𝙮𝙤𝙪 || 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙥𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬

"Would it help if I said something inspirational?" Offers your father.

You continue to wipe the window, ignoring how the sun reflecting through the glass strikes hot on your face. Your dominant hand clutches the dirty rag while you use the other to wipe the sweat running down your neck.

With an exhausted sigh, you mutter, "go ahead."

His eyes roll back in thought. "Er, there are hidden blessings in every struggle?" He attempts with an unsure shrug. "That sounded better in my head."

You've diligently done your chores until you had an aching back and weary arms. You cleaned the cabinets, closets, and shelves until you had dust in your eyes and throat. You planned to take a shower after this, scrub at your skin until it was raw and the layers of dirt are cleaned off. You can finally use that coconut shampoo Aunt Cecilia sent from Norway. If you end up liking it, she promised to bring you a whole box when she comes back.

Your family was hard at work all morning, spring-cleaning the house until every nook and cranny was spotless. After getting rid of cobwebs in the attic, your father was now busy sweeping the living room floor while encouraging you to do a better job at cleaning the windows. Your mother wouldn't like it if she swipes a finger on them and finds remaining grime.

"There's more struggling involved in cleaning than blessings," you scoff, standing on your tiptoes to reach the upper part of the window. "Where'd you get that cheesy line, anyway?"

"Newspaper," your father answers simply. "Speaking of news, how's Egypt treating the Weasleys?"

The reason you weren't at the Burrow this summer was that Mr. Weasley won some sort of annual draw in the Daily Prophet. The moving black-and-white newspaper clipping Ron sent to you as proof was tucked safely in the pages of your Hogwarts: A History book, along with Hermione's postcard she delivered from France.

The Weasley family spent the gold on a vacation to Egypt where Bill—their eldest son—was currently working. Letters from Ron weren't frequent, but the phone calls make up for it. It was a much-preferred way of communication too, because not only was it easier, it also saved their family owl, Errol, the hassle of flying from one country to another.

It took at least an hour to teach Ron that he didn't need to yell into the receiver for you to hear on the other end. And that was just him. The twins kept shouting that you felt your own throat growing hoarse for them. Without faces to match the voices, it was hard to distinguish which one was Fred or George when they talked. Ginny was more considerate and