CHAPTER 9
This time it was quick—air and rushing water bombarded him, and he was pulled along by a thousand torrential arms. Beneath it all there was a sense of grasping eagerness that filled him with fear.
And then he emerged on the other side in a flurry of ash and embers—had the blood been burned off of him?
The overwhelming light he had not expected—it was brighter even than the room had been in the real world, and he hissed, trying to cover his eyes. It only took him a moment to realize how fruitless that was; his eyelids and his hand glowed just as brightly as everything else.
The light—it came from the ship. Every wall, every piece of furniture, every fixture was saturated with magic. The wards gave it all structure, and it appeared before Harry as a monstrous three-dimensional maze of radiant lines—a glass tower at night, run through with laser lights.
And there was screaming.
Lucius Malfoy was coming apart—flaking and charring like a painting dropped in a fire. He writhed in Harry's grip, shrieking one long, inhuman sound of agony, and Harry let him go.
He thrashed away, scuttling and twisting like a spider—half blackening, disintegrating skin, half malevolently glowing red lines. Harry could only stare as Lucius Malfoy, the man, was stripped away until only a howling red figure was left.
The creature flew to the ceiling, as if compelled, crawling and scrambling disjointedly over the contours, joints twisting and cracking with every frenzied movement. Slipping into the space between wards, he—it—gave a last terrible yowl, and was gone.
Harry stared at the space where the thing had disappeared, dumbstruck.
He couldn't help the snort that escaped him, and immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. It was horrendous, yes, unbelievable. And the laughter that threatened to overtake him was more hysterical than mirthful, but…
How would he ever explain this?
'What did you do with Mr. Malfoy?'
'Ah, well, that's a funny story, see… I sort of dragged him into a parallel world, where he turned into a gibbering monster, and then I lost him.'
What would Draco Malfoy say? Narcissa? Voldemort? Maybe that was the way to defeat the Dark Lord—drag him through to the Other Side and flash-roast him.
He hadn't known—never would have imagined—that would happen.
And his only other option had been to kill him. At least here he seemed to be… somewhat lively. Maybe it wasn't even all that unusual of a reaction. Maybe that's what actually happened to Harry each time.
That argument sounded weak even in his head.
Maybe you didn't pull the trigger, but you as good as killed him. Maybe it was better this way. Unlike in Azkaban, Malfoy wouldn't be broken out of this place any time soon.
All he could do was chalk it up to experience and move on.
As if it were so easy. Already he could feel this new guilt gnawing at him. And there was an itch between his shoulder blades reminding him that the creature could come back at any moment.
He pushed those feelings down, and slipped from the room, dodging between the bobbing lights of the witches and wizards who were pressing in around the doorway. He could see through the walls and floors, and the only thing that kept him from losing it was an unwillingness to think about why he wasn't dropping through to the ocean below.
And the ocean—why, he hadn't really thought about what it would look like, but…well, it was a little like standing on the sun, if the sun were blue instead of yellow.
He tried not to think about that either.
Looking ahead, there was something that drew his eye. It was hard to tell, with all the glowing, bobbing wizards and witches, and the intensely bright walls, but there seemed to be a massive sphere hanging in space amidst it all.
He shuffled his fatigued limbs a bit faster, hoping he wouldn't suddenly step through a wall and find a quick drop to the water. He came through what he remembered to be the red-carpeted hall, and emerged in the spherical chamber, stumbling to a halt with a gasp.
He remembered this. His captor had called it a Chinese River Spirit.
Altair Mengal, the tall, trim, and well-dressed Captain of the Galloping Galleon, was just passing the river spirit atrium on his way to a pressing matter in the guest wings when it happened.
There was a thump in the air, like the beautiful, fleeting tremor of a distant explosion. The rippling barrier that encased the river spirit flashed at the same moment, and viewers around the atrium balcony gasped out loud. Many began to stand and point.
Altair Mengal, despite the fact that he was needed elsewhere, found himself whirling to look over the railing, and gaped along with everyone else.
