The summer crawled by.
I hadn't been able to see any of my friends, resigned to writing them and hoping they'd find the time to write back.
Jamie wrote me from her family's summer home in Florence, going into great depths about her trips into the Italian countryside, as well as asking me if I'd heard from Lucian, who had only written her once all summer and had hurt her feelings in doing so. I wrote back that I'd heard Lucian's owl had recently died, rendering him incapable of sending mail and thereby assuaging her fears that he was no longer in love with her.
Miles sent me a couple of letters, mostly concerning the upcoming Quidditch season and who he thought would be the new Captain. He seemed convinced it'd be me, but I wrote back arguing that it'd be Peregrine, who would be one of the two seventh-years on the team, and, in my opinion, was the obvious choice.
Annie wrote me twice, the first letter asking about my summer and informing me that she'd accidentally turned her brother's pillow into a pot-bellied pig, and neither of them could get it to hold still long enough to turn it back. If he wasn't mad at me before, she wrote, he certainly is now. The second letter asked for advice on second-year classes, and I responded with an in-depth list of which classes I'd taken as well as tips for each of them. It was more than she'd asked for, but I had plenty of time on my hands and didn't mind helping her.
Draco wrote me once, to my great surprise. At first I'd wondered if he'd misspelled the address, intending the letter to be delivered to someone else, but it was in fact my name on the envelope. It was a vague and rather unexciting letter that he'd written, but I suspected it was an effort to be friendly, which I very much appreciated, and I'd written back with a heartfelt response.
Most of my mail throughout the three months of summer, however, had been from George.
I looked forward to reading his letters more than anyone else's. He always had a funny story to tell about some adventure he and Fred had stumbled upon, or a complaint about his older brother Percy. I responded each time, but seeing as nothing ever happened around here, I rarely had anything fun to write back. This week he and his family were at the Quidditch World Cup, the match between Bulgaria and Ireland, and I was beside myself with jealousy.
Instead of being at the match, I was resigned to listening to it over my dad's old radio, my ear pressed to the speaker as I followed the announcer's voice. It sounded like a fairly one-sided match, the Irish absolutely routing the Bulgarians, until Krum, the Seeker for Bulgaria, caught the Snitch to end the match and put his team out of their misery.
I had to admit I was a little disappointed by the results, had been hoping the Bulgarians would pull it off; the Irish had beaten the Scots to make it to the Cup, and I was a little bitter that my favourite team had been put out of the running so close to the championship.
The morning after the Cup, Thea arrived with the daily edition of the Daily Prophet, and I tore it open to read the highlights of the game. The headline, however, was something entirely unexpected, and I felt a tremour of horror as I took it in.
TERROR AT THE WORLD CUP: CAMPGROUNDS OVERRUN BY SUSPECTED DEATH EATERS
The front-page image was a shot of the Dark Mark glowing in the night sky. My eyes traced its outline, my skin prickling with fear. Death Eaters? I had only ever heard about them as a thing of the past, something that'd been eradicated, like a disease.
But that, apparently, wasn't the case.
I snatched a piece of parchment from my desk and quickly scribbled a note:
Are you safe? -Doylie
I tied the note to Thea's foot, looking her sternly in the eyes and instructing her to fly as quickly as she could to the Weasley residence. She took off without hesitation, and as I watched her go, I wondered if I should've sent a note to Draco, who I knew had also been at the match.
But, the more I thought about it, the more I believed that the Weasleys were in much more danger in the presence of Death Eaters than the Malfoys. I'd heard the rumours about Lucius Malfoy, that he'd been one of the staunchest supporters of the Dark Lord during the Wizarding War. I didn't know if they were true, but I had a hunch that Draco would be just fine in the face of all this.
I chewed my fingernail as I pondered what the return of the Death Eaters meant for the rest of us; was this an isolated event, just the result of fearmongering and restlessness among those who'd supported You-Know-Who? Or did this mean something even worse was yet to come?
I spent the rest of the idea worrying about George and his family, constantly checking the window for any sight of my owl, even though I knew there was no chance she'd return that day or probably even the next. I found myself wishing desperately that I was of age so that I could apparate. At least then I could check in on them myself.
Four more days before the train left for school. I groaned aloud, wondering what I was going to do with myself in the meantime. My father was out of town, doing who-knows-what who-knows-where, and honestly I was past caring anymore. The man came and went as he pleased, apparently unbothered by the fact that he had a daughter who might occasionally want to see him.
That night, after some contemplation, I packed my trunk.
* * * * * *
The sight of the Leaky Cauldron filled me with warmth, despite its cold and dreary interior. The Leaky Cauldron was a half-way point of sorts to Hogwarts, and it held a special place in my heart, a promise of something good to come.
Tom the innkeeper gave me a toothy smile as I checked out a room, and I returned it fully; I was almost home, and I could feel it.
I spent the next two days wandering up and down Diagon Alley, my materials list clutched tightly in my hand. I'd convinced Peregrine to give me his books from the previous year, so it was only a matter of tracking down expendable materials, like rolls of parchment and extra ink.
A gleam from Broomstix caught my eye, and I ambled over to admire the broom showcased in the front window. It was a Firebolt, the same as Harry Potter flew, and for a moment, I pictured myself with a brand-new broom, flying just a little faster than everyone else on the pitch.
But that was unrealistic, and I knew it. I could never afford a new broom. My current broom, a Nimbus 2001—a gift from Lucius Malfoy when Draco joined the team his second year—had been the gold standard a few years prior, but couldn't compete with some of the latest models. All I could do was keep it in the best condition possible, and rely on my own skills for everything else.
