Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.
Chapter 9-Aboard the Hogwarts Express
There is a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the air when I wake up next morning. Heavy rain is still splattering against the window as I get dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt; we will change into our school robes on the Hogwarts Express. I make sure that Ginny is up seeing that Hermione is already beginning to stress out on last minute checks of her trunk for all her school needs.
Finally when Ginny resembles something of a dressed zombie, I manage to pry Hermione away from her frantic worrying and we are able to make our way downstairs. I want breakfast before having to go back to school. I don't care who I have to fight in order to get some.
We run into Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Luka on the first floor landing. Before any of us can say anything though we're interrupted.
Mrs. Weasley appears at the foot of the stairs, looking harassed. "Arthur!" she calls up the staircase. "Arthur! Urgent message from the Ministry!"
I flatten myself against the wall as Mr. Weasley comes clattering past with his robes on back-to-front and hurtles out of sight. When we enter the kitchen, we see Mrs. Weasley rummaging anxiously in the drawers — "I've got a quill here somewhere!" — and Mr. Weasley bending over the fire, talking to Mr. Diggory. I scowl he's really not my favorite person.
Amos Diggory's head is sitting in the middle of the flames like a large, bearded egg. It is talking very fast, completely unperturbed by the sparks flying around it and the flames licking its ears.
". . . Muggle neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so they went and called those what-d'you-call-'ems — please-men. Arthur, you've got to get over there —"
"Here!" says Mrs. Weasley breathlessly, pushing a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a crumpled quill into Mr. Weasley's hands.
"— it's a real stroke of luck I heard about it," says Mr. Diggory's head. "I had to come into the office early to send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use of Magic lot all setting off — if Rita Skeeter gets hold of this one, Arthur —"
"What does Mad-Eye say happened?" asks Mr. Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes.
Mr. Diggory's head rolls its eyes. "Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house, but was ambushed by his dustbins."
"What did the dustbins do?" asks Mr. Weasley, scribbling frantically.
"Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell," says Mr. Diggory. "Apparently one of them was still rocketing around when the please-men turned up —" Mr. Weasley groans.
I shoot a confused look to Hermione and she mouths police to me. Oh… I still don't truly understand why they're important.
"And what about the intruder?" Mr. Weasley asks.
"Arthur, you know Mad-Eye," says Mr. Diggory's head, rolling its eyes again. "Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely there's a very shell-shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Mad-Eye, he's had it — think of his record — we've got to get him off on a minor charge, something in your department — what are exploding dustbins worth?"
"Might be a caution," says Mr. Weasley, still writing very fast, his brow furrowed. "Mad-Eye didn't use his wand? He didn't actually attack anyone?"
"I'll bet he leapt out of bed and started jinxing everything he could reach through the window," says Mr. Diggory, "but they'll have a job proving it, there aren't any casualties."
This Mad-Eye fellow sounds insane. "All right, I'm off," Mr. Weasley says, and he stuffs the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket and dashes out of the kitchen again.
Mr. Diggory's head looks around at Mrs. Weasley.
"Sorry about this, Molly," it says, more calmly, "bothering you so early and everything . . . but Arthur's the only one who can get Mad-Eye off, and Mad-Eye's supposed to be starting his new job today. Why he had to choose last night . . ."
"Never mind, Amos," says Mrs. Weasley. "Sure you won't have a bit of toast or anything before you go?"
"Oh go on, then," says Mr. Diggory. Mrs. Weasley takes a piece of buttered toast from a stack on the kitchen table, puts it into the fire tongs, and transfers it into Mr. Diggory's mouth.
"Fanks," he says in a muffled voice, and then, with a small pop, vanishes.
I can hear Mr. Weasley calling hurried good-byes to Bill, Charlie, Percy, and us girls.
"I'd better hurry — you have a good term, boys," says Mr. Weasley to Harry, Ron, Luka, and the twins, fastening a cloak over his shoulders and preparing to Disapparate. "Molly, are you going to be all right taking the kids to King's Cross?"
"Of course I will," she says. "You just look after Mad-Eye, we'll be fine." As Mr. Weasley vanishes, Bill and Charlie enter the kitchen.
"Did someone say Mad-Eye?" Bill asks. "What's he been up to now?" So they all know Mad-Eye. Luka and I have only met him a few times when we were out with Kingsley. He was always talking about how my brother and I needed to practice 'Constant Vigilance' and protect ourselves from the danger following us. I guess the crazy man was right after all.
"He says someone tried to break into his house last night," says Mrs. Weasley.
"Mad-Eye Moody?" says George thoughtfully, spreading marmalade on his toast. "Isn't he that nutter —"
I bite into my toast and then eat some of the eggs on my plate. "Your father thinks very highly of Mad-Eye Moody," says Mrs. Weasley sternly.
"Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn't he?" says Fred quietly as Mrs. Weasley leaves the room. They're really trying to push their luck here. "Birds of a feather . . ."
"Moody was a great wizard in his time," says Bill.
"He's an old friend of Dumbledore's, isn't he?" says Charlie.
"Dumbledore's not what you'd call normal, though, is he?" points out Fred. "I mean, I know he's a genius and everything . . ."
"Who is Mad-Eye?" asks Harry.
"He's retired, used to work at the Ministry," says Charlie. "I met him once when Dad took me in to work with him. He was an Auror — one of the best . . . a Dark wizard catcher," he adds, seeing Harry's blank look. "Half the cells in Azkaban are full because of him. He made himself loads of enemies, though . . . the families of people he caught, mainly . . . and I heard he's been getting really paranoid in his old age. Doesn't trust anyone anymore. Sees Dark wizards everywhere."
Bill and Charlie decide to come and see everyone off at King's Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most profusely, said that he really needs to get to work.
"I just can't justify taking more time off at the moment," he tells us. "Mr. Crouch is really starting to rely on me."
Not that I'm really heartbroken about that fact that he won't be there to see us off or anything. I'm actually quite happy about the turn of events.
"Yeah, you know what, Percy?" says George seriously. "I reckon he'll know your name soon."
Mrs. Weasley has braved the telephone in the village post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take us into London.
"Arthur tried to borrow Ministry cars for us," Mrs. Weasley whispers to me as we stand in the rain-washed yard, watching the taxi drivers heaving eight heavy Hogwarts trunks into their cars. "But there weren't any to spare. . . . Oh dear, they don't look happy, do they?"
I don't think to tell Mrs. Weasley that Muggle taxi drivers rarely transport overexcited owls, and Pigwidgeon is making an earsplitting racket. Nor does it help that a number of Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks go off unexpectedly when Fred's trunk springs open, causing the driver carrying it to yell with fright and pain as Crookshanks claws his way up the man's leg.
The journey is uncomfortable, owing to the fact that we are jammed in the back of the taxis with our trunks. Crookshanks takes quite a while to recover from the fireworks, and by the time we enter London, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are all severely scratched. We are very relieved to get out at King's Cross, even though the rain is coming down harder than ever, and we get soaked carrying our trunks across the busy road and into the station.
Anything is better than that bloody taxi though. Never riding in one of those again unless my life depends on it. I'll take Fluffy the demon hound any day thank you very much.
When we get to the divider that gets us onto the platform Harry, Hermione, Ron, and I go first since we have Crookshanks, Hedwig, Pig, and Dionysus. We slide through the barrier chatting to each other and find ourselves on the other side of the barrier on platform 9 and 3/4.
The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam engine, is already there, clouds of steam billowing from it, through which the many Hogwarts students and parents on the platform appear like dark ghosts. Pigwidgeon becomes noisier than ever in response to the hooting of many owls through the mist. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I set off to find seats, and are soon stowing our luggage in a compartment halfway along the train. We then hop back down onto the platform to say good-bye to Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie.
Mrs. Weasley wraps Luka and I up in big tight hugs with kisses to each of our cheeks, which makes us blush. "Have a good year you two. If you need anything at all we're only an owl away. Write lots and, learn much, and have fun." She tells us tears beginning to well up in our eyes.
"We will Mrs. Weasley." Luka promises her giving her a smile. I nod my head in confirmation of his statement.
"Don't worry I'll keep him in line." I say, and the three of us break out into laughter at the absurdity of that thought. I wander back over to the rest of the group.
"I might be seeing you all sooner than you think," says Charlie, grinning, as he hugs Ginny good-bye.
"Why?" asks Fred keenly.
"You'll see," says Charlie. "Just don't tell Percy I mentioned it . . . it's 'classified information, until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,' after all."
"Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Hogwarts this year," says Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost wistfully at the train.
"Why?" I ask starting to get annoyed.
"You're going to have an interesting year," says Bill, his eyes twinkling. "I might even get time off to come and watch a bit of it. . . ."
"A bit of what?" asks Ron. But at that moment, the whistle blows, and Mrs. Weasley chivvies us towards the train doors.
"Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley," says Hermione as we climb on board, close the door, and lean out of the window to talk to her.
"Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Weasley," says Harry.
"Oh it was my pleasure, dears," says Mrs. Weasley. "I'd invite you for Christmas, but . . . well, I expect you're all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what with . . . one thing and another."
"Mum!" says Ron irritably. "What d'you three know that we don't?"
