Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except for Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.
Chapter 8- Mayhem at the Ministry
Mr. Weasley wakes us after only a few hours sleep (not that I slept). He uses magic to pack up the tents, and we leave the campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts has a strange, dazed look about him, and he waves us off with a vague "Merry Christmas."
"He'll be all right," says Mr. Weasley quietly as we march off onto the moor. "Sometimes, when a person's memory's modified, it makes him a bit disorientated for a while . . . and that was a big thing they had to make him forget." A hand slips into mine and squeezes tightly. I glance over and see that it's Hermione this time which is odd.
She has a pained look on her face and I instantly kick myself for forgetting momentarily that the Roberts' were targeted for they were muggles. I squeeze back in silent support and glance around at all the solemn faces around me. Luka and Ariana are talking in hushed voices, their shoulders tense.
Part of me wishes to be with them since they understand how big and serious last night was for me, but I have other responsibilities, like making sure that my friends are okay.
We hear urgent voices as we approach the spot where the Portkeys lay, and when we reach it, we find a great number of witches and wizards gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all clamoring to get away from the campsite as quickly as possible. Mr. Weasley has a hurried discussion with Basil; we join the queue, and are able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun has really risen.
We walk back through Ottery St. Catchpole and up the damp lane towards the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because we are so exhausted, and thinking longingly of breakfast. As we round the corner and the Burrow comes into view, a cry echoes along the lane. My sleep deprived mind winces at the shrill sound.
"Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!" Mrs. Weasley, who has evidently been waiting for them in the front yard, comes running towards us, still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand.
"Arthur — I've been so worried — so worried —" She flings her arms around Mr. Weasley's neck, and the Daily Prophet falls out of her limp hand onto the ground. Looking down, Harry sees the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops.
"You're all right," Mrs. Weasley mutters distractedly, releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at us all with red eyes, "you're alive. . . . Oh boys . . ." And to everybody's surprise, she seizes Fred and George and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads bang together.
"Ouch! Mum — you're strangling us —"
"I shouted at you before you left!" Mrs. Weasley says, starting to sob. "It's all I've been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn't get enough O.W.L.s? Oh Fred . . . George . . ."
"Come on, now, Molly, we're all perfectly okay," says Mr. Weasley soothingly, prying her off the twins and leading her back towards the house. "Bill," he adds in an undertone, "pick up that paper, I want to see what it says. . . ."
After tearful and very tight hugs for everyone of us (I nearly felt my lung collapse), we were finally steered into the house.
When we are all crammed into the tiny kitchen, and I make Mrs. Weasley a cup of very strong tea, into which Mr. Weasley insists on pouring a shot of Ogdens Old Firewhisky, Bill hands his father the newspaper. Mr. Weasley scans the front page while Percy looks over his shoulder.
"I knew it," says Mr. Weasley heavily. "Ministry blunders . . . culprits not apprehended . . . lax security . . . Dark wizards running unchecked . . . national disgrace . . . Who wrote this? Ah . . . of course . . . Rita Skeeter."
"That woman's got it in for the Ministry of Magic!" says Percy furiously. "Last week she was saying we're wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it wasn't specifically stated in paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans —"
I hate Rita Skeeter just as much as I'm beginning to despise Percy.
"Do us a favor, Perce," says Bill, yawning, "and shut up."
"I'm mentioned," says Mr. Weasley, his eyes widening behind his glasses as he reachs the bottom of the Daily Prophet article.
"Where?" splutters Mrs. Weasley, choking on her tea and whisky. "If I'd seen that, I'd have known you were alive!"
"Not by name," says Mr. Weasley. "Listen to this: 'If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen.' Oh really," says Mr. Weasley in exasperation, handing the paper to Percy. "Nobody was hurt. What was I supposed to say? Rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods . . . well, there certainly will be rumors now she's printed that."
He heaves a deep sigh. "Molly, I'm going to have to go into the office; this is going to take some smoothing over."
"I'll come with you, Father," says Percy importantly. "Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck. And I can give him my cauldron report in person." He bustles out of the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley looks most upset.
"Arthur, you're supposed to be on holiday! This hasn't got anything to do with your office; surely they can handle this without you?"
"I've got to go, Molly," says Mr. Weasley. "I've made things worse. I'll just change into my robes and I'll be off. . . ."
"Mrs. Weasley," says Harry suddenly, "Hedwig hasn't arrived with a letter for me, has she?"
"Hedwig, dear?" says Mrs. Weasley distractedly. "No . . . no, there hasn't been any post at all."
Ron, Hermione, and I look curiously at Harry. With a meaningful look at us he says, "All right if I go and dump my stuff in your room, Ron?"
"Yeah . . . think I will too," says Ron at once. "Hermione?"
"Yes," she says quickly, and the three of them march out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I hesitate a second seeing as no one is really paying attention to me and follow them.
"What's up, Harry?" says Ron, the moment we have closed the door of the attic room behind us. The room is still as cramped as ever.
