Thanks to csilla (Guest) for reviewing the last chapter!

I didn't see our return to the Burrow so much as I felt it.

After the portkey disengaged, I hit the ground hard, bounced a little, and rolled to stop. I was quite content to lay there for a moment; no one was trying to kill me at the moment, so life was good.

"Orissa, wake up!" A worried voice calls. "Orissa? Are you dead?"

"Bugger off," I groan. Blinking my eyes open, I watch one of the twins' faces come into focus - George, who had a thin scar on his temple that he would never explain to me.

"Morning," he chirps cheerfully. "You okay, mate?"

"I'm fine," I wave him off, pushing myself up off the ground and brushing the dirt off my clothes. "I do want a shower, though. And tea."

"I'm sure Mum would be happy to oblige," he laughs. "Once you get checked over for injuries, that is."

I chuckle in agreement as we head back to the house, retracing the path that thirteen sleepy people had taken the morning before. The Diggorys hadn't returned with us, and I just hoped that they returned at some point.

I take a deep breath through my nose. I loved the smell or early mornings, even if I wasn't a morning person; the dew smelled fresh and clean, and the stars glittered like diamonds. Looking up, I spotted one star in particular: the North Star. Also known as Sirius, the Dog Star.

It had lent its name to Sirius Black – not my dad, but Sirius Black the First, who was born in 1845. His nephew was Sirius Black II, and his great-grandson was my dad, making Sirius II my great-grandfather, and Sirius the First my great-great-

"Blackie?" George asks. "What're you thinking about?"

"Family relations," I explain. "It's giving me a headache."

"Oh. Do you randomly walk around thinking about your mad relatives?" he asks, and while the question might seem innocent to the untrained ear, I could hear the undertone of sarcasm in George's voice.

"No, you idiot." I roll my eyes. "I was looking at stars, which led to family members, which led to more family members…"

"…which leads to headaches," he finishes with a nod. "I know the feeling. Mum's got a boatload of cousins on the Prewitt side, and of course Dad's got a big Weasley family, complete with grandparents and great-grandparents and great-aunts and uncles." He gives me a wry half-grin, his brown eyes sparkling. "Family reunions are usually busy."

"I can imagine," I laugh, picturing the scene: red hair and freckles for miles on end. The image is wiped away as the Burrow comes into view, and I kick my pace into a brisk trot as we near the house.

Mrs. Weasley greets us at the front door. "Oh, there you all are! I heard about the attack through the Prophet…terrifying business, that is."

Once she's greeted us all with nearly suffocating hugs – and a kiss, in Mr. Weasley's case – we're all shepherded inside and into the living room.

"Everyone, head up to bed, it's late," Mrs. Weasley orders. "Hermione, Orissa, you'll be with Ginny again; Ron, you're with Harry. Everyone else, to your rooms…go on, shoo!"

Almost everyone heads for the stairs – I choose to lag behind, and a quick look around shows Harry, Hermione, and Ron doing the same.

"With all due respect, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione says softly once every else has cleared out, "I don't think we can sleep right now."

"And I want to talk about what happened at the campsite, if that's possible," I add in the same tone.

"Something wasn't right," Harry pipes up, and Ron nods.

The Weasley parents seem to hold a silent conversation, throughout which there is a pregnant pause, before Mrs. Weasley nods. "Alright, dear. You four go get changed and cleaned up, and I'll make us some tea."

I nod and quickly follow Hermione to Ginny's room, grabbing some comfortable clothes out of my trunk and heading for the bathroom, jumping through a quick yet calming shower to wash the soot, sweat, and smoke off before I get dressed and let Hermione into the bathroom, heading back to the kitchen myself to find Harry already down.

"Ron's showering," he announces to no one in particular. "He should be down in a moment."

Mrs. Weasley nods. "Please, everyone take a seat. Harry, how do you take your tea?"

"One cream, two sugars, please," Harry says as he takes a seat at the table. I order my tea with two creams and no sugar and join him, sitting just to his left.