The river spirit had gone still and serene, but that was not what captured his attention. It was the figure—and truly, it defied any other description—that had stepped through the barrier and stood at the bottom of the sphere. It was like looking at a man made of fire.
No, that was not quite right. It was like liquid magma, moving in the shape of human veins. Altair Mengal felt his heart clench with fear, and it was a feeling he had not felt in a long time.
"What on Earth…?" he muttered. Or perhaps that wasn't quite accurate. The river spirit was otherworldly. This trap had been made by older, and more arcane minds than his, and even they had not fully understood it. It was a pocket of inverted space, they had said; without it, the spirit would become insubstantial. It could not escape until it was released—how had this other thing gotten through? "What are you?" he whispered, every hair on his arm standing on end.
As he watched, the fiery figure disappeared again, slipping right out of the sphere, and the barrier flashed with another thump that rattled his bones and set the light fixtures flickering.
The river spirit twitched, watching, waiting, hardly moving except for the watery reflections on its scaled hide, and the gentle waving of its feathery mane.
The figure appeared again, and the crowd around the atrium gasped anew. Altair Mengal felt for his knife—the one he didn't carry anymore—and it was a habit of fear that he hadn't shown in twenty years.
Then, right before his eyes, the blazing figure reached up with one hand, took the river spirit by a horn, and pulled its head through the barrier. Faster and faster the river spirit slipped away, and when the last of its long coils had disappeared—there was no evidence of either creature anywhere now—the barrier shuddered, flashed, and imploded.
Everyone in the atrium crumpled against the sharp intake of air, and Altair Mengal felt as if the breath had been stolen from his lungs. The atrium went dark. All the lights had been shattered, and bits of glass and papers still fell to the floor. It was several long moments before the confounded observers began to speculate in increasingly loud voices.
"Mercy," the Captain muttered, picking himself up and dusting himself off. Two of his assistants and several members of the crowd were already making a beeline toward him. "Find out what happened," he hissed to the first assistant. "Handle them," he told the second, putting the young man between himself and the guests.
With that, he was off to his original purpose, feeling peeved at himself for losing his self-control like so many of the riffraff in the room.
However, when he arrived at the Emerald wing, his mood took a turn for the better. The hall was packed with milling witches and wizards. The air was thick with smoke and debris, and another scent that reminded him faintly of roasted pork. There was a rather spectacular hole in the wall. People rushed up to him, eagerly filling in the details for him, and asking what actions should be taken.
"I haven't the foggiest idea," he told them. "Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter fought? Good Lord, how could this happen right under my nose?"
He called his aides, admonished them that he ran a tight ship, and that this was all unacceptable. He told them to find out who had arranged for the meeting. He made his rounds, assuring his guests, and arranged for the destroyed room to be cordoned off.
And then he retreated to his private rooms, poured himself a glass of brandy, and put up his feet. He frowned slightly to himself, but it was more considering than displeased. "And where did you go, Mr. Potter?"
Harry was learning that truer words had never been said: outer beauty did not always reflect inner beauty. At all.
"So what take you so long, stupid boy? I see you two days ago!"
Harry sighed. He sat astride the scaly, undulating form of the river spirit, just behind its graceful shoulders. They were speeding with otherworldly haste over the flashing blue sphere of the ocean under the sultry black sky, and the beast would not shut up. At first it had been the most amazing, surreal experience—the creature could move so fast, and they were just whipping through the air.
After rescuing it from its prison, Harry had simply asked it if it might happen to be going by Ottery St. Catchpole. Now he was regretting his hasty request.
"I was a little bit tied up," he answered, and clutched with his one free hand at the billowing mane as the river spirit dipped erratically toward the waves, trying not to drop his blood wand. "Christ!"
The river spirit bellowed a mocking laugh. Its deep voice might have been awe-inspiring, if it were not for its spotty English and piss-poor personality. "You scared, nancy-boy? I go too fast? You pee on me, I eat your first-born child!"