"You'll find out this evening, I expect," says Mrs. Weasley, smiling. "It's going to be very exciting — mind you, I'm very glad they've changed the rules —"
"What rules?" ask Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and I together.
"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you. . . . Now, behave, won't you? Won't you, Fred? And you, George?" The pistons hiss loudly and the train begins to move.
"Tell us what's happening at Hogwarts!" Fred bellows out of the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie speed away from us. "What rules are they changing?"
But Mrs. Weasley only smiles and waves. Before the train has rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie have Disapparated.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I go back to our compartment. The thick rain splattering the windows make it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undoes his trunk, pulls out his maroon dress robes, and flings them over Pigwidgeon's cage to muffle his hooting. I got over to them and examine the frilly lace on the edges.
"Don't you dare!" Ron growls at me, but it's too late. The laugh erupts from my belly and soon I'm on the ground gasping for air picturing Ron wearing those robes.
"You— you— ahahahahaha! Oh Merlin— that's…" I sputter before bursting into more laughter.
"Shut it! Argh! You're such a pain Jamie." Ron snarls throwing another of his robes at me. I catch it and grin at him evily.
"You'll be the prettiest boy there Ronald." I assure him, only to catch a shoe being thrown at my head. Ron glares at me one last time before turning back to Harry.
"Bagman wanted to tell us what's happening at Hogwarts," he says grumpily, sitting down next to Harry. "At the World Cup, remember? But my own mother won't say. Wonder what —"
"Shh!" Hermione whispers suddenly, pressing her finger to her lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs. I get up from the ground and slide onto the bench next to her. Harry, Ron, and I listen, and hear a familiar drawling voice drifting in through the open door. That weasel.
". . . Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore — the man's such a Mudblood-lover — and Durmstrang doesn't admit that sort of riffraff. But Mother didn't like the idea of me going to school so far away. Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defense rubbish we do. . . ."
Hermione gets up, tiptoes to the compartment door, and slides it shut, blocking out Malfoy's voice. That's good I don't want to get a headache before I even get back to school yet.
"So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?" she says angrily. "I wish he had gone, then we wouldn't have to put up with him." I grimace and shake my head.
"Imagine Malfoy learning the Dark Arts. That'd be more dangerous than being in school now.
"Durmstrang's another Wizarding school?" asks Harry.
"Yes," I say explaining, "and it's got a horrible reputation. According to An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, it puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts."
"I think I've heard of it," says Ron vaguely. "Where is it? What country?"
"Well, nobody knows, do they?" says Hermione, raising her eyebrows.
"Er — why not?" says Harry.
"There's traditionally been a lot of rivalry between all the magic schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal their secrets," explains Hermione matter-of-factly.
"Come off it," says Ron, starting to laugh. "Durmstrang's got to be about the same size as Hogwarts — how are you going to hide a great big castle?"
"But Hogwarts is hidden," says Hermione, in surprise. "Everyone knows that . . . well, everyone who's read Hogwarts: A History, anyway."
"Just you, then," says Ron. "So go on — how d'you hide a place like Hogwarts?"
"It's bewitched," I say jumping into the conversation. "If a Muggle looks at it, all they see is a moldering old ruin with a sign over the entrance saying DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, UNSAFE."
"So Durmstrang'll just look like a ruin to an outsider too?" Ron asks.
"Maybe," says Hermione, shrugging, "or it might have Muggle-repelling charms on it, like the World Cup stadium. And to keep foreign wizards from finding it, they'll have made it Unplottable —"
"Come again?"
"Well, you can enchant a building so it's impossible to plot on a map, can't you?"
"Er . . . if you say so," says Harry.
"But I think Durmstrang must be somewhere in the far north," says Hermione thoughtfully. "Somewhere very cold, because they've got fur capes as part of their uniforms."
"Ah, think of the possibilities," says Ron dreamily. "It would've been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier and make it look like an accident. . . . Shame his mother likes him. . . ."
I snort and nod in agreement to that statement. The rain becomes heavier and heavier as the train moves farther north. The sky is so dark and the windows so steamy that the lanterns are lit by midday. The lunch trolley comes rattling along the corridor, and Harry buys a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for us to share.
I feel bad that he always buys me stuff but Harry won't hear a word of it. I'm rich as well but I can't access most of my money until I come of age along with Luka, and then I only have half.
Several of our friends look in on us as the afternoon progresses, including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, extremely forgetful boy who has been brought up by his formidable witch of a grandmother. Seamus is still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its magic seems to be wearing off now; it is still squeaking "Troy — Mullet — Moran!" but in a very feeble and exhausted sort of way. After half an hour or so, Hermione, growing tired of the endless Quidditch talk, buries herself once more in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and starts trying to learn a Summoning Charm.