"There's something I haven't told you," Harry says. "On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar hurting again." Oh no here we go again.
Hermione gasps and starts making suggestions at once, mentioning a number of reference books, and everybody from Albus Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse. Ron simply looks dumbstruck.
"But — he wasn't there, was he? You-Know-Who? I mean — last time your scar kept hurting, he was at Hogwarts, wasn't he?"
"I'm sure he wasn't on Privet Drive," says Harry. "But I was dreaming about him . . . him and Peter — you know, Wormtail. I can't remember all of it now, but they were plotting to kill . . . someone."
Well that is unpleasant and there goes my thoughts of this being a nice normal day instead of a crazy and dangerous one.
"It was only a dream," I say bracingly. "Just a nightmare."
"Yeah, but was it, though?" says Harry, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. "It's weird, isn't it? . . . My scar hurts, and three days later the Death Eaters are on the march, and Voldemort's sign's up in the sky again."
"Don't — say — his — name!" Ron hisses through gritted teeth.
"And remember what Professor Trelawney said?" Harry goes on, ignoring Ron. "At the end of last year?"
Professor Trelawney is our Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione's terrified look vanishes as she lets out a derisive snort. Here we go this is going to be a long rant.
"Oh Harry, you aren't going to pay attention to anything that old fraud says?"
"You weren't there," says Harry. "You didn't hear her. This time was different. I told you, she went into a trance — a real one. And she said the Dark Lord would rise again . . . greater and more terrible than ever before . . . and he'd manage it because his servant was going to go back to him . . . and that night Wormtail escaped."
There is a silence in which Ron fidgets absentmindedly with a hole in his Chudley Cannons bedspread.
"It wasn't your fault Harry. You're not supposed to know everything." I tell him softly. Harry cuts me a sharp look.
"Why were you asking if Hedwig had come, Harry?" Hermione asks, taking the attention away from me. "Are you expecting a letter?"
"I told Sirius about my scar," says Harry, shrugging. "I'm waiting for his answer."
"Good thinking!" says Ron, his expression clearing. "I bet Sirius'll know what to do!"
"I hoped he'd get back to me quickly," sighs Harry. I bite my lower lip thinking about the man that we helped free last year. I know that he's Harry's godfather and all, but he still creeps me out since the whole knifing the portrait and almost attacking me thing.
"But we don't know where Sirius is . . . he could be in Africa or somewhere, couldn't he?" says Hermione reasonably. "Hedwig's not going to manage that journey in a few days."
"Yeah, I know," says Harry, looking at the empty cage that should be housing Hedwig.
"Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard, Harry," says Ron. "Come on — three on three, Bill and Charlie and Fred and George will play. . . . You can try out the Wronski Feint. . . . and Jamie will ref…"
"Ron," says Hermione, in an I-don't-think-you're-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, "Harry doesn't want to play Quidditch right now. . . . He's worried, and he's tired. . . . We all need to go to bed. . . ."
"Yeah, I want to play Quidditch," says Harry suddenly. "Hang on, I'll get my Firebolt."
Hermione leaves the room, muttering something that sounds very much like "Boys."
Suddenly I'm not as tired as I originally was. Quidditch even refereeing it is better than sleeping.
Neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy is at home much over the following week. Both leave the house each morning before the rest of the family gets up, and returns well after dinner every night. Ariana had gone back home a few days ago, promising to see us soon and owl us.
"It's been an absolute uproar," Percy tells us importantly the Sunday evening before we are due to return to Hogwarts. "I've been putting out fires all week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if you don't open a Howler straight away, it explodes. Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill reduced to cinders."
"Why are they all sending Howlers?" asks Ginny, who is mending her copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in front of the living room fire.
"Complaining about security at the World Cup," says Percy. "They want compensation for their ruined property. Mundungus Fletcher's put in a claim for a twelve-bedroomed tent with en-suite Jacuzzi, but I've got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping under a cloak propped on sticks."
Mrs. Weasley glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. I like this clock. It is completely useless if you want to know the time, but otherwise very informative. It has nine golden hands, and each of them is engraved with one of the Weasley family's names. There are no numerals around the face, but descriptions of where each family member might be. "Home," "school," and "work" are there, but there is also "traveling," "lost," "hospital," "prison," and, in the position where the number twelve would be on a normal clock, "mortal peril."
Eight of the hands are currently pointing to the "home" position, but Mr. Weasley's, which is the longest, is still pointing to "work." Mrs. Weasley sighs.
"Your father hasn't had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You-Know-Who," she says. "They're working him far too hard. His dinner's going to be ruined if he doesn't come home soon."
"Well, Father feels he's got to make up for his mistake at the match, doesn't he?" says Percy. "If truth be told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of Department first —"
I scowl at Percy from my place next to Ginny. I swear that I'm going to hex him the minute I'm allowed to do magic outside of school. Your number is coming up Perce.
"Don't you dare blame your father for what that wretched Skeeter woman wrote!" says Mrs. Weasley, flaring up at once.