Ron joins us next, taking his tea with one sugar and sitting just to his dad's left. Hermione is the last down, taking her tea with one cream and a seat across from Harry. Mrs. Weasley is the last to sit, her own cup of tea in hand. "We might as well get started."

"Alright," Mr. Weasley takes a deep breath before beginning. "What do you want to know first?"

"Who attacked?" I ask, leaning forward onto my elbows.

"They were dark wizards," Mr. Weasley starts hesitantly. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Specifically, followers of…You-Know-Who. They call themselves Death Eaters."

"That's a stupid name," I mutter under my breath.

"Why would anyone willingly follow him?" Ron asks incredulously.

Mr. Weasley shrugs. "Power, I suppose. When…when He rose during the First War, You-Know-Who had hundreds of followers, at the very least. They followed him either out of hunger for power, an obligation of some sort, or just plain fear."

Harry nods, taking this in. "Why did they attack?"

"There was a lot of innocent wizards and witches in one place," Mr. Weasley admits quietly. "That, and a few muggles…" He glances at Hermione, who had gone white as a sheet. "Death Eaters particularly…enjoy…going after muggles and muggle-borns."

Hermione swallows thickly and asks in a trembling voice, "Will these attacks continue? Do you know?"

"I don't," he admits softly, unconsciously reaching for his wife's hand. "The last time, they lasted for about eleven years – until, of course, he tried to kill you, Harry. But, of course, You-Know-Who is dead," Mr. Weasley continues quickly. "There shouldn't be any more attacks, not with the Death Eaters leaderless as they are."

I share a grave look with my three friends but nod, not entirely convinced but satisfied. I clear my throat. "Moving on. Who is Mr. Crouch? I don't like him."

Mr. Weasley raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. "Bartemius Crouch, Senior, has been involved in the Ministry for as long as I can remember. He was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement until 1990 when he got demoted to Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, where he's been since."

"Wait." Hermione suddenly sits upright in her chair. "If Mr. Crouch was Head of the DMLE, doesn't that mean he was in charge of trials?" Mrs. Weasley nods, and Hermione frowns before turning back to me. "'Rissa, Mr. Crouch would've been the one to sentence Si-Snuffles." If any of the adults caught her slip, they didn't comment. "He was the one that sent your father to Azkaban without a trial."

I stare at her for a moment, the words not quite sinking in. I blink a few times as their meaning becomes clear, a snarl curling my lips as my blood boils.

There's a loud bang, and I jump out of my seat as my teacup explodes, sending porcelain and lukewarm tea everywhere. "Sorry," I apologize hurriedly. "I haven't quite gotten a handle on that yet."

"That's quite alright, dear," Mrs. Weasley hums with a small smile. "It was an accident. Is anyone hurt?"

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Mr. Weasley all shake their heads as Mrs. Weasley does a quick Reparo on the cup and a Scourgify on the spilled tea, getting up to pour me a new cup. "I'm putting a Calming Draught in your cup – all of yours, actually," she adds with a flick of her wand, making the three other teacups levitate over to the kitchen. "You all need your sleep."

The four of us quietly accept our teacups back, the Draught working with the first sip. I close my eyes as the adrenaline is flushed from my system, taking with it the anger and fear that had been plaguing me.

I let out a jaw-cracking yawn, suddenly realizing that between the Cup and the subsequent attack, I hadn't slept in twenty-four hours, not including the few hours I got in the tent.

"Up to bed, all of you," I hear Mrs. Weasley order gently, and I open my eyes to see Ron, Harry, and Hermione in a similar state.

"G'night, Mum," Ron mumbles as we shuffle to our feet, trudging in a zombie-like manner either up the stairs or over to Ginny's room.

I slip into the bedroom with as little noise as possible, stumbling over to my cot and plopping down, face first and mumbling a "g'night" to Hermione.

I was asleep with seconds.

.

Thursday, August 28th – two days after the attack – found the Weasley house once again returned to its usual state of complete and utter madness; a state which, I supposed, came with having nine energetic people within one house, let alone three extra guests.

