A/N: I've read a number of stories where the Weasleys' shop's door makes a noise similar to certain functions of the human body. I think one story that comes immediately to mind is Burning Down the House by little0bird. That's where the inspiration for the doorbell comes from. And I do believe the Salem Institute for Witches was mentioned in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire; a very similar institution is featured in JJ Rust's Air of Disharmony. I highly recommend both stories; they're in my favorites.

Rated T for strong language. I own nothing. Stella8h8chang — a big thank you for your revisions and reassurances.


Chapter 6: Waiting in the Wings

Daphne stood behind the counter of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes' shop, tapping her fingers on the thick grain of wood.

Tapping away.

Tapping away.

Tapping away.

Daphne sighed. "Bored now."

"How can you be bored, Greengrass?" Fred asked, as he was lifting a couple of boxes of Farting Fruit Jellies, a rather new Wheeze that she had had the tremendous displeasure of testing out, unwittingly of course, as Fred and George had slipped it into her pudding a week ago.

It had worked spectacularly well . . . or had been horribly mortifying, depending on whether one spoke to the twins or to Daphne.

"There's nothing to bloody do!" She turned around, leaned on the counter and folded her arms in exasperation.

"Greengrass, d'ya know what your problem is?" George piped up, standing next to his brother.

"No, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Your problem is that you've got nothing going on up here," Fred said, pointing to her head. She glowered at him.

"Are you saying I'm thick?"

"Oh, Daphne! We don't think that at all!" George said, slapping her on the back. Jumping up a tiny bit in the air, she glared at the twins. George continued with his pointless blather. "What we mean is that you don't have the entrepreneurial spirit lodged within ya."

"You use your head for books and school, but with things like running a business—"

"The tank's all full, but the Grindylows're dead, right Fred?"

"Couldn't have said it better myself!"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "I don't want to spend my future days running a shop where the best-selling item is a sweet the side effect of which is making one vomit, piss and poop all at the same time." She walked around the counter. "I'll think of better ways to put my brilliant mind to use."

"No imagination on this one, Fred!"

"She is the graveyard where the funny goes to die."

"Oh sod off!"

The sound of their front doorbell, which sounded remarkably like someone passing gas, alerted them to a potential customer.

Fred, George and Daphne turned to look at who had just entered the shop. They paled considerably as they saw a tall, hooded figure glide toward them, their face obscured in the shadow of their cloak.

Fred and George stepped forward, hands twitching on their wands.

"Welcome, stranger," Fred said in a strong, almost threatening voice. "Have a look around."

George continued in a commanding tone. "We're nothing but a mere joke and prank shop in Diagon—"

He stopped talking as the cloaked figure reached up and touched their hood. In one, quick motion, they pushed their hood down and revealed their face—

Daphne gasped.

"You!" Fred and George said in unison.

Daphne's mouth fell open.

(Him!)

Michael Corner raised one eyebrow. "Er . . . hello?"

Fred walked over with narrowed, suspicious eyes. He poked Michael in the chest with his wand. "You're that shady git who dated Ginny all of fifth year."

"Um . . . oh, erm," Michael stammered. "W-well, I'm not with her anymore."

George nodded, looking at the Ravenclaw with eyes just as mistrustful as his brother's. "Yeah! We heard you were a right shit toward her—"

"Mess with our sister, Corner, and you'll find a Wheeze stuck so far up your arse that your intestines will be the only part of you that's highly amused."

Daphne tsked at the twins. "Shut up, you two!" She pushed past them to get to Michael.

She stopped in front of him and took a good long look at his face. It had been over a couple of weeks since she had had any contact with him.

(He's as adorably goofy as ever, huh, Greengrass?)

She took a breath. "What Beatles' song did I tell you that Sir Paul should ram a sword through your head because you didn't 'understand' it?"