Neville listens jealously to the others' conversation as we relive the Cup match.
"Gran didn't want to go," he says miserably. "Wouldn't buy tickets. It sounds amazing though."
"Its okay Neville there's always next time." I tell him patting him on the shoulder.
"It was," says Ron. "Look at this, Neville. . . ." He rummages in his trunk up in the luggage rack and pulls out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum. Oh how I wish to squash that figure by now. All he ever does is fawn over it.
"Oh wow," says Neville enviously as Ron tips Krum onto his pudgy hand.
"We saw him right up close, as well," brags Ron. "We were in the Top Box —"
"For the first and last time in your life, Weasley."
Draco Malfoy has appeared in the doorway. Behind him stand Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish cronies, both of whom appear to have grown at least a foot during the summer. Evidently they have overheard the conversation through the compartment door, which Dean and Seamus have left ajar.
"Don't remember asking you to join us, Malfoy," says Harry coolly.
"This is a strict no smarmy weasel zone Malfoy." I tell him glaring harshly at him.
"Weasley . . . what is that?" says Malfoy, pointing at Pigwidgeon's cage. A sleeve of Ron's dress robes is dangling from it, swaying with the motion of the train, the moldy lace cuff very obvious.
Ron makes to stuff the robes out of sight, but Malfoy is too quick for him; he seizes the sleeve and pulls.
"Look at this!" says Malfoy in ecstasy, holding up Ron's robes and showing Crabbe and Goyle, "Weasley, you weren't thinking of wearing these, were you? I mean — they were very fashionable in about 1890. . . ."
"Eat dung, Malfoy!" says Ron, the same color as the dress robes as he snatches them back out of Malfoy's grip. Malfoy howls with derisive laughter; Crabbe and Goyle guffawed stupidly. No one is allowed to make fun of my friend like that only me.
"Platinum blond hair went out of style years ago Malfoy, too bad Mummy didn't tell you." I growl. Malfoy ignores me though and focuses on Ron.
"So . . . going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring a bit of glory to the family name? There's money involved as well, you know . . . you'd be able to afford some decent robes if you won. . . ."
"What are you talking about?" snaps Ron.
"Are you going to enter?" Malfoy repeats. "I suppose you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?"
"Either explain what you're on about or go away, Malfoy," says Hermione testily, over the top of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4. A gleeful smile spreads across Malfoy's pale face.
"Don't tell me you don't know?" he says delightedly. "You've got a father and brother at the Ministry and you don't even know? My God, my father told me about it ages ago . . . heard it from Cornelius Fudge. But then, Father's always associated with the top people at the Ministry. . . . Maybe your father's too junior to know about it, Weasley . . . yes . . . they probably don't talk about important stuff in front of him. . . ."
Okay he's going to get hit. He's not going to talk about a man that took my brother and me into his home out of the good of his heart like that.
Laughing once more, Malfoy beckons to Crabbe and Goyle, and the three of them disappear.
Ron gets to his feet and slams the sliding compartment door so hard behind them that the glass shatters. I jump at the abrupt noise.
"Ron!" says Hermione reproachfully, and she pulls out her wand, muttering "Reparo!" and the glass shards fly back into a single pane and back into the door.
"Well . . . making it look like he knows everything and we don't. . . ." Ron snarls. "'Father's always associated with the top people at the Ministry.' . . . Dad could've got a promotion any time . . . he just likes it where he is. . . ."
"Of course he does," I say quietly. "Don't let Malfoy get to you, Ron —"
"Him! Get to me!? As if!" says Ron, picking up one of the remaining Cauldron Cakes and squashing it into a pulp.
Ron's bad mood continues for the rest of the journey. He doesn't talk much as we change into our school robes, and is still glowering when the Hogwarts Express slows down at last and finally stops in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station.
As the train doors open, there is a rumble of thunder overhead. Hermione bundles up Crookshanks in her cloak and Ron leaves his dress robes over Pigwidgeon as we leave the train, heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain is now coming down so thick and fast that it is as though buckets of ice-cold water is being emptied repeatedly over our heads.
"Hi, Hagrid!" Harry yells, seeing a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform.
"All righ', Harry?" Hagrid bellows back, waving. "See yeh at the feast if we don' drown!"
First years traditionally reach Hogwarts Castle by sailing across the lake with Hagrid.
"Oooh, I wouldn't fancy crossing the lake in this weather," says Hermione fervently, shivering as we inch slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stand waiting for us outside the station. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and I climb gratefully into one of them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages is rumbling and splashing its way up the track towards Hogwarts Castle.
Well at least this year is going to be interesting to say the least. But all I really want at the moment is to be warm, dry, and have a nice full stomach.