already cast powerful magic." Nobody was born a parselmouth, after all, not even Tom. "Second, a guardian with scales not even the sharpest sword could do anything to and whose gaze killed everyone that saw it." That was almost word for word from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, though I was sure I'd missed a few details.
"And finally," I wracked my brain for some third thing. These sorts of stories were meant to have three trials, weren't they? "The… heart of a muggle," I said with what I hoped came off as finality. "These trials went unchallenged for years and years, until Voldemort—" I ignored the winces. "—turned eleven years old and attended Hogwarts. He found the chamber, opened the hidden door, befriended the guardian, and presented the heart, gaining the secrets Slytherin had kept hidden for so long."
"Except, that's not all. He never killed the guardian. Instead, he set it up as a trap, so that when the time was right Slytherin's monster would slither through the pipes and take revenge on all his enemies." I noticed then that Serena was looking a little green. Wait, had she known someone that…? "It's, um, not a problem anymore. It was a basilisk. Professor Snape killed it, actually."
Some people groaned, but Serena looked a bit relieved. "Wait, so was that all true? Is that what happened this last year?" Her older sister asked. Salem, I thought her name was.
"Er, no. The door was real, and so was the basilisk, but not the muggle heart thing, or the secret library."
Salem rolled her eyes. "Right. Well, get up then. It's my turn, and I've got an actually true story to tell." I swapped spots with her, more than a bit relieved that she'd taken the spotlight.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and George," she said, and I swore I heard Fred complain about not having been included. "I swear to you all that the story that I am about to tell is as real as I am. It is not a story for the faint of heart or the easily scared." She pointed her wand up at her face. "Lumos Terrificus," she muttered, and the circle seemed to grow darker just as a beam of light cast up from the tip. "Today, I am going to tell you a story about the Most Ancient and Horrible House of Black."
"Long ago, before You-Know-Who, or the Ministry, or even Hogwarts, there was a wizard born to a sickly cobbler and a poor farmer. From his very first breath, it was clear he'd inherited his mother's illness. 'Surely,' they thought, 'It's better for him to die before he knows better than for him to live and suffer,' and so they threw him out in the streets. They expected that to be the last they'd ever see of their sickly son, but this story is not that kind. A beggar saw their 'mercy' for what it was, and took him in to raise as his own. He gave the boy food, shared his hut, and named him Griffon.
"On his fifth birthday, the beggar fashioned Griffon a wand made from a stick he found in the road and his very own hair. He quickly fell in love with magic, and was as clever as he was weak. Not long after he turned twelve, he would go out in the woods under the guise of hunting and experiment. Dozens and dozens of helpless animals fell to his wand as he refined his techniques, for it was in that forest that he invented the Cruciatus curse. He liked having the power for once, and would use it whenever he felt he could. On animals, on other children, and even on the beggar who raised him.
"He met a woman, and his cold, black heart fell in love at first sight. She was nobility, and saw the power she wielded with even a single wave of her hand. He wanted to control that power for his own. One night, he snuck his way into her home, confronted her in her room, and proposed. She denied him, and it filled him with a rage like he'd never felt before. 'Who is she to deny me the power that should be mine?' he thought, and tortured her until the sun rose. When he finished, he asked again, and again she denied him. She yelled that he was a monster, and that he would never own her. He invented the Imperius curse on the spot to prove her wrong.
"Their wedding was a beautiful affair, and every noble in the land came to attend. Looking at all of the guests and his new wife, he thought that it might be enough. With his newfound wealth, he built a manor in the countryside and imported every book on all the darkest arts that he could find. His wife fell pregnant, but he kept himself locked away in his studies. He was still sick, you see. Eventually, he had learned all he could with no answers to his sickness, and once again found a need for test subjects. He experimented on his two young children at first, but found that it wasn't enough. So, he went out into the countryside and began bringing the peasants under his rule.
"They named him Black, for his heart, and he was the first Dark Lord. He founded a school of sorts for the dark arts, and brought in muggles as test subjects. All of this in the hopes of finding a cure for the weakness and frailty that had hounded him since birth. Eventually, though, eventually he had an idea. With a proper sacrifice, he thought, the gods would grant him anything, and what could be a greater sacrifice than the mother of his children? So, he created once more, and designed a spell for just that sacrificial purpose: The Killing Curse.
"When the deed was done, Griffon Black called forth a demon, and asked for the gift of life in exchange for the death he had caused. The demon agreed, and together they forged a pact. Griffon was given strength, magical power, and livelihood in exchange for continued sacrifice, and sacrifice he did. Muggles proved to be poor fare, and his students little better. So, he began plotting to get his eldest child alone. The boy had inherited his father's intelligence, though, and refused to die in vain. He snuck into his father's room and showed the old man all that he had been taught. With the Cruciatus he bent his father's will. With the Imperius he broke it. Finally, he cast the Killing Curse to put Griffon out of his misery. He disbanded the school, and banished the muggles, but never let go of the power his father had wielded. So began the Noble House of Black. Griffon was a spiteful man, though, and was powerful enough to weave a spell with his dying breath. He put a curse on his own bloodline, declaring that all his children's progeny would be destined to madness for so long as they dared to covet the power of magic.