Michael chuckled and he pushed some of his shaggy locks behind his right ear. "That would be 'A Day in the Life', my fair Miss Greengrass." He looked at her for a long time. "Which classroom did Ernie Macmillian catch us in back in January?" Just over her right shoulder, Daphne heard Fred and George feigning gagging and retching sounds in response to his question. She smirked.

"First floor. Muggle Studies." Her grin blossomed into a smile. "That was a lot of fun. Before that little butt-wad Macmillian interrupted us."

He laughed heartily. "Godric, I've missed you."

(So've I.)

Daphne couldn't stop smiling, and what was worse, she was letting him see it.

"So, you're a working girl now, eh?"

"Hey! I'm 'gainfully employed' Corner." She swatted at him, and walked back towards the counter. "I'm taking a fiver!" she yelled out to the twins.

"When are you not, Greengrass?" came Fred's snarky reply. Daphne rolled her eyes at him.

She gestured Michael to follow her into the back. Sitting down at the shop's worktable, she motioned for him to take a seat in front of her. "How'ja know to find me?"

Michael grinned. "Ron and Ginny owled me about two days after you moved in with them." He winced slightly. "I would've owled you sooner, but they said that it's no use sending letters to the Burrow right now."

"Oh, yeah," Daphne responded with a nod. Arthur Weasley had told Daphne during her first day at the Burrow that all correspondence, packages, or other deliveries addressed to the house would be routed to the Ministry for the time being, due to security concerns for the family.

"I would've tried to come up here sooner too," he said, grimacing, "but it's been a bit crazy."

Daphne raised her brow and nodded in agreement.

"Plus," Michael continued in a careful voice, "I wasn't sure if you wanted to hear from me." He looked at her. "I'm really sorry about that. Apparently, I'm an avoider. When things get tough, I avoid." He grinned awkwardly, his face falling almost immediately after he said it. There was a moment of silence between them, broken only by Daphne clearing her throat.

"Well, as you know, I am bloody perfect, and I never avoid anything," she said, "so I'll forgive you, but don't let it happen again." Daphne winked, and her expression softened into a warm smile and gentle eyes. "I've missed you too, Michael." She bit her lip. "You're doing all right?"

He pulled his lips in and screwed up the right side of his face. "My mum and dad are going a bit insane with current events and happenings in the wizarding world." He stopped talking for a moment and fiddled with his cloak. "They want to see about us moving to America."

(What?!)

(No!)

"Er . . . Am- . . . Amer-rica?!" She could barely get the word out.

Michael nodded. "Mum and Dad are convinced that the war hasn't reached overseas yet. We have an uncle who's a Squib that lives in Massachusetts with his wife, who's an instructor at the Salem Institute for Witches." His brow darkened. "I don't want to go at all, Daphne. I mean, I'm of age, anyway," he said, shrugging. "I owled Tony, and—"

"Tony?"

"Anthony Goldstein."

Daphne nodded; unfortunately, "Tony" Goldstein hadn't warmed up to her last year when she and Michael had started seeing each other. However, the relationship had ended in February, and was currently in this flirtatious "holding pattern". Daphne was fairly certain that Anthony Goldstein hated her guts; she had been the one to pretty much "muck up" the whole thing.

"He's pure-blood?"

Michael shook his head. "No, but whatever Muggle-born relations Tony may have in his family tree, they're more concealed than mine, or Terry's. Terry's dad's Muggle-born, and my mum is too. I can stay with the Goldsteins if I need to. Same goes for Terry—"

"Ah-. . . are they gonna come after your family?" Daphne asked, a note of desperate worry creeping into her voice.

He looked at her and, again, shook his head. "I wish I knew. It's starting to get bad out there." He nodded toward the distance. "You heard about the 'mysterious' fires and gas leaks along Charing Cross and Tottenham Court Roads? Those districts are really close to Diagon Alley, but they hit Muggle businesses. Those weren't accidents, Daphne."

She nodded. She had already heard about those attacks; the day that they had happened, the Burrow had been thrown into a frenzy of activity.