Currently, everyone was off doing various things: Mrs. Weasley had taken Bill to Diagon Alley, the former to shop for school supplies for everyone, the latter to visit Gringotts for work. Charlie had taken Ron and Harry out to the orchard for a quick game of Quidditch – although, by the looks of things, it was really just Seeker vs. Seeker with Ron as referee.

Percy had shut himself in his room; doing what, I didn't know, but he'd been in there all morning. Fred and George were also in their room, but I knew that they were planning something – if their tendencies hadn't been a dead giveaway, the occasional explosion coming from upstairs would've been. Hermione, Ginny, and I had all gathered in Ginny's room for some – and I quote – "girl time".

At the moment, I was sitting on Ginny's bed, letting the younger girl paint my toenails a deep cranberry red.

"Are you excited for school, Ginny?" Hermione asks, holding a book open with one hand while fanning the other one to dry her freshly-painted sky-blue nails.

"Yeah!" Ginny nods eagerly, not taking her attention from my foot. "I've actually got some friends this year – they're just now starting to forgive me for…you know."

"You didn't do anything wrong!" Hermione protests. "I mean, yes, your trust was a bit misplaced, but that's not a crime."

"It takes a long time for people to change, Ginger," I add gently. "Trust me. I've been in and out of the public's good graces since – since, well, I was born, I suppose, but more recently, since last September."

"I know," she sighs. "I just wish…I don't know, that they'd all come to their senses!" she lets out a frustrated noise.

I nod in silent agreement. "But not everyone hates you. Remember that. Someone once told me that 'the people that matter don't mind and the people that mind don't matter.'" I look over her head at Hermione, who grins back. "If your friends mind, tell me. They won't see the payback coming. Are you done?" I ask, glancing down at my toes.

Ginny nods and screws the cap back on the bottle of nail polish, and I awkwardly shuffle over, letting Ginny sit down next to me and letting Hermione paint her toes a light purple.

"Well, personally, I'm excited for another year," Hermione speaks up, bringing us back to the original topic.

"You don't count," I inform her with an eye-roll. "You're never not excited for school. What's your schedule this year? I just want to know if it beats last year's," I defend at her odd look.

She dramatically rolls her eyes at me. "No. I already told you, I dropped Muggle Studies and Divination last year."

"But that still leaves you with Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, and Arithmancy, which is one more than everyone else," I argue.

"Let it be, Ori," she sighs. "I'll be fine." She flicks her hand in a sharp movement, and consequently draws a line of nail polish over the side of Ginny's toe. "Aw, bugger. Ginny, I'm sorry."

Ginny waves her off with a smile and a dismissive gesture. "There's no use crying over spilled polish. I'll be right back."

She hobbles off the bathroom, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, Hermione whips around to look at me. "What do you know about Snuffles?"

Internally, my panic meter skyrockets. Externally, though, I keep my face calm and collected as I ask, "What makes you think I know anything, 'Mione?"

"You're his daughter," she challenges. "You're closer than even Harry is. You can't tell me that you haven't heard from him."

I let out a breath through my teeth, turning to look out the window at the Quidditch game and, past that, the open countryside. I imagined it stretching all the way to London, to the home no one knew I had.

"I can't tell you much," I say after a moment. "But…he's safe. In one piece. I don't think he can write much, but I think he'll try." I trail off and look at her. "Is that enough?"

"I can't ask for much more, can I?" We share a small smile at the rhetorical question. "But, for the record, I'm happy you finally found the truth last year. You deserve to know that there's someone out there."

I give her a real, blinding smile in return, my response thankfully cut off by the bedroom door opening. I look up, expecting to see Ginny but finding Mrs. Weasley instead, with shopping bags in hand.

"Good afternoon, girls," she greets, stepping aside to let Ginny back in, followed by Harry and Ron. "I have your things – one bag for each of you."

I take the bag handed to me, eagerly pulling out the items like this was Christmas. There was a copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4 by Miranda Goshawk, and a darker, thicker book I hadn't seen before, titled The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.

