❝freddie, focus on the letter. your grammar's atrocious.❞
❝you know i can't focus when you sit so close to me.❞
arabella sayer is unusual. not quirky or unlike other girls, mind you, and not unusual because she's a witch, but because she is unafraid...
Oops! Această imagine nu respectă Ghidul de Conținut. Pentru a continua publicarea, te rugăm să înlături imaginea sau să încarci o altă imagine.
❝SO WE'RE OKAY?❞
.・。.・゜✭・.
Ara yawns all the way through the morning, walking silently between Fred and George to meet Basil, the man with the Portkeys, joining the queue to leave the campsite, and all the way back down Stoatshead Hill, through Ottery St. Catchpole, and up the lane toward the Burrow.
The sun is just now rising and Ara's stomach growls angrily, wondering why she was up so early without feeding it. She feels as though she hasn't slept at all, and thinks longingly of her cot in Ginny's room, of a steaming cup of tea, perhaps ready for her at the kitchen table.
A worried shout of, "Oh, thank goodness!" jolts Ara out of her daydream. Mrs. Weasley is running down the lane toward them, still in her robe and slippers, a pained expression on her face.
"Arthur, I've been so worried–so worried–" Mrs. Weasley leaps into her husband's arms, pulling him into a tight embrace. A rolled-up newspaper falls from her hand and unrolls on the ground. Ara leans over to read the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, accompanied by a black-and-white photo of the Dark Mark in the sky. In the photo, it looks almost tame.
"You're all right..." Mrs. Weasley lets go of Mr. Weasley, staring around at all of them dazedly. "You're alive... oh, boys..."
And she pulls Fred and George into her arms tightly, tears pooling in her already red-rimmed eyes.
"Ouch, Mum–" Fred yelps, rubbing his head.
"You're strangling us!" George adds, struggling against her iron grip.
"I shouted at you before you left!" Mrs. Weasley sobs. "It's all I've been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn't get enough O.W.L.s? Oh, Fred... George..."
"Come on, now, Molly, we're all perfectly okay." Mr. Weasley pulls her off of Fred and George, his voice calm and gentle, and wraps his arm around her shoulders, leading her back to the house.
"Remember what I said before we left?" Ara says quietly, taking her place between Fred and George again. "That your mum only wants what's best for you?"
"It physically pains me that you're always right, you know," George says, grinning.
Everyone manages to fit around the tiny kitchen table, and Ara helps Hermione brew some tea for everyone–Mr. Weasley sneaks a shot of firewhisky into Mrs. Weasley's cup–while Bill, Mr. Weasley, and Percy read the latest edition of the Daily Prophet.
"I knew it," Mr. Weasley sighs. "'Ministry blunders...culprits not apprehended...lax security...Dark wizards running unchecked...national disgrace...' Who wrote this? Ah, of course: Rita Skeeter."