Harry grumbled, unable to formulate a response to such an absurd assertion. "Just get me to England, and we can agree to never see each other again!"
From what Harry could gather, the river spirit was one of the smaller rivers in China—the Karakash. It was way out in the desert near the western border, and didn't even empty into the ocean. Apparently that had given the spirit something of a complex. If Harry weren't so determined to not have to swim back to land, he would have been tempted to respond in kind. He had complexes of his own, after all.
"You tied up two days; I tied up for many moons!" the beast insisted, twisting its massive head slightly to get a look at him.
"It wasn't just two days, and you didn't have to fight a troll," Harry growled back. He nearly bit his tongue when the spirit bucked again.
"I eat troll for breakfast," it sneered. "I spit and troll fall down in fear. Pee pants just like you!"
"I don't pee my pants," Harry objected, rolling his eyes. "And trolls don't even wear pants."
"Only shit trolls not wear pants. Your trolls shit. I eat your trolls' firstborn children."
"I expect that would happen if you ate them all for breakfast anyway."
"If not for helping Karakash, I fuck you up, little man," the beast rumbled. "You not answer question. Why take stupid boy two days?"
Harry wanted to bash his head on something. "I didn't have any water; I couldn't get away."
In a blink they had reached land, and were now rocketing over darkly rolling hills and little, bright pockets of ponds and lakes.
"Not have water?" Karakash repeated. Harry could practically see the gears turning in the beast's head. "You like humans? You from other side?"
Harry hesitated, aware that, having been captured by humans, the spirit might hold a grudge. "Yeah."
The river spirit seemed to swell, and it jerked its big head sideways, eye flashing. Its voice came as a rolling snarl. "You know how Karakash captured?"
"No!" Harry said hastily. "I've never heard of that kind of magic—"
"You find out!" Karakash demanded, pearly fangs flashing. "We trade—I give you water, you tell Karakash how this happen!"
Harry frowned in confusion. "You… give me water? I don't…"
"Maybe stupid boy too stupid to find answer…" the river spirit grumbled.
"Because water is such a great incentive," Harry returned.
"I cut you up and use ribs to make spit for barbecue!" the spirit snarled.
"I'll skin you and use… your… scales for a shower curtain!" Harry shouted back.
"I hollow out skull and use for chamber pot!"
"I'll hack off your antlers and use them to scratch my ass!"
"I light head on fire and use for birthday cake!"
"I'll dam you for irrigation to water my crops!—oh wait, no I won't, because you're in the middle of the bloody desert, and you're too small anyway!"
There was a moment of silence, before Karakash said in a muted tone, "Stupid boy hit below belt."
Harry felt a little bad, despite himself. "Are we there yet?"
"How I am supposed to know? You say where to go, I go. You not say, we keep flying."
Harry resisted the urge to smack his forehead with his palm, since that would likely result in him falling off. Instead he peered over the scaly shoulder, and tried his best to figure out where they were and where they needed to go. The absence of man-made structures, coupled with the general darkness of the landscape, made this very difficult.
Karakash seemed to sense his indecision, and sounded smug. "Stupid boy not know where he want to go. We ask shit English river."
Harry blinked. "That's actually a good idea. For a great bloody worm," he added.
The limber beast banked for a descent, giving a rumbling chuckle. "Stupid boy make stupid insult. Offspring will be too stupid to live. I eat them to spare pain."
Soon enough they spotted the bright, lazy ribbon of a river in the landscape below, but Harry was at a loss as to how it would translate into a spirit. "Is every body of water a spirit?" he mused aloud.
To his surprise, Karakash actually answered. "For little while, yes. Most not permanent; don't get to live very long."
Harry tried to wrap his mind around that. "So every puddle? Every pond?"
"Yes. Babies."
"Why didn't I ever see any?"
"Babies too small. You look harder, maybe you see one next time."
Harry felt a pang of horror. "Do I drink one every time I drink some water?"