I put it aside for closer inspection later and grab the final item from the bag – an object about the size and shape of a brick, wrapped in butcher's paper and tied with twine. "You actually got it?" I ask Mrs. Weasley incredulously.

"I did," she nods. "Would you like me to enlarge that for you, dear?"

I nod and quickly unwrap the string and paper, setting the block on the floor and stepping back. Mrs. Weasley gives her wand a quick flick, and the box begins to grow from box-size to a hair bigger than my old trunk.

This was the new trunk I'd wanted since last September – the old one was rickety, moldy, and had the wrong initials on it.

This one was new, covered in smooth brown leather with bronze fastening and rivets. It had three compartments inside: one for clothes, one for school stuff, and one for everything else, along with smaller pockets on the inside of the lid.

Most importantly, it had the letters 'O', 'A', and 'B' branded into the center of the lid - my actual initials, on display for the world to see.

Ron lets out a low whistle as he walks around the trunk. "That's a nice one, for sure."

"I was expecting something flashier, to be honest," Harry admits.

"You wound me!" I howl dramatically, throwing an arm over my face and flopping back onto the bed. "Subtlety is my middle name."

"I thought that was Andromeda?" he replies, his face perfectly innocent.

"Or 'trouble,'" Hermione adds.

"Or 'mischief,'" Ron suggests.

"I hate all of you," I declare, snagging Ginny's pillow and flinging it at Harry, who ducks and jumps off the bed, fully prepared to start an all-out war.

Before he can, though, Mrs. Weasley freezes the pillow and levitates it towards the ceiling, out of everyone's reach. "That's enough of that."

I duck my head and glance over, expecting to see a stern look, but the Weasley matriarch is just shaking her head, amused. I suppose raising Fred and George would desensitize someone to troublemaking.

She returns the pillow to its place on the bed and pockets her wand. "Lunch will be ready at noon. Do try not to get into too much trouble before then, alright?"

I snicker as she winks at me before bustling out of the room. Hermione and I quickly set to cleaning out my old trunk and transferring the necessary items into the new one. Everything got put into three piles: stuff that was salvageable, stuff that was not, and stuff that was so moldy or broken that I didn't even know what it was.

The salvageable stuff got handed to Ginny - the third-year stuff could be used this year, and everything else could be saved for future Weasleys. The useless stuff was either thrown away or given to Ron because I had a few muggle items he couldn't get enough of. Everything else was destined for the trash.

Once we'd gotten down to the mold-encrusted bottom of the old trunk, I start packing everything on the new one.

I pick up my Defense book and give the cover a critical look. "The DADA teacher doesn't seem too bad."

"No one's gonna match up to Lupin, though," Harry comments from the bed.

"The successors can only try," I declare boldly.

"Give them a chance," Hermione sighs, packing my Charms textbook in. "You might be surprised."

I roll my eyes and silently put the Defense book in.

By the time everything was packed and the anti-theft charms activated, lunch was ready, and everyone hurried downstairs, but I hang behind for a moment.

I get down on my knees and grab one more item that had been kicked under the bed. My fingers close around something soft, and I pull out a black dog plushie, slightly worn with age.

This plushie was the only thing I had left over from before 1981 – before Dad got sent to Azkaban, before Lily and James died, before The Boy-Who-Lived was even a thing. It was clearly supposed to be Padfoot, my dad's Animagus form, although I didn't know that until last year.

And now, looking at it, I felt a pressing need to write Dad, to tell him about everything from the Quidditch World Cup to the attack, about the Dark Mark and even small things like my classes or my new trunk.

But I couldn't. Because when your father is the world's only Azkaban escapee, you don't get to enjoy the little things in life. There was a muggle saying - c'est la vie. Apparently, it was French for "such is life."

"Orissa!" Mrs. Weasley's voice calls from the kitchen. "Your food is getting cold, dear!"

"Coming, Mrs. Weasley!" I put the dog down with a sigh and head for the door.

Wait till Hogwarts, a little voice in my head whispered. Just wait till Hogwarts.