"It's not just there, either." Michael said, cringing. "There were a couple of house fires that the authorities couldn't explain what caused 'em. And there've been a few unexplained deaths that left the authorities completely astounded. There were no signs of firearms or weapons or toxins used to kill those families."

"The Killing Curse?" Daphne asked, although it came out more as a statement.

He nodded. "Mum and Dad are worried, y'know."

"Well, of course they are. You're their only son." Daphne reached over and cupped his cheek. "If they weren't worried, they wouldn't be good parents to you."

"I don't want to leave," Michael said, a note of defiance creeping into his voice. "I-I want to do something. Fight, y'know? If it came to it."

Daphne felt her heart leap into her throat; briefly, an image of Michael Corner, lying prone and covered in blood flashed through her mind and she felt her breath hitch and her stomach churn with nausea.

"Y-you'd fight? I thought you were an avoider?" She threw back his own words to his face; maybe if he remembered what he said, he would decide he shouldn't be anywhere near the war.

Michael blushed. "Yeah, well, I'm trying to change that. I don't want to be the bloke who runs away when the going gets tough. I'm learning that not everything's easy, but if you believe in something hard enough, or if you want something strongly enough, you'll do what you need to do and you won't run away from it." He gazed at Daphne in a very meaningful manner. She could barely stop herself from swooning.

An odd, but content expression passed over his face, and Michael reached up with one hand and took hold of Daphne's, which was still cupping his cheek. His thumb rubbed across her knuckles and she felt a tingle run up and down her arm.

"You're worried about me?" he asked, with a grin and raised eyebrow.

Daphne could only look at him, her mouth gaping and her brain stumbling through some sort of response. "I don't want you t-to . . ."

"To what?"

A small grunt escaped her nose and Daphne could only continue to look at him. "T-to . . . I don't want . . ." She looked down, shaking her head, trying to clear it.

Michael brought his hand up to touch her chin and her eyes were instantly drawn back to him. He leaned forward, gently kissing her on her lips. A small kiss, indeed, but it was all the contact with him that she needed to feel electric shocks course through her body, like she was shaking and on fire simultaneously.

Their eyes met again, and Daphne watched Michael's face go from happy to something inscrutable, some unknowable emotion that made him look upon her like she was the only thing on the planet worth staring at.

"Daphne, we didn't get a chance to talk after Dumbledore, well . . . y'know," Michael started, and her eyes shifted to the ground. "And—"

She looked back up at him.

"And we never got the chance to talk about us."

Daphne felt her mouth twitch upward. "We should talk, shouldn't we?"

He nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact with her. "We should . . ."

"Oi! Greengrass!" came the dulcet tones of George and Fred as the shouted at her in unison.

Michael chuckled and bowed his head as Daphne growled in response. "What?!"

"You asked for a fiver, and you took a twenty. It's back to the grindstone!" Fred sniggered.

"And no time for kissy-kissy with the prat!" George hollered.

"Merlin's nut-sack! They're obnoxious," Daphne muttered. She looked at Michael and he smirked at her.

"I should be going anyway, Daphne."

(You can't just let him leave!)

(Tell him!)

(Dammit you stupid, cowardly bint! Show him!)

Michael got up and walked back out to the shop, Fred and George glaring at him as he made his way to the front door. He turned back to Daphne and gave her a wink just before he pulled his hood back over his head.

(Now's your chance.)

(Grand gesture, Greengrass. Grand-effin'-gesture!)

"Be careful out there, Michael."

"Careful," he said as he leaned over, "is my middle name, fair Greengrass." He smiled, winked and opened the door—

(Do it . . .)

(NOW!)

And Michael stopped as Daphne jumped up and threw herself at him, hugging him with an uncharacteristically violent force that she didn't know was possible.

He laughed as he embraced her. "I guess this means you kind of like me?"

"Just . . ." Daphne's voice halted as she buried her head in his shoulder. She felt his arms tighten around her middle, keeping her propped up against him. "Don't let anything happen to you."

