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 —” 

“Do us a favour, 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 rumours 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? Rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods… well, there certainly will be rumours 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,” said Harry suddenly, unable to contain himself, “Hedwig hasn’t arrived with a letter for me, has she?” 

“Hedwig, dear?” said Mrs. Weasley distractedly. “No… no, there hasn’t been any post at all.” 

Ron, Hermione and I looked curiously at Harry. With a meaningful look at us he said, “All right if I go and dump my stuff in your room, Ron?” 

“Yeah… think I will too,” said Ron at once. “Hermione? Willow?” 

“Yes,” we said quickly, and the four of us marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“What’s up, Harry?” said Ron, the moment I had closed the door of the attic room behind us.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Harry said. “On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar hurting again.” 

I knew there would be something up with Harry. There is always something up with Harry.

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.

Ron simply 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 Harry. “But I was dreaming about him… him and Peter - you know, Wormtail. I can’t remember all of it now, but they were plotting to kill… someone.” 

“It was only a dream,” said Ron bracingly. “Just a nightmare.” 

“Yeah, but was it, though?” said Harry, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. “It’s weird, isn’t it…? My scar hurts, and 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.

“Oh suck it up! Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort!” I snapped.

I wanted to punch Ron.

I think I’m just a shitty person.

 “And remember what Professor Trelawney said?” Harry went on, ignoring Ron. “At the end of last year?”

Professor Trelawney was our Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione’s terrified look vanished as she let out a derisive snort. 

“Oh Harry, you aren’t going to pay attention to anything that old fraud says?”  

“You weren’t there,” I said supporting Harry. That’s a first. “You didn’t hear her. This time was different. We 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 with a hole in his Chudley Cannons bedspread. 

“Why were you asking if Hedwig had come, Harry?” Hermione asked. “Are you expecting a letter?”  “I told Sirius about my scar,” said Harry, 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 me quickly,” said Harry. 

“But we don’t know where Sirius is… he could be in Africa or somewhere, couldn’t he?” said Hermione reasonably. “Hedwig’s not going to manage that journey in a few days.” 

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry. 

“Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard, Harry” said Ron. “Come on - three on three, Bill and Charlie and Fred and George will play… You can try out the Wronski Feint… “

“Ron,” said Hermione, in an I-don’t-think-you’re-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, “Harry doesn’t want to play Quidditch right now… He’s worried, and he’s tired… We all need to go to bed…” 

“Yeah, I want to play Quidditch,” said Harry suddenly. “Hang on, I’ll get my Firebolt.”

“SERIOUSLY! YOU TWO HAVE PROBLEMS!” I shouted and Hermione and I left.

Neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy was at 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 us importantly the Sunday evening before we 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.”

“Your father hasn’t had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You- Know-Who,” she said. “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, Harry, Ron and I in Diagon Alley. Charlie was darning a fireproof balaclava. Harry was polishing his Firebolt, the broomstick servicing kit Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday open at his feet.

I was trying to walk with a pile of books on my head. I failed, and Bill would stop them before they hit Ginny on the head. 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 Fred vaguely. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still on holiday,” said Mrs. Weasley.  

“Yeah, we’ve left it a bit late,” said George. 

“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 and I 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 completely 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 shrivelled 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, so that’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 very lucky 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 were all agreed that that 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…” 

I grabbed the levitating books, and carried them upstairs with Ron, Harry, Hermione and Ginny.

The rain sounded even louder at the top of the house, accompanied by loud whistling and moans from the wind, not to mention sporadic howls from the ghoul who lived in the attic.

We split off from the boys and walked into Ginny’s room.

 “Look, here’s the stuff Mum got for you in Diagon Alley. And she’s got some gold out of your vault for you… and she’s washed all your socks.”  Ginny said as she heaved a pile of parcels onto my camp bed and dropped the money bag and a load of socks next to it.

I smiled to myself as I looked at it. I realised I was now Harry’s sister, so technically, half his money is my money.

This makes me amazingly happy.

I started unwrapping the shopping. Apart from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, by Miranda Goshawk, I had a handful of new quills, a dozen rolls of parchment, and refills for my potion-making kit. I was just piling underwear into my cauldron when Ginny made a squeaky sound from behind me. She was holding up a pretty dress to her and checking it out in the Mirror.

“That’s lovely.” Hermione and I said in unison.

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 three piles. “Now, mind you pack them properly so they don’t crease.” 

“Mummy, why do I get a dress?” Ginny asked as she goggled at her dress.

 “It says on your school list that you’re supposed to have dress robes this year… robes for formal occasions.” Mrs. Weasley smiled. “You like it?”

“I love it.” Ginny squealed.

“You and Hermione have some too dears.” Mrs. Weasley added.

I opened the last pile on my bed and gasped. It was freaking beautiful!

A short green party dress with amazing amazinglyness detail and pure awesomeness.

“I think it was supposed to be a long dress.” Mrs. Weasley said sheepishly. “But I didn’t care, I knew you’d like it, and It will bring out your eyes. Plus! You’re determined to be different anyway...”

“THANKYOU!” I half screamed. I finally tore my eyes away from perfection and looked at Hermione’s dress.

It was a floaty looking periwinkle-pink material.

Mines nicer.

I mean hers is beautiful.

But mines still better.

Willow be nice.

I am...I’m as nice as Hermione’s dress.

That’s not very nice.

I know.

SHUT UP WILLOW!

Okay.

...

...

...

Mine’s still nicer.