The river spirit scoffed. "Water on earth, stupid boy. Not water in human things. No bath tub spirit."
Harry squinted at the creature. "How do you know what a bath tub is?"
"I hear. Human swim, say how great Karakash is—much better than bath tub."
"Of course." Harry rolled his eyes. They landed in a rush of air amongst the dark bracken at the bank of the stream. Karakash moved forward to dip his great snout in the pale blue water for several moments while Harry looked over his shoulder, fascinated.
"Derwent," the river spirit finally intoned in a deep, solemn voice. Then he completely ruined the mystery of the scene by withdrawing, sneezing the water from his snout and shaking his head.
For a long time, nothing happened. The breeze rippled the pale water, the riverweeds sighed, and Karakash seemed to grow more and more irritated.
Then a swell appeared out in the middle of the river, like the beginnings of a tsunami. It rose, vast as a hillside, before light rolled off the water in waves, the air trembled, and a long, thick, sinuous body arched out of the water.
The head appeared last of all, like someone lazily rising from their stomach, ass first. It was a massive head, the size of a single-car garage and shaped like the bastard offspring of a lion and a catfish.
When it had fully emerged from the river, water streaming from its silvery-scaled hide, it loomed nearly fifty feet high. Its wide set eyes reflected lemon yellow in the dark, staring down at them, and it gave a low whuffling snort.
Harry gaped.
The beast blinked. In the deepest voice Harry had ever heard, it said, "Well, whatchoo want, then?"
"Lazy-ass shit English river," Karakash muttered.
"Er," Harry sputtered, flabbergasted. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but…
The massive beast blinked again, and squinted. Small waves crashed away from it as it leaned toward them slightly. "Oy, do I know you, lad?"
Harry would have blanched in dismay if he'd been able to. Even here?
Sometimes he hated being Harry Potter, and he always hated being the Boy-Who-Lived. "Nope, don't think so. I don't know many…er… river spirits, you know, so—uh, we were just wondering if you knew how to get to Ottery St. Catchpole… um, Derwent. Sir."
"A Quest it is, then!" the big spirit boomed in with inordinate enthusiasm. "Surely I do know the way, and would be right pleased to take you—"
"You tell us where, stupid English river," Karakash interrupted, to Harry's amazement. "Then you shut up. I take stupid boy."
The River Derwent looked rather put out at that, receding slightly into his bed, but he complied with unflappable good humor. Soon Harry and Karakash had taken to the air again, while the long, salamander shape of the mighty beast slipped back beneath the water below them.
"You're rather opinionated for a body of water," Harry told the spirit as they sped through streamers of clouds.
"I do favor. Stupid English river probably fall asleep halfway there. Probably not even get off ground," Karakash revised, guffawing.
They flew on for what might have been hours, or it might have been minutes, trading petty insults the entire way. Harry was doing his best to stay sharp and alert, but the warm, rushing wind was making it difficult to keep his eyes open. Now that he was on the home stretch, his fatigue was catching up with him.
By the time they touched down in the little village of Ottery St. Catchpole, where quite a few habitations showed up lined in bright wards, Harry was drifting in and out of consciousness.
"Boy," Karakash growled, jerking Harry to attention. "Time to go. I give you something, you do something for Karakash."
He seemed to be waiting for Harry's agreement, so Harry blearily nodded, sliding from the beast's sleek flank. They had landed near a large pond, and weeds squelched beneath his feet.
The river spirit crouched low, and with one sharp claw, cracked off the tip of one of the numerous tines in his mighty rack of antlers. Harry received the bit of horn with wide eyes. He didn't know much about spirits in general, but this seemed like something that didn't happen very often.
It was nearly four inches long, thick and knobby, and surprisingly hollow in the center. Harry looked up at the river spirit quizzically.
"Now you always have water," Karakash told him, grinning. Then his predatory features shifted into a glare. "You find out how humans make trap. You tell Karakash."
