Ron Weasley lay on his bed, a broad smile on his face. Staring unseeingly at the ceiling, he was indulging in a daydream.
"And Weasley has the ball… He flies through the defensive line… And he scores!"
He shook his head. Something about this fantasy just didn't seem right. The fact was that he couldn't get that Muggle game that Hermione had told him about, football, out of his mind. It just didn't seem right to him. How could you use your feet to kick a ball when you needed them for running at the same time? It was biologically impossible. If it was a magical ball like the Quaffles or the Snitch, moving on its own power, that he could understand, but a Muggle ball? There had to be some mistake, he decided.
He got up and looked around the room for a ball. Maybe if he could just try it… once or twice.. to test the theory…
A clattering at the window put all thoughts of football out of his mind. He grinned at the sight of Hedwig, Harry's snowy owl, fluttering there, clutching a paper in her beak –
That was odd. Why hadn't Harry tied it round her leg as he always did?
Feeling slightly uneasy, he went to the window and let Hedwig in. She sailed in, then jumped up and down on the bed; she flew back and forth between him and the window; then she dropped the paper at his feet.
Ron picked it up and scanned it apprehensively. It seemed harmless enough. It was a letter from Harry, starting with news and gossip, and ending abruptly with the words –
/Hang on a sec, Uncle Vernon's shouting about something or other again. I'll see what they want this time and be right back./
Ron looked up at Hedwig, alarmed. "He never finished this," he said. Hedwig nodded. "He's in trouble," he went on, and it was not a question. "How bad is it, Hedwig?" The owl fluttered her wings.
Ron took a deep breath and reached for his wand. "Is it – " he swallowed nervously, knowing he would have to go to Harry even if it was – "You-Know-Who?"
Hedwig shook her head vigorously and flapped her wings as if to say, Hurry.
In an instant, Ron decided what to do. "Mum!" he yelled as he bounded down the stairs three at a time.
Molly Weasley inhaled the aroma of her steaming mug of hot chocolate, delicately flavoured with butterfly-wing. It was her own recipe: just the thing to calm your nerves. She wished that Harry's godfather, that impulsive young man, had accepted her offer of some, her gaze flickering to the fire where he had been minutes ago. He'd been so worried about his godson, so insistent that they keep checking on him. With thoughts of Sirius came thoughts of Harry, the orphan boy whom she regarded – no matter what, she thought defiantly – as her newest adopted son. Boy-Who-Lived, Saviour – what nonsense, she thought sympathetically. He was a remarkable young man to be sure, but these titles were far too heavy a burden to place on a lonely little boy. Unwillingly, the corners of her mouth quirked upward at what the object of her reflections would say if he heard himself being called a "little boy". Well, he was, and she didn't care who teased her about saying it, or about being overprotective. She was quite happy the way she was, thank you very much.
Another sip of chocolate, a glance at the pink light of the setting sun filtered through the trees, dappling the kitchen table in shifting patterns. The situation was dire outside; You-Know-Who was back and they were all in mortal peril; yet Molly would not have exchanged her life for anyone else's. She'd always been teased about her "maternal instinct"; it had started in primary school where she'd opened a doll hospital, to Hogwarts where she'd been famous for 'adopting' first years, orphans and students with problems and taking them under her wing. Now she was still teased, but by her own children, no less. A wry grin accompanied the next sip of chocolate. Let them tease. She loved the Burrow with a passion, she loved her Arthur with all her heart, and her children were a never-ceasing source of – riches, was the best way to describe it. Molly had never cared about money that much. Riches for her were hearing about Bill's dragons and Charlie's escapades; watching over the twins and feeling the sunshine, the gift of laughter, they brought into the room; seeing Ron, so serious and sensitive, coping with school and carving a niche for himself; watching Ginny grow into her alarmingly powerful magical gift, courtesy of being the seventh child. And Harry, she thought, trying to protect him and give him the love that he seemed to have been denied, though she wasn't sure why, since he did have living relatives. Each of these her children brought something into her life; it was like living in a cosy room and having a kaleidoscope of windows on the world to look out of…
"Mum!"
Her youngest son skidded into the kitchen, breathless, wand in hand. He was white as a sheet.
Molly's heart dropped. "What's the matt—"
"Mum," he panted, words tumbling out in a rush, "it's Harry – he's in trouble – Hedwig, Hedwig came, and she says it's not You-Know-Who, but it's bad – Mum, I've got to go – you can't stop me – "
Calmly, checking her apron pocket for her own wand, Mrs. Weasley stood. "Whoever said anything about stopping you?" she said, though her face was a little pale. "Who's going to look after you if I don't come along?"
Expecting protest, she was amazed when her son shot to her side, arms wrapping tightly around her waist. "Oh Mum – " he said in a choked voice. "I know I'm not supposed to Apparate – underage, I know – but Mum, it's Harry-"
Wasting no further time, Molly closed her eyes and Apparated herself and her son outside the wards around Number Four, Privet Drive.