"Griffon's curse held true, and the Black blood became famous for darkness and madness to this very day. Black manor—only a few miles north of here—sits empty for the first time in history. All the last members of the family, you see, are in Azkaban. Their crime?"
Salem looked at each and every one of us in turn, and saw that we were wrapped up in her story. "Each and every one of them went to Azkaban for serving You-Know-Who, where they wait for his return to let loose their chaos on the world once again."
She flicked away the light, and it was like a splash of cold water down my spine. The spell she had woven with her words was taking its time to break, and I was most certainly not having it.
"Don't you think it's a bit insensitive, telling a story about real people that really went to Azkaban for serving a real murderer?" I asked. "People died! It wasn't even that long ago!"
She levelled a flat look at me. "Weren't you telling everyone a story about something that happened, like, a month ago?"
"Yes, but I didn't finish with 'Oh, by the way, the man responsible for killing some of your families is coming back soon, so watch out!'"
"Yeah, cause my story was good," she said. "You realise that that's the point of scary stories, right? To scare people?" Salem looked over to the twins, who were by now snickering up a storm. "You killed the mood anyway."
I looked around, and saw that everyone seemed to be looking between us in anticipation. Great. Of course. Couldn't seem to go anywhere without causing a spectacle.
"Right, well, you all enjoy your murder stories," I said with a huff, and left the circle.
"We will!" one of the twins called at my back, and launched into a story of some sort. I didn't bother to listen in, instead making my way over to where all the adults were gathered. A hand on my arm stopped me before I got to them. When I looked over, I saw Ron flanked by Ginny and Luna. The siblings wore matching concerned expressions. Luna just looked happy to be there.
"Daft thing to tell a story about, if you ask me," Ron said. "I liked yours more anyway. Snape saving the day's a good twist, innit?" I gave him a nod, and he returned it with a smile.
"I just," I took in a deep breath, "people died! Your own uncles died! You'd think she'd have a bit more respect."
"Well, you did tell a story about how people almost died not that long ago," he said.
"Yes, but not anybody here!"
Ginny stepped up. "I think we're all tired. Let's go get Mum to conjure up some sleeping bags and get some sleep, yeah? Come on." With that, she placed a firm hand around Ron's arm and dragged him off.
"I think the story was wrong," Luna sidled up.
"Which one? Because mine was almost all true, and I already said which parts weren't."
"I know that. Salem's. She got it all wrong."
'All wrong' implied a level of truth, something to get right, which certainly got my attention. "Which parts?"
"His name," she said airily. "He wasn't called 'Griffon'. That's just silly. His real name was 'Gyffes'."
"'Gyffes'?"
She nodded, staring up at me earnestly. "Like the constellation. The Blacks in Azkaban are called 'Bellatrix' and 'Sirius'. I think the Malfoys married into the family recently."
I let that bounce around for a moment before it clicked. "Draco?"
"I suspect so, yes." She gave me an earnest smile.
"So the rest of it then, do you think that's all true too?"
"As true as anything is," she said. The nonanswer grated, but I wasn't quite sure what I'd been expecting from her.
Our first dinner back at the Burrow, Mr. Weasley finally made his announcement. He stood and knocked on the table with a badly hidden grin, shutting everyone up.
"Listen up, listen up. Since you all seemed to behave yourselves well enough, I think it's time I told you what your mother and I have been whispering about the past couple days. We've been talking," he said slowly, "and we've decided that it really has been far too long since we've all seen Bill, don't you all think?"
Ginny perked up. "Is he coming to visit?"
"Ah, not quite, no. This time, we're going to visit him!" A low murmur of excitement filled the room before Percy burst the bubble.
"Er, Dad? How are we going to afford it?"
At that, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley both broke into a wide grin, and he held a letter up in the air. "Well Percy, you are looking at the number one winner for the Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw!" A much higher, far less controlled murmur sprung up.
"We're all going to Egypt for a month," Mrs. Weasley said. "We're leaving next Saturday, so make sure you're packed!" She looked at me, then. "And don't think we've forgotten about you, dear. You'll be coming along too." Her tone was warm, but brooked no argument.
A small part of me wanted to protest her making the decision for me, but, well, Bill was the curse breaker, wasn't he? I'd read that that involved a lot more esoteric magics than we normally saw. I bet he'd know all about wards and rituals, and really, an opportunity to take a look at how another culture saw their magic was more than a little hard to pass up.
So, despite my misgivings, I gave Mrs. Weasley a smile and a nod, and that was that.