Harry nodded, blinking. How on Earth was he going to accomplish that? Instead he asked, "How will I find you?"
The river spirit had already turned away. "You call, I come." And with that, Karakash shot into the air in a flurry of dazzling color, and was gone.
"Mum, there's someone coming down the road," Ginny called from the front porch.
"That's nice, dear," Molly replied absently from where she was preparing lunch in the kitchen. Tonks, however, moved toward the front windows to get a look.
The Burrow was quiet this time of day; most of the Order members were either out on assignment or recuperating at their homes. Molly seemed to be on a mission to reclaim her house, while the Weasley brood, a skeleton crew consisting of Ginny, Ron, George, and Fred, were trying to find ways to escape the heat.
The three boys (and two extra brains) were in the back, Tonks had been told, dangling their feet off the pier in the pond.
Remus and Hermione, who both seemed to have taken up residence, were huddled together in a corner of the living room, discussing apparently heavy and dubious matters.
Tonks had just arrived not two minutes earlier, after finishing her late breakfast, hoping for a spot of news before heading in to work, only to find the place nearly empty.
She now squinted down the drive through the dusty screen door, and Ginny stood just outside, barefoot on the front porch. Rather than brush the stray hair out of her own eyes, Tonks simply shortened it.
Sure enough there was someone trudging down the road, hunched shape rippling in the heat, and they had just turned in at the Burrow's long drive. After a moment of observation, Tonks decided it was clearly a man, and he seemed to be drunk. She absently sidled out the front door to stand next to Ginny, staring intently. "What the hell…?"
Just as they were watching, the man paused for a moment, swaying, before abruptly collapsing in a heap.
Then it clicked. She recognized that person.
"Harry!" she gasped, and took off running across the gravel. Sounds of uproar followed behind her, but she was wholly focused on covering ground.
By the time she reached him, he'd dragged himself into a sitting position in the grass. "Harry! Harry, what—where have you—are you—are you hurt?"
"M' fine," he managed to slur. "It's okay, I'll be there in a minute… I just need a break, and then I'll get up…"
"Harry," she said again, more gently this time, and crouched next to him. He'd been reduced to bone and sinew, there was blood on his face, he was soaked clear through, and he hunched over his ribs as if they greatly pained him. She grabbed his shoulder, trying to get him to focus. "Come on Harry, talk to me."
"Tonks?" he asked, looking desperately confused. He blinked at her, eyes skittering, as if it required a massive force of will just to keep them open. "Where—oh, there's the Burrow. I thought I still had miles and miles… Why didn't we land next to the house? There's a pond right in the back, it would have been fine…"
Tonks tried to will away the consternation that flitted through her mind. He was babbling nonsense. "Harry, let's get you inside, okay?"
He nodded a bit uncoordinatedly, eyes drooping. "Inside'd be good. I need some water." This last was spoken with a vehemence that made Tonks recoil slightly.
"I think you got some water," she commented shakily, eyeing his sopping clothing.
He brightened slightly. "Oh yeah, I did get some water. He gave it to me." He seemed to be searching his pockets, as if he might find some there, and Tonks felt her heart jerk painfully.
"Stupefy," she murmured quietly, and he slumped just as the rest of the crowd showed up. She just shook her head at the onslaught of questions, saying, "He's completely out of it. We need to move him to the house."
And so, like some strange funeral procession, they levitated Harry Potter's limp body. Even knocked out as he was, his fist still clutched what looked like a chair leg or a table leg with an iron grip. Slowly, like an honor guard, they all moved back toward the house, each thinking their own private thoughts about the boy who lived.
The shuffle of footsteps on the sandstone floor caused Harry to snap his gaze upward, and he felt a wild rush of anger. He had given explicit instructions that he was not to be interrupted, barring the most pressing of emergencies.
He narrowed in on the figure who was practically hunched over in fear amongst the tall, dusty shelves. Long lengths of orange-red cloth billowed gently from the ceiling, tinting the light streaming in from above so that the room was washed in crimson.