"If Dad hadn't said anything, old Rita would just have said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry had commented," says Bill, who is playing chess with Ron. "Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look good. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts Charm Breakers once, and called me 'a long-haired pillock'?"
"Well, it is a bit long, dear," says Mrs. Weasley gently. "If you'd just let me —"
"No, Mum."
Rain lashes against the living room window. Hermione is immersed in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, copies of which Mrs. Weasley has bought for her, Harry, Ron, Luka, and me in Diagon Alley. Charlie is darning a fireproof balaclava. Harry is polishing his Firebolt, the broomstick servicing kit Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday open at his feet. Fred and George are sitting in a far corner, quills out, talking in whispers, their heads bent over a piece of parchment.
"What are you two up to?" says Mrs. Weasley sharply, her eyes on the twins.
"Homework," says Fred vaguely.
"Don't be ridiculous, you're still on holiday," says Mrs. Weasley.
"Yeah, we've left it a bit late," says George. "Besides Mum, Jamie is far more nefarious with her miniature paper army over there." He says gesturing to my charmed paper figurines.
I glare at the two boys. "Just for that you two are on my list. Just wait until we get back to school." I hiss at them. Fred and George mime terrified looks.
"Boys stop picking on Jamie, and Jamie I better not get a letter from that school saying you've been fighting with magic." Mrs. Weasley snaps sternly eyeing the three of us.
"Yes Mrs. Weasley." I reply quickly heat rising to my cheeks shortly from being chastised like that. Its still odd living here and getting used to the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are now our guardians.
I huff softly and watch my paper troll toss paper Harry into the air. Harry glances over at it and frowns. "I thought you destroyed that!" He cries. I grin at him and stick my tongue out at him.
"You were being a prat, besides this is some of my best work, I'm not going to just throw it away." I point out.
"You're not by any chance writing out a new order form, are you?" says Mrs. Weasley shrewdly refocusing on the twins. "You wouldn't be thinking of re-starting Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, by any chance?"
"Now, Mum," says Fred, looking up at her, a pained look on his face. "If the Hogwarts Express crashed tomorrow, and George and I died, how would you feel to know that the last thing we ever heard from you was an unfounded accusation?"
Everyone laughs, even Mrs. Weasley.
"Oh your father's coming!" she says suddenly, looking up at the clock again.
Mr. Weasley's hand has suddenly spun from "work" to "traveling"; a second later it has shuddered to a halt on "home" with the others, and we hear him calling from the kitchen.
"Coming, Arthur!" calls Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out of the room. A few moments later, Mr. Weasley comes into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He looks completely exhausted.
"Well, the fat's really in the fire now," he tells Mrs. Weasley as he sits down in an armchair near the hearth and toys unenthusiastically with his somewhat shriveled cauliflower. "Rita Skeeter's been ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry mess-ups to report. And now she's found out about poor old Bertha going missing, so that'll be the headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he should have sent someone to look for her ages ago."
They still haven't found the poor woman yet? What on earth is wrong with these people?
"Mr. Crouch has been saying it for weeks and weeks," says Percy swiftly.
"Crouch is very lucky Rita hasn't found out about Winky," says Mr. Weasley irritably. "There'd be a week's worth of headlines in his house-elf being caught holding the wand that conjured the Dark Mark."
"I thought we were all agreed that that elf, while irresponsible, did not conjure the Mark?" says Percy hotly.
"If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is very lucky no one at the Daily Prophet knows how mean he is to elves!" says Hermione angrily. Oh Merlin please not this again! I can't seem to get a moment's peace around here. Ginny and I exchange grim expressions and huddle together preparing to mime out the fight that's about to occur.
"Now look here, Hermione!" says Percy. "A high-ranking Ministry official like Mr. Crouch deserves unswerving obedience from his servants —"
"His slave, you mean!" snaps Hermione, her voice rising passionately, "because he didn't pay Winky, did he?"
"I think you'd all better go upstairs and check that you've packed properly!" says Mrs. Weasley, breaking up the argument. "Come on now, all of you. . . ."
Ginny and I climb the stairs to our room Hermione staying back downstairs for a moment to keep arguing with Percy. I honestly don't understand how she can stand to still be in the same room with him for prolonged periods of time.
When we get to the room I go through all the supplies that Mrs. Weasley got me at Diagon Alley while we were away. Apart from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, by Miranda Goshawk, I have a handful of new quills, a dozen rolls of parchment, and refills for his potion-making kit — I had been running low on spine of lionfish and essence of belladonna.
I'm shocked to see that there is a requirement for a dress this year. I have no idea why. A knock sounds from the door and Mrs. Weasley enters along with Hermione. "Why a dress?" I ask honestly clueless about this new requirement for school. Both Ginny and Hermione look stumped as well.
"Oh no reason. They just want you to look appropriate this year for an event that they have. Now I assume that you'll all want to get you're dresses there so I didn't buy you any." She tells us smiling softly and leaving the room. I pale at the thought of some unknown event requiring a fancy dress code.
"What the bloody hell are they having us do this year?" I demand.