The Other Potter. Book Four.

Back to the burrow.

Mr. Weasley woke us after only a few hours sleep. He used magic to pack up the tents, and we 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 us off with a vague “Merry Christmas.” 

“He’ll be all right,” said Mr. Weasley quietly as we 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.” 

I heard urgent voices as we approached the spot where the Portkeys lay, and when we reached it, we found a great number of witches and wizards gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all clamouring to get away from the campsite as quickly as possible.

Mr. Weasley had a hurried discussion with Basil; we joined the queue, and were able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had really risen. We walked back through Ottery St. Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because we were so exhausted. Occasionally, I would say llama, which was then followed by the word duck.

As we 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 us in the front yard, came running toward our group, 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 Mr. Weasley’s neck, (“AWWWW!” I smiled at them.) And the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the ground. Looking down, I saw the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops. 

“You’re all right,” Mrs. Weasley muttered distractedly, releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at us all with red eyes, “you’re alive… Oh boys…” And to everybody’s surprise, she seized Fred and George 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 OW.L.s? Oh Fred… George…”

I was trying to decide whether to laugh or say ‘aww’ again. I realised if I did both it would sound like ‘haw haw haw’

I’m different.

“Come on, now, Molly, we’re all perfectly okay,” 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 we 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… 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 —”