Mr. Weasley woke them after only a few hours of sleep. He used magic to pack up the tents, and they left the campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts had a strange, dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a vague "Merry Christmas."
"He'll be alright," said Mr. Weasley quietly as they marched 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."
They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot where the Portkeys lay. When they reached it, they found a significant 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 had a hurried discussion with Basil; they joined the queue and were able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had risen. They walked back through Ottery St. Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because they were so exhausted and thinking longingly of their breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane.
"Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness!"
Mrs. Weasley, who had evidently been waiting for them in the front yard, came running toward them, 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 flung her arms around her husband's neck, and the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the ground. Looking down, Arabella saw the headline:
SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP
Accompanied with the dire title was a large twinkling photo of the Dark Mark.
"You're alright," Mrs. Weasley muttered distractedly, releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at them all with red eyes, "you're alive. . . . Oh boys…"
And to everybody's surprise, she seized her twin sons and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads banged together.
"Ouch!"
"Mum— you're strangling us—"
"I shouted at you before you left!" Mrs. Weasley said, 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 fine," said Mr. Weasley soothingly, prising her off the twins and leading her back toward the house. "Bill," he added in an undertone, "pick up that paper. I want to see what it says. . ."
When they were all crammed into the tiny kitchen, and Hermione had made Mrs. Weasley a cup of very strong tea, into which Mr. Weasley insisted on pouring a shot of Ogdens Old Firewhiskey, Bill handed his father the newspaper. Mr. Weasley scanned the front page while Percy looked over his shoulder.
"I knew it," said Mr. Weasley heavily. "Ministry blunders. . . culprits not apprehended. . . lax security. . . Dark wizards running unchecked... a national disgrace. . . Who wrote this? Ah. . . of course, Rita Skeeter."
"That woman's got it in for the Ministry of Magic!" said 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 -"
"Do us a favor, Perce," said Bill, yawning, "and shut up."
"I'm mentioned," said Mr. Weasley, his eyes widening behind his glasses as he reached the bottom of the Daily Prophet article.
"Where?" spluttered Mrs. Weasley, choking on her tea and whiskey. "If I'd seen that, I'd have known you were alive!"
"Not by name," said 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," said 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 heaved 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," said Percy importantly. "Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck. And I can give him my cauldron report in person."
He bustled out of the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley looked 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," said Mr. Weasley. "I've made things worse. I'll just change into my robes, and I'll be off. . . ."
"Mrs. Weasley," blurted Lyla, unable to contain herself, "Merlin hasn't arrived with a letter for me, has he?"
"Merlin, dear?" said Mrs. Weasley distractedly. "No. . . no, there hasn't been any post at all."
"Well, I think I may go dump my stuff in our room," said Arabella, giving her friends a meaningful glance. "Lyla?"
"Yeah. . . think I will too," said Ron at once. "Hermione?"
"Yes," she said quickly, and the three of them marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
"What's up?" said Ron the moment they had closed the door of the attic room behind them.
"There's something I haven't told you," sighed Arabella. "On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar hurting again."
Ron's and Hermione's reactions were almost exactly as she had imagined them back in his bedroom on Privet Drive. Hermione gasped and started making suggestions at once, mentioning a number of reference books, and everybody from Albus Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse, and Ron looked 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," said Lyla. "But I was dreaming about him... Arabella and I were… him and Peter— you know, Wormtail. They were plotting to kill…"
She had teetered momentarily on the verge of saying "us" but couldn't bring herself to make Hermione look any more terrified than she already did.
"It was only a dream," said Ron bracingly. "Just a nightmare."
"Yeah, but was it, though?" said Arabella, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. "It's weird, isn't it...? We both had the same dream, my scar hurts while Lyla could hardly move due to head pains… 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 hissed through gritted teeth.
"And remember what Trelawney said?" Lyla went on, ignoring Ron. "At the end of last year?"
Trelawney was their Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione's terrified look vanished as she let out a derisive snort.
"Oh please, you aren't going to pay attention to anything that old fraud says?"
"You weren't there," said Lyla grimly. "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 was a silence in which Ron fidgeted absentmindedly.
"Why were you asking if Merlin had come?" Hermione asked. "Are you expecting a letter?"