She lifted her head and looked at Michael. He leaned his head forwards, and kissed her, gently and sweetly, on her lips.

"Get back to work, okay?" he whispered against her mouth. Daphne nodded and she let him lower her back down to the ground.

Smiling and bringing up his hood to cover his head, Michael Corner turned and walked outside the shop.

Daphne let the door shut behind him. She pressed her face against the door, when suddenly, she heard—

"Oh my Mikey!" Fred said in a whispery, high-pitched and sappy voice, as he leaned in toward George, his hands clasped in front of his chest, "My love for tall, dark and dorky gits knows no bounds!"

"My sweet, snakey skrewt!" George's spoke in an exaggeratedly deep voice. "I've finally found someone who can appreciate my moody and grumpy arse—"

"Only because I'm as moody and grumpy as you, my sexy eagle—"

"Piss! Off!" Daphne said, her voice and face full of fury. The twins simply kept laughing at her and mocking her and Michael, making a ludicrous amount of kissing noises any time she'd pass by them.


Ginny folded and re-folded the white cloths again . . . and again. She looked at the stacks she had made, one for each pair of fliers and Harry Potters, seven in total. Each stack had twenty rags. It had taken her mum the better part of a week — not to mention she and Fleur sacrificing time they would've normally spent planning the wedding — to gather enough cloth, healing potions, salves, and blood replenishing ointments for the mission.

The mission.

The one where three-quarters of her family were risking their lives in order to save Harry.

(Risking their lives.)

(Risking his life.)

Ginny closed her eyes and took two deep breaths.

(Dammit! Pull yourself together!)

(Mum needs you. They all need you.)

Rubbing her forehead, Ginny fell into one of the chairs at the head of the table. She bit the inside of her cheek; just a small jolt of pain was enough to stem the tide of tears that were threatening to fall.

(Stop it!)

Ginny quickly wiped at her eyes—

"Dear?"

Ginny felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw her mum, gazing at her with an abundance of warmth and tenderness. She smiled, despite feeling like her guts were about to fall out of her body, feeling that if she didn't see all of her family and friends at the Burrow by the end of the night, safe and sound, she would absolutely lose it.

"M-Mum."

Molly Weasley placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of her daughter. She also had a small plate filled with chocolate, broken into small, bite-sized sections.

Ginny took a good look at her mum. She noticed that her mum seemed smaller than she could ever remember her being. Her mum's auburn hair, too, was creased and streaked with more grey than before. With a start, she realized that her mum was aging, that her face was lined and creased, particularly on her forehead and around her eyes. She looked drawn and pale and tired.

Molly brought the family clock over to the table, and Levitated it just next to the groups of towels, so that it hovered right above the table's surface. Looking at the hands with the pictures of Ron, Fred, George, Bill and her dad, Ginny saw that all of them were still pointed at "Away".

Which meant they hadn't left Privet Drive yet.

Molly took a seat next to her daughter and broke off a square of chocolate. "It will be some time still, Ginny." She reached up and gently patted the top of her daughter's head. "We're prepared on our end for anything—"

Ginny swallowed, pushing down a thick lump that had caught in her throat. "Wh-where's Daphne?"

"Upstairs in the bath. She," Molly said, pausing for a moment, "I believe she needed a moment to get her head on straight."

Ginny nodded — and then she just started talking. "Mum, do you have faith nothing's going to happen tonight? Do you think that they'll all come back, safe and sound, that we'll have all our family back, our friends back, that Harry--" Ginny's head fell forward and she rubbed her eyes.

"Oh, my girl. My darling, baby girl."

Ginny looked up. Her mum looked at her with a mix of affection and empathy; she knew, and when the older woman smiled, she felt herself grow warm inside.

Ginny marveled at how, even when her mum, old with stress and worry and fear for her entire family, that her mum could manage to comfort her youngest child with a mere smile.

Molly grasped her hand. "I do have faith. But, I'm not going to lie to you."