Harry thought it appropriate for his mood, and silently vowed that the man's head would roll, no matter what reason had brought him here. "What."
"Apologies, my Lord—"
Harry slipped menacingly around the table, which was strewn with ancient rolls of parchment, and hissed, "Did I not impress upon you that no one was to disturb me? Do you value your life so little?"
The robed figure drew even further in upon himself, looking hard at the floor. "I—I understood, my Lord, but there has been… there has been a situation, my Lord…"
Harry wanted to strike the man for sheer thick incompetence. "Explain, you idiot, and be quick. You've so far given me very little reason not to kill you where you stand."
The man darted a glance up, and seemed to immediately regret it, swallowing hard. "It's Malfoy, my Lord. He has disappeared."
Harry straightened slightly. "Disappeared."
The man—Harry suddenly remembered him from the latest batch of initiates—nodded hesitantly.
Harry's rage flared again, and suddenly his hand was around the man's throat, slamming him hard against the sandstone wall. His nails dug in, and the man's eyes bulged in fear. "If I have to ask you to elaborate one more time, you will not be walking out of this place alive."
The man choked. "F-forgive me, my Lord! Lucius Malfoy, as you know, was aboard the Galloping Galleon this week—appa-apparently Harry Potter was also—ghk!"
Harry's grip had tightened of its own volition, and he forced his anger down so that the man could keep talking.
The man coughed. "Potter was also on board—Lucius had been admitted to see the boy. There was a fight in Potter's room, and by the time anyone else arrived, they were both gone."
Harry let the man down absently, his mind already leaping ahead. "How long ago was this?"
"Early yesterday, my Lord."
Malfoy was one of Harry's most trusted followers. He had liberated the man from Azkaban only a few weeks ago—there was no way Malfoy would keep the Potter boy without telling his master. But it was either that, or Potter had somehow… No. Impossible. He snapped his gaze back to the man in front of him, and snarled, "Why was I not informed of this yesterday?"
"I—forgive me, my Lord, I was held up at the border—"
Harry backhanded the man viciously, sending him sprawling to the floor. "Your sheer incompetence is astounding. Get out."
The man scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his face, and left quickly.
Harry turned back to his research, flexing his hands, and wished he had simply killed the man. He couldn't let his bloodlust go unsatisfied now. Someone would die today; that was for certain.
Harry jerked awake to the sun in his eyes.
Normally this would have been annoying at best, but today it was excruciating.
"Damn it…" he snarled thickly, rolling away from the window and clenching his eyes shut. It was his left eye—the one that Lucius had tried to curse. He lay still, allowing the sharp ache to recede in the relative dimness before daring to open his eyes.
For a moment he was wildly disoriented. It wasn't his room at Privet Drive, nor was it the guest room at Hogwarts, or the room on the ship—oh. It was the twins' room at the Burrow. He relaxed as the feeling of imminent danger passed.
Someone had set him up on the bed closest to the window. There was a thick, crocheted blanket over him, even though it appeared to be the middle of the afternoon, and he seemed to be wearing Ron's clothes.
The idea that someone had changed him made him a bit angry rather than embarrassed, and he grunted in annoyance. He sat up, giving his head a shake, and peered around.
"Wotcher, Sunshine," said an amused voice. Harry jerked in surprise—there was Tonks sprawled inelegantly in an overstuffed armchair by the door, reading a book titled, 'Windsurfing the Wizarding Way.' "I'm supposed to be watching you for any signs of life," she explained, grinning just a bit too widely.
"I'm alive," he agreed, eyeing her. Just barely. He felt as if he hadn't rested at all, and blamed most of it on his dream.
Where had it been? What was Voldemort doing?
Harry grasped for details—he remembered it had been dry…very dry. The only light had come from outside—there had been nothing in the place except rows and rows of scrolls. And there was something else unusual about it…
Sandstone. The whole place had been carved from sandstone.