"I told Sirius about my scar," said Arabella, shrugging. "I'm waiting for his answer."
"Good thinking!" said Ron, his expression clearing. "I bet Sirius'll know what to do!"
"I hoped he'd get back to us quickly," said Lyla anxiously.
"But we don't know where Sirius is. . . he could be in Africa or somewhere, couldn't he?" said Hermione reasonably. "No way any owl would manage that journey in a few days."
"Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard," said Ron. "Come on— three on three, Bill, Charlie, Fred, and George will play."
"Ron," said Hermione, in an I-don't-think-you're-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, "They don't want to play Quidditch right now... Can't you tell they're worried and tired. . . . We all need to go to bed..."
"Yeah, I want to play Quidditch," said Lyla suddenly.
Agreed," said Arabella. "Hang on, let us just go grab our broomsticks…"
Mr. Weasley and Percy were away from home much over the following week. Both left the house each morning before the rest of the family got up and returned well after dinner every night.
"It's been an absolute uproar," Percy told them importantly the Sunday evening before they were 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?" asked Ginny, who was 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," said 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 glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Arabella liked this clock. It was completely useless if you wanted to know the time, but otherwise very informative. It had nine golden hands, each engraved with one of the Weasley family's names. There were no numerals around the face but descriptions of where each family member might be. "Home," "school," and "work" were there, but there was also "traveling," "lost," "hospital," "prison," and, in the position where the number twelve would be on a typical clock, "mortal peril."
Eight hands were pointing to the "home" position, but Mr. Weasley's, which was the longest, was still pointing to "work." Mrs. Weasley sighed.
"Your father hasn't had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You-Know-Who," she said worriedly. "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?" said Percy. "If truth be told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of Department first -"
"Don't you dare blame your father for what that wretched Skeeter woman wrote!" said 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," said Bill, who was 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," said Mrs. Weasley gently. "If you'd just let me -"
"No, Mum."
Rain lashed against the living room window. Hermione was immersed in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, copies of which Mrs. Weasley had bought for her in Diagon Alley. Charlie was darning a fireproof balaclava. Lyla was polishing her Nimbus Two Thousand with the broomstick servicing kit Hermione had given her for her thirteenth birthday while Arabella gazed out the window. Fred and George were sitting in a far corner, quills out, talking in whispers, their heads bent over a piece of parchment.
"What are you two up to?" said Mrs. Weasley sharply, her eyes on the twins.
"Homework," said George vaguely.
"Don't be ridiculous. You're still on holiday," said Mrs. Weasley.
"Yeah, we've left it a bit late," said Fred.
"You're not by any chance writing out a new order form, are you?" said Mrs. Weasley shrewdly. "You wouldn't be thinking of restarting Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, by any chance?"
"Now, Mum," said 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 laughed, even Mrs. Weasley.
"Oh, your father's coming!" she said suddenly, looking at the clock again.
Mr. Weasley's hand had suddenly spun from "work" to "traveling"; a second later, it had shuddered to a halt on "home" with the others, and they heard him calling from the kitchen.
"Coming, Arthur!" called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out of the room.
A few moments later, Mr. Weasley came into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He looked utterly exhausted.
"Well, the fat's really in the fire now," he told Mrs. Weasley as he sat down in an armchair near the hearth and toyed 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, which'll be the headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he should have sent someone to look for her ages ago."
"Mr. Crouch has been saying it for weeks and weeks," said Percy swiftly.
"Crouch is fortunate Rita hasn't found out about Winky," said 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 all agreed that the elf, while irresponsible, did not conjure the Mark?" said Percy hotly.
"If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is very lucky no one at the Daily Prophet knows how mean he is to elves!" said Hermione angrily.
"Now look here, Hermione!" said Percy. "A high-ranking Ministry official like Mr. Crouch deserves unswerving obedience from his servants -"
"His slave, you mean!" said 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!" said Mrs. Weasley, breaking up the argument. "Come on now, all of you. . . ."
Lyla repacked her broomstick servicing kit, put her Nimbus over her shoulder, and went back upstairs with Arabella.
"It's been over a week," Arabella sighed, looking at Nicolas's deserted perch. "Lyla, you don't reckon Sirius has been caught, do you?"