Ginny swallowed; the lump was back in her throat as her mum spoke.

"There are many things that you will see, that you will encounter that you should never know." Molly shook her head and touched Ginny's cheek with the palm of her hand. "To be so young and to grow up in a war . . . to see your family and your friends so willing to give up th-their l-lives . . ." Molly's voice hitched and she stifled a small sob. Composing herself, she continued. "I wish you didn't have to know these things, but — I swear to you — I believe that we are all going to make it out of this. Together. As a family."

Molly grasped her daughter's trembling chin. Ginny met her mum's eyes; she knew her own were just as wet. But all she could do was nod and set her mouth in a determined line.

Molly allowed a similarly determined smile to appear on her face.

At the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, both Weasley women turned to see Daphne Greengrass approaching them, her wet hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

"Any word?"

Molly shook her head and patted at the chair on the other side of her. "Come sit and have some chocolate, Daphne."

She complied, and she munched on and drank chocolate along with the two Weasley women. The three of them sat in silence, eyes fixed on the Weasley family clock, with five hands resolutely pointing to "Away".

"We should've had a hand made for Fleur."

Ginny and Daphne both looked at Molly, who spoke as she faced the clock.

"We should have a hand for Harry and Hermione too. We can't, of course — unless they're blood relations, or . . . or—"

They lapsed into silence . . .

Watching the clock . . .

Waiting . . .

Watching . . .

Waiting . . .

Instantaneously, the five hands flipped to "Traveling".

They let out a cheer.

"Oh, thank Merlin!" Molly exclaimed, followed by a breath of pure relief.

"They'll be here within the hour—"

"Ginny, see? They'll be fine." Daphne smiled big and wide.

"Godric, I can't wait to see—"

And just as suddenly, all five hands flew to "Mortal Peril".

The click of the clock filled the empty space of Burrow's dining room; Ginny watched the color drain out of her mum's face. Daphne's voice halted in her throat, and Ginny realized that she wasn't breathing.

"Both of you — make sure none of the Blood-Replenishing Potions need mixing, or fortifying with any other potions!" Molly had already moved quickly, checking all the supplies of Skele-Gro, Strengthening Solutions, burn-healing pastes, and a new balm of concentrated Murtlap tentacles. A couple of white basins flew out of the kitchen and Molly set about casting Aguamenti to fill them with water.

The women all had one eye on the medicinal supplies and one eye on the clock. After a few minutes, they realized that they were as prepared with the ointments and solutions as they could reasonably be, and they turned their full attention to the clock. To the hands.

The hands that hadn't moved from "Mortal Peril" in the last ten minutes . . . eleven minutes . . . thirteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

They each held their breaths . . . watching . . . waiting. . . .

"How will the clock know that they aren't in 'Mortal Peril' anymore?"

Molly answered Daphne in a quiet voice but kept her brown eyes trained on the family heirloom. "The clock only moves the hands when the person has changed location or situation. It is instantaneous. If they were only traveling, their hands would have remained on 'Traveling'." Her voice quickened, but her eyes never wavered. "'M-mortal Peril' is given priority; they can still be in the process of traveling, but, if they're under a-attack, then the clock immediately clicks to . . ."

Molly's voice trailed off, and Ginny chanced a glimpse at her mum's face. She stood, her eyes fixed on the clock; her mouth was firmly set. For the first time, Ginny could see lines creasing her mum's chin—

"Ginny, do you remember the order of the Portkeys?"

Startled from her silent observation of her mum's face, she stammered out an answer to Molly's inquiry, "F-first, R-ron and Tonks . . . oil can. Dad and Fred, with the old sneaker. Harry and Hagrid are third—"

"Hairbrush," Daphne said, almost inaudibly. Ginny turned around to face her and Daphne continued talking. "George and Lupin are after them with the boot."

Ginny nodded. "Hermione and Kingsley Shacklebolt, with a coat hanger, right?"