This didn't help him very much, since he knew that sandstone was maddeningly common, but it was a start. If he could find places—wizarding places—that were carved out of the stuff… but he didn't know for certain that it wasn't a muggle location. He growled. So what did he know?
He knew that Voldemort was a cranky bitch when he was doing research.
Harry rubbed his scar. Damn Voldemort. Keep your temper tantrums to yourself, for once. Then he froze, looking warily at Tonks, who had settled for watching him rather than speaking, and said, "Prove who you are."
Tonks grinned, rolling her eyes, but swiftly morphed her face into one of her trademarks—the duckbill—before shifting back. "Very good, Harry," she said wryly. "But what were you planning on doing if I turned out to be an imposter? You haven't got your wand, you know. You just alerted a potential enemy to your suspicions."
"I don't need a wand," Harry said flippantly. Then he had to struggle to keep himself from slapping a hand over his mouth.
Tonks cocked an eyebrow at him. "Re-eally."
Harry settled for what he hoped was a vaguely superior look, and cracked his knuckles. "Got a mean right hook."
"Uhuh," Tonks smirked, unimpressed. She couldn't hold it long before it bloomed into a real smile. "It's good to have you back, Harry."
Harry's expression softened. "It's good to be back." They both fell silent for a moment, grinning at each other. Harry could tell that it was taking every ounce of self-control that Tonks possessed to keep her from bombarding him with questions. The fact that she was simply waiting for him to speak filled him with a heady rush of gratitude. He knew a lot of people were going to want to hear the story, and he didn't fancy telling it more than once. Clearing his throat, he remembered to ask, "Er, so where is everyone else?"
She raised one graceful violet eyebrow. "Where do you think?"
"Downstairs talking about me, I expect," Harry said resignedly.
"I knew you were a sharp one," Tonks teased. "Even when they all kept telling me you was dumb as a box o' rocks, I never stopped believing! Even when they said you couldn't think your way out of a paper—"
"Thank you, Tonks," Harry croaked good-naturedly. Whatever he might have said next was forgotten when he spotted a glass of water on the bedside table. He seized it, downing it in one long swig. The cold, sweet water rushing down his throat was indescribably exquisite
He set the empty glass down with a satisfied exhalation, and swung his feet around to the floor. "Reckon it's time to face the firing squad?" Despite his flippant tone, the idea filled him with dread.
"About that, Harry," Tonks said, tossing her book aside to rise. "Just a heads up—it's a mad house down there." Catching his dubious expression, she added, "It's not just the Order. There are ministry people and investigators and all sorts of riff-raff out on the drive."
Harry's eyebrows rose. "What for?"
She looked uneasy for a moment. "They've got questions. A lot of them."
"And the Weasleys—and Dumbledore just let them stay?"
"Even he can't keep the ministry out of it this time," she said dryly.
"Great," Harry muttered, scrubbing the back of his head as he pushed open the door. He realized that he probably would have been angry with the old man for throwing his weight around anyway. "Where's my stuff?"
She gave him a quizzical look, following him down the stairs. "Your clothes are getting washed, I expect…"
Harry waved his hand dismissively. "What about…did you find anything in my pockets? My wand?"
"I'm sorry Harry… you didn't have your wand with you when you got here," she told him softly.
Harry's mind tripped over this bit of information—before he realized she thought he was talking about his phoenix-core wand, and hadn't recognized the table leg as such.
His question was answered for him when he stepped in to the kitchen, and the buzz of discussion ceased. A veritable sea of heads turned his way—how had they all fit inside the Burrow?—and Harry blanched. There was his blood wand, placed damningly in the middle of the table.
This is not good.
Cornelius Fudge was the first voice to break the silence, casting his voice with gleeful bravado. "Ah, the man of the hour—how kind of you to join us!" He sounded downright friendly, but Harry knew better. Fudge could only be happy for one reason. He nailed Harry with a stern glance, but the effect was marred by his shining eyes. "I'm afraid you're in quite a bit of trouble, Mr. Potter."