"No way, it would've been in the Daily Prophet," she said. "The Ministry would want to show they'd caught someone, wouldn't they?"
"Yeah, I suppose. . . ."
"Look, here's the stuff Mrs. Weasley got for us in Diagon Alley. And she's got some gold out of our vault. . . and she's washed all your socks."
Lyla heaved a pile of parcels onto Arabella's bed and dropped the money bag and a load of socks next to it. Arabella started unwrapping the shopping. Apart from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, by Miranda Goshawk, she had a handful of new quills, a dozen rolls of parchment, and refills for his potion-making kit— she had been running low on spine of lionfish and essence of belladonna. There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Weasley entered, carrying an armful of freshly laundered Hogwarts robes.
"Here you are," she said, sorting them into two piles. "Now, mind you pack them properly so they don't crease."
Arabella was piling underwear into her cauldron when a noise of terror sounded from above them. Moments later, Ron came bursting into their room.
He was holding up something that looked like a long, maroon velvet dress. It had a moldy-looking lace frill at the collar and matching lace cuffs.
"Mum, you've given me Ginny's new dress," said Ron, handing it out to her.
"Oh, of course, I haven't," said Mrs. Weasley. "That's for you. Dress robes."
"What?" said Ron, looking horror-struck.
"Dress robes!" repeated Mrs. Weasley. "It says on your school list that you're supposed to have dress robes this year. . . robes for formal occasions."
"You've got to be kidding," said Ron in disbelief. "I'm not wearing that, no way."
"Everyone wears them, Ron!" said Mrs. Weasley crossly. "They're all like that! Your father's got some for smart parties!"
"I'll go starkers before I put that on," said Ron stubbornly.
"Don't be so silly," said Mrs. Weasley. "You've got to have dress robes, they're on your list! I got some for the girls as well. . . show him, Lyla, dear... ."
Lyla carefully opened her last parcel, surprised to find a bottle green dress robe made of silk decorated with delicate lace sleeves. The skirt appeared to flare out around the hips, while the neck came down in a sharp, narrow v.
"I thought they'd bring out the color of your eyes," said Mrs. Weasley fondly, "along with bringing out just how fiercely red your hair is! A wonderful combination when put together nicely."
"Well, they're okay!" said Ron angrily. "That just looks like a Muggle dress— why couldn't I have something like— like—"
"Because. . . I had to get yours secondhand, and there weren't a lot of choices!" said Mrs. Weasley, flushing.
Both sisters looked away. They would willingly have split all the money in their Gringotts vault with the Weasleys but knew they would never take it.
"I'm never wearing them," Ron was saying stubbornly. "Never."
"Fine," snapped Mrs. Weasley. "Go naked. And, Arabella, make sure you get a picture of him. Goodness knows I could do with a laugh."
There was a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the air when Lyla awoke the following day. Heavy rain was still splattering against the window as she got dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt; they would change into their school robes on the Hogwarts Express.
She and Arabella had just reached the first-floor landing on their way down to breakfast when Mrs. Weasley appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking harassed.
"Arthur!" she called up the staircase. "Arthur! Urgent message from the Ministry!"
The sisters flattened themselves against the wall as Mr. Weasley came clattering past with his robes on back-to-front and hurtled out of sight. Ron, Fred, and George came into view then, looking curiously down after their father. Once they entered the kitchen, they saw Mrs. Weasley rummaging anxiously in the drawers.
"—I've got a quill here somewhere!"
Mr. Weasley was bending over the fire, talking to— Lyla blinked a few times and opened her eyes to ensure they were working properly. Mr. Diggory's head was sitting in the middle of the flames like a large, bearded egg. It was 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!" said 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," said 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?" asked Mr. Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes.
Mr. Diggory's head rolled 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?" asked Mr. Weasley, scribbling frantically.
"Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell," replied Mr. Diggory. "Apparently, one of them was still rocketing around when the please-men turned up—"
Mr. Weasley groaned.
"And what about the intruder?"
"Arthur, you know Mad-Eye," said Mr. Diggory's head, rolling its eyes again. "Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely, a very shell-shocked cat is 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," mused 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 leaped out of bed and started jinxing everything he could reach through the window," said Mr. Diggory, "but they'll have a job proving it. There aren't any casualties."