Daphne concurred. "And Bill and Fleur . . . they're using a hat, I think."

"Right," Ginny said.

"What about Mad-Eye and Mundungus Fletcher?" Daphne asked.

"I thought they were using a . . . a tin can?"

"Yes, Ginny, that's right." Molly kept staring at the clock. Even in the five . . . seven . . . oh, Ginny had no idea . . . however many minutes that that conversation had taken up, the blasted hands didn't move.

They seemed impossibly frozen on "Mortal Peril".

Molly then chanced a glance at a pocketwatch that Arthur had given her to keep time. "We should be expecting the first portkey in ten minutes."

"Why aren't they changing?" Daphne asked breathlessly.

"Don't know." Ginny answered.

"The Portkeys will be arriving in the yard; we should be out there when they get here . . ."

"Mrs. Weasley," Daphne started.

"Daphne, please . . . call me Molly." She spoke without ever taking her eyes off of her family's hands.

"M-Molly, would the hands still be on, er- . . . would the hands not move to a different location until they started traveling back? C-could they be in . . . in trouble while traveling by Portkey?"

Molly shook her head. "As soon as they are traveling away from . . . from," Molly gestured at the clock, "as soon as they touch the Portkey, the hands'll shift—"

A bright blue light shone in the Burrows yard.

Molly, running faster than Ginny could ever remember, burst through the front door. She was the first outside, followed by her daughter, and then by Daphne.

They stopped and stood above the rusty oil can.

Molly let out a gasp. "B-but where are they?" She brought a hand to her mouth, which Ginny could see was shaking in the dark. "Wh-where's my son? Where's Tonks?"

Ginny took hold of her mum, trying to comfort her while her own stomach felt like lurching out of her body.

Daphne ran up next to Ginny, and leaned toward her. "There's no change in the clock," she whispered. "Does that mean—?"

Ginny looked at the Slytherin girl and shrugged. She had no idea of how to respond . . . and saying anything at this point would cause her to lose it.

Molly pulled herself together and looked out into the woods beyond the Burrow's grouds. The three let the quiet wash over them and Ginny could almost feel the pleas, the silent entreaties from both her mum and Daphne, reaching into her own mind . . . giving strength to her own desire for safe returns—

Another blue light appeared—

"No!" Molly exclaimed.

"Dammit!" Daphne swore.

Ginny let out a sob.

Neither Fred nor her father had returned with the Portkey.

Ginny continued to stand with her mum as Daphne disappeared back into the house. "No change?" Ginny asked when Daphne returned. Daphne shook her head.

(This is taking too long. This is taking way too long.)

(Dammit!)

Molly put her hand on Ginny's forearm and gave her a firm, but comforting squeeze.

Ten minutes passed . . .

Fifteen . . .

Seventeen minutes and thirty-five seconds . . .

Nineteen and twenty-two seconds . . .

Another blue light appeared, and there was a sharp intake of breath . . .

But this time, a huge figure and a much smaller body slammed onto the ground in front of Ginny's eyes . . .

(Hagrid . . .)

(Harry!)

(Oh GodricGodricGodricGodric!)

With a yelp, her mum was the first to reach him.

"He's all right, Ginny," Daphne said, a hand on her shoulder. "He's standing. He's walking. Your mum's not moving to get any potion for him . . ."

(She's right. Daphne's right.)

(Calm down.)

Ginny saw Harry and her mum talking. Harry pleaded with Molly to believe him about something, she knew not what. Her mum hugged Harry desperately, and turned to head back toward the house. Hagrid followed Molly back to the house, but her mum continued to hold her pale face in her hands and she could see her shoulders shake—

And as she turned her eyes forward, Ginny saw Harry Potter; they stood face-to-face for the first time since Dumbledore's funeral.

"I'll, er- . . . just make myself scarce . . ." Daphne mumbled and walked off, pointing to some unknown point near the house.

Which left Harry and Ginny by themselves, waiting for the rest to appear.