Back at the Leaky Cauldron, I sat on my bed flipping through the Potions textbook Peregrine had given me. I'd loaded my schedule this year, six classes, and was already regretting it.
A sudden bang from outside my door startled me. I set aside my book and crept to the door, cautiously pulling it open with my wand at the ready.
"Fred! You scared Crookshanks!" A girl's voice, and she wasn't pleased, by the sound of it.
Peeking down the corridor, I saw an orange cat streak by and disappear around the corner, followed closely by a girl with wild brown curls and a stressed expression.
"More like Crookshanks scared me! I'd been saving that dungbomb for something special!" A very familiar and rather indignant voice shot back from the other end of the hall.
The moment Fred uttered the word dungbomb, the stench hit me like a punch in the nose, and I gagged. Covering my mouth with a handkerchief, I stepped out into the hallway.
"Look who it is!" Fred strode towards me, the dungbomb odour clinging to him and growing stronger as he approached.
"No—don't—the smell—" I spluttered, my eyes watering.
"Hm? What? I didn't catch that, sorry!" Fred said, not a hint of regret in his voice as he wrapped me in a tight hug. I felt as if I were going to faint from the stench.
"Fred—ugh!" I shoved him away, his laughter echoing down the halls. "Make it stop!"
"Can't use magic outside of Hogwarts, Doylie," he smiled mischievously. "Not for another year, at least. Might I suggest opening a window?"
"Freddie, did you detonate our last dungbomb? I thought we were saving that!" A new voice came from behind us, and my heart fluttered a little in my chest as I caught sight of his face.
"Look who I found!" Fred grinned at his brother.
As glad as I was to see George, I couldn't take it anymore. "Both of you, into my room!"
We crammed through the doorway and shut the door securely behind us. A bit of the stench had wafted in, so I opened a window, breathing in the fresh air with relief.
Once I had regained some sensory stability, I turned. George and Fred were watching me with identical grins.
"I take it you don't care for that particular product," George observed.
"That was the most vile thing I've smelled in my entire life." I strode over and wrapped George in a tight hug, which he returned with enthusiasm, his chin resting atop my head.
"And you've been in a locker room with Marcus Flint! Georgie, I'd say this is a success!" Fred cheered.
I snorted, eyeing George. His hair was longer, shaggier, his face a little thinner, cheekbones a little more pronounced than I remembered.
"You two seem to have doubled in height since I last saw you," I observed. "I mean, you were tall before, but this is getting ridiculous."
George laughed, and there it was again—that lovely little squint of his eyes. "Are you sure you just haven't shrunk?"
"George says you wrote him loads over the summer," said Fred, pulling my attention from George. "And not a single letter for me! I'm hurt, Doylie, honestly."
I frowned at him. "You didn't write me, either. Besides, it's not like there was anything interesting in my letters. You two had all the fun—I just stayed home by myself."
"Well," said Fred loftily. "Georgie seemed to enjoy receiving your owls, boring or not."
George's cheeks turned pink. "You're just sore 'cause the only girl who wrote you this summer is Great Aunt Muriel."
"Yes, that's precisely why I'm whinging! Honestly, George, have you even been listening?"
"We'll find a nice Slytherin girl to write you next summer, Fred," I cut in, sitting on my bed. "Promise."
"Pansy Parkinson, maybe?" George mused.
Fred held a hand over his heart. "The girl of my dreams!"
"She'd probably hex your owl," I said dryly.
"Errol's had worse," offered Fred, settling next to me on the bed.
"That owl is invincible," agreed George.
He stood a bit awkwardly across the room, while Fred had made himself quite at home atop my comforter. I patted the bed, and George moved to sit beside me opposite his brother, fiddling with a string on his sleeve.
"Best find a different pen pal, Fred," I said, nudging him over to make more room for George. "Pansy's a tough one."
Fred sighed dramatically, flopping back and taking up even more space than before. George reached across me and flipped his brother off the bed altogether. Fred landed on the wooden floor with a thunk and a grunt, unhurt but indignant.
I covered my laugh with a hand. George shot me a wink, settling more comfortably with the newfound extra space.
Fred popped up from the floor, his hair askew. "If not Parkinson, then who?"
I thought for a moment, then grinned. "I've a friend named Annie who I'm sure would love to write you."
George laughed loudly. "The little one?"
I whacked his arm, echoing his laughter and thinking fondly of the small curly-haired girl. "She's a first-year! They're all little!"
"Second-year, now," George pointed out.
"They grow up so fast," I sighed.
"She'll be taller than you before you know it."
"Taller than the both of us, I reckon."
We burst out laughing again.
Fred looked between us. "There's a joke here I'm not getting."
George and I just grinned and shook our heads.
I looked between the brothers, giggling at the faces they were pulling at each other, then remembered something. "I read about what happened at the World Cup. It must've been scary."
Their smiles faded.
"Pretty dark stuff," Fred admitted.
"We're alright, though, no need to fret," George reassured me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I got your note, but didn't get a chance to respond before we left home. Thanks for checking up on us, Doylie."
I held his gaze for a moment, my heart warm in my chest. "Let's have a cuppa downstairs and you two can tell me everything."
When Fred opened the door, the odour from outside slapped me in the face, and I let out a cry of disgust, holding my handkerchief to my nose once more.
Fred and George just laughed.