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, and
when they reached it, they found a great 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 really 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 Mr. Weasley's neck, and the Daily Prophet fell out of
her limp hand onto the ground. Looking down, Harry 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 them 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. ."
95
"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 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... 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 ofMagic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry
official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that
nobody had been hurt, but reflising 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
96
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 and Hermione looked curiously at Harry. With a meaningful look at both of
them 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?"
"Yes," she said quickly, and the three of them marched out of the kitchen and up
the stairs.
"What's up, Harry?" said Ron, the moment they had closed the door of the attic
room behind them.
"There's something I haven't told you," Harry said. "On Saturday morning, I woke
up with my scar hurting again."
Ron's and Hermione's reactions were almost exactly as Harry 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. 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."
He had teetered for a moment on the verge of saying "me," but couldn't bring
himself to make Hermione look any more horrified than she already did.
"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.
"And remember what Professor Trelawney said?" Harry went on, ignoring Ron.
"At the end of last year?"
Professor Trelawney was their Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione's
terrified look vanished as she let out a derisive snort.
97
"Oh Harry, you aren't going to pay attention to anything that old fraud says?"
"You weren't there," said Harry. "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 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, but there was a leaden feeling in his stomach as he
looked out of the window at the Hedwig-free sky.
"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."
Hermione left the room, muttering something that sounded very much like "Boys."
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 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."
98
"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. Harry liked this
clock. It was completely useless if you wanted to know the time, but otherwise
very informative. It had nine golden hands, and each of them was engraved with
one of the Weasley family's names. There were no numerals around the face, but
de