"Alright, I'm off," Mr. Weasley said, and he stuffed the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket and dashed out of the kitchen again.
Mr. Diggory's head looked around at Mrs. Weasley.
"Sorry about this, Molly," it said, 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 that, Amos," said Mrs. Weasley. "Sure you won't have a bit of toast or anything before you go?"
"Oh, go on, then," said Mr. Diggory.
Mrs. Weasley took a piece of buttered toast from a stack on the kitchen table, put it into the fire tongs, and transferred it into Mr. Diggory's mouth.
"Fanks," he said in a muffled voice and then, with a small pop, vanished.
Lyla could hear Mr. Weasley calling hurried goodbyes to Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Ginny. Within five minutes, he was back in the kitchen, his robes on the right way now, dragging a comb through his hair.
"I'd better hurry— you have a good term, you lot," said Mr. Weasley, fastening a cloak over his shoulders and preparing to Disapparate. "Molly, will you be alright taking the kids to King's Cross?"
"Of course, I will," she said. "You just look after Mad-Eye. We'll be fine."
As Mr. Weasley vanished, Bill and Charlie entered the kitchen.
"Did someone say Mad-Eye?" Bill asked. "What's he been up to now?"
"He says someone tried to break into his house last night," said Mrs. Weasley.
"Mad-Eye Moody?" said George thoughtfully, spreading marmalade on his toast. "Isn't he that nutter—"
"Your father thinks very highly of Mad-Eye Moody," said Mrs. Weasley sternly.
"Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn't he?" said Fred quietly as Mrs. Weasley left the room. "Birds of a feather. . ."
"Moody was a great wizard in his time," said Bill.
"He's an old friend of Dumbledore's, isn't he?" said Charlie.
"Dumbledore's not what you'd call normal, though, is he?" said George. "I mean, I know he's a genius and everything.. ."
"Who is Mad-Eye?" asked Arabella curiously.
"He's retired. Used to work at the Ministry," said Charlie. "I met him once when Dad took me into work with him. He was an Auror— one of the best. . . a Dark wizard catcher," he added, seeing the sister's blank expressions. "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 paranoid in his old age. Doesn't trust anyone anymore. Sees Dark wizards everywhere."
Bill and Charlie decided to come and see everyone off at King's Cross station, but Percy, apologizing profusely, said that he needed to get to work.
"I just can't justify taking more time off at the moment," he told them. "Mr. Crouch is really starting to rely on me."
"Yeah, you know what, Percy?" said George seriously. "I reckon he'll know your name soon."
Mrs. Weasley had braved the telephone in the village post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take them into London.
"Arthur tried to borrow Ministry cars for us," Mrs. Weasley whispered to Lyla as they stood in the rain-washed yard, watching the taxi drivers heaving seven heavy Hogwarts trunks into their cars. "But there weren't any to spare. . . . Oh dear, they don't look happy, do they?"
Lyla didn't want to tell Mrs. Weasley that Muggle taxi drivers rarely transported overexcited owls, and Pigwidgeon was making an ear-splitting racket. Nor did it help that a number of Filibuster's Fabulous No-Heat, Wet-Start Fireworks went off unexpectedly when Fred's trunk sprang open, causing the driver carrying it to yell with fright and pain as Crookshanks clawed his way up the man's leg.
The journey was uncomfortable, owing to the fact that they were jammed in the back of the taxis with their trunks. Crookshanks took quite a while to recover from the fireworks, and by the time they entered London, Ron and Hermione were all severely scratched. They were very relieved to get out at King's Cross, even though the rain was coming down harder than ever, and they got soaked carrying their trunks across the busy road and into the station.
Through the years, Lyla and Arabella were now used to getting onto platform nine and three-quarters. It was a simple matter of walking straight through the apparently solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. The only tricky part was doing this in an unobtrusive way so as to avoid attracting Muggle attention. They did it in groups; Lyla, Ron, and Hermione (the most conspicuous, since Pigwidgeon and Crookshanks accompanied them) went first; they leaned casually against the barrier, chatting unconcernedly, and slid sideways through it. . . and as they did so, platform nine and three-quarters materialized in front of them.
The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam engine, was already there, clouds of steam billowing from it, through which the many Hogwarts students and parents on the platform appeared like dark ghosts. Pigwidgeon became noisier than ever in response to the hooting of many owls through the mist. The three set off to find seats and were soon stowing their luggage in a compartment halfway along the train. They then hopped back down onto the platform to say goodbye to Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie.
"I might be seeing you all sooner than you think," said Charlie, grinning, as he hugged Ginny goodbye.
"Why?" said Arabella keenly.
"You'll see," said Charlie with a faint smirk. "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," said Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost wistfully at the train.
"Why?" said George impatiently.
"You're going to have an interesting year," said Bill, his eyes twinkling. "I might even get time off to come and watch a bit of it."
"A bit of what?" asked Fred with furrowed brows.
But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mrs. Weasley chivvied them toward the train doors.
"Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley," said Hermione as they climbed on board, closed the door, and leaned out the window to talk to her.
"Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Weasley," said Arabella.
"Thanks for inviting us to the Quidditch World Cup!" shouted Lyla.
"Oh, it was my pleasure, dears," said Mrs. Weasley. "I'd invite you all for Christmas, but...well, I expect you're all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what with. . . one thing and another."
"Mum!" said Ron irritably. "What d'you three know that we don't?"
"You'll find out this evening, I expect," said Mrs. Weasley, smiling. "It's going to be very exciting— mind you, I'm very glad they've changed the rules—"
"What rules?" said Lyla, Arabella, Ron, Fred, and George.
"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you. . . . Now, behave, won't you? Won't you, Fred? And you, George?"
The pistons hissed loudly, and the train began to move.
"Tell us what's happening at Hogwarts!" George bellowed out of the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie sped away from them. "What rules are they changing?"
But Mrs. Weasley only smiled and waved. Before the train had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie had Disapparated.
—-
Lyla, Arabella, Ron, and Hermione went back to their compartment. The thick rain splattering the windows made it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undid his trunk, pulled out his maroon dress robes, and flung them over Pigwidgeon's cage to muffle his hooting.
"Bagman wanted to tell us what's happening at Hogwarts," he said grumpily, sitting beside Lyla. "At the World Cup, remember? But my own mother won't say. Wonder what—"
Their compartment door swung open, and four familiar Slytherin faces beamed down at them.
"There you are!" exclaimed Daphne Greengrass, her chocolate-colored hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. "We've been looking everywhere for you!"
"And now that we've found you," said Blaise Zabini, "how come we didn't see any of you at the Quidditch World Cup!? Draco says you were there, but since I didn't see you myself, I find it very hard to believe."
"Yeah!" pipped in Theodore Nott (Theo to friends). "I only met up with Blaise and Draco to find out you had seen each other! The Top Box too!"
Daphne rolled her eyes and pushed herself forcefully through the others, bringing Hermione, Ron, Lyla, and Arabella into a tight group embrace.
"You'll have to tell us all—"
"Shh!" Hermione abruptly whispered, pressing her finger to her lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs. Everyone stopped talking and listened. Through the thin walls, they could hear a familiar drawling voice drifting in through the open door.
". . . 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 got up, tiptoed to the compartment door, and slid it shut, blocking out Pansy's voice.
"So she thinks Durmstrang would have suited her, does she?" said Draco calmly. "Honestly, I wish she had gone. Then we wouldn't have to put up with any of her ridiculousness."
"Is Durmstrang another wizarding school?" said Arabella.
"Mhm," said Blaise, taking a seat beside Ron. "And it's got a horrible reputation. From what I've read, it puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts."
"I think I've heard of it," said Daphne vaguely. "Where is it? What country?"
"Well, nobody knows, do they?" said Draco, raising her eyebrows.
"Er— why that?" said Lyla curiously.
"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," said Hermione matter-of-factly.
"Come off it," said Ron, starting to laugh. "Durmstrangs got to be about the same size as Hogwarts— how are you going to hide a great big castle?"
"But Hogwarts is hidden," said Hermione in surprise. "Everyone knows that.. . well, everyone who's read Hogwarts, A History, anyway."
"Just you, then," said Daphne with a snort.
"So go on— how do you hide a place like Hogwarts?" asked Ron.
"It's bewitched," said Hermione. "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 looks like a ruin to an outsider too?"
"Perhaps," said Draco, "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?" said Lyla blankly
"
"Unplottable," repeated Hermione. "You can enchant a building, so it's impossible to plot on a map, can't you?"
"Er. . . if you say so," said Arabella.
"If anything, Durmstrang must be somewhere in the far north," said Draco. "Somewhere very cold because they've got fur capes as part of their uniforms."
"And you know this information because…?" pushed Ron.
"… if you must know, my own father was thinking of sending me there as well," said Draco flatly.
"Ah, think of the possibilities," said Daphne dreamily. "It would've been so easy to push Pansy off a glacier and make it look like an accident... Shame her mother likes her. . . ."
The rain became heavier and heavier as the train moved farther north. The sky was so dark and the windows so steamy that the lanterns were lit by midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along the corridor, and Harry bought a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for them to share. Several more of their friends looked in on them as the afternoon progressed, including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom. Seamus was still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its magic seemed to be wearing off now; it was 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, buried herself once more in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and started trying to learn a Summoning Charm.
Neville listened with jealousy to the others' conversation as they relived the Cup match.
"Gran didn't want to go," he said miserably. "Wouldn't buy tickets. It sounded amazing, though."
"It was," said Ron. "Look at this, Neville. . .
He rummaged in his trunk up in the luggage rack and pulled out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum.
"Oh wow," said Neville enviously as Ron tipped Krum onto his pudgy hand. "We saw him right up close, too," added Ron. "We were in the Top Box—"
"For the first and last time in your life, Weasley."
Pansy had appeared in the doorway. Behind her stood the usual gang of bullies. Evidently, they had overheard the conversation through the compartment door, which Dean and Seamus had left ajar.
"Don't remember asking you to join us, Pansy," said Lyla coolly.
"Weasley. . . what is that?" said Pansy, pointing at Pigwidgeon's cage. A sleeve of Ron's dress robes was dangling from it, swaying with the motion of the train, the moldy lace cuff very obvious.
Ron made to stuff the robes out of sight, but Pansy was too quick for him; she seized the sleeve and pulled.
"Look at this!" she said in ecstasy, holding up Ron's robes and showing it to her friends, "Weasley, you weren't thinking of wearing these, were you? I mean— they were very fashionable in about eighteen ninety…."
"Eat dung, Pansy!" snapped Lyla.
"So. . . going to enter, Weasley? Going to 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?" snapped Hermione.
"Are you going to enter?' Pansy repeated. "I suppose you will, Potters? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?"
"Either explain what you're on about or go away," said Daphne testily.
A gleeful smile spread across the pug-faced girl's face.
"Don't tell me you don't know?" she said delightedly. "You've got family 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. . . ."
Ron got to his feet and slammed the sliding compartment door so hard behind them that the glass shattered.
"Ron!" said Lyla reproachfully, and she pulled out her wand, muttering, "Reparo!" The glass shards flew back into a single pane and back into the door.
"Well.. . making it look like she knows everything and we don't.. . ." Ron snarled. "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," said Daphne quietly. "Don't let Pansy get to you—"
"Her! Get to me!? As if!" said Ron, picking up one of the remaining Cauldron Cakes and squashing it into a pulp.
Ron's bad mood continued for the rest of the journey. He didn't talk much as they changed into their school robes and was still glowering when the Hogwarts Express slowed down at last and finally stopped in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station. As the train doors opened, there was a rumble of thunder overhead. Hermione bundled up Crookshanks in her cloak, and Ron left his dress robes over Pigwidgeon as they left the train, heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of ice-cold water were being emptied repeatedly over their heads.
"Hi, Hagrid!" Draco yelled, seeing a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform.
"Alrigh' you lot?" Hagrid bellowed back, waving. "See yeh at the feast if we don' drown!"
First years traditionally reached Hogwarts Castle by sailing across the lake with Hagrid.
"Oooh, I wouldn't fancy crossing the lake in this weather," said Theo fervently, shivering as they inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood waiting for them outside the station. Arabella, Lyla, Ron, Hermione, and Blaise climbed 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 was rumbling and splashing its way up the track toward Hogwarts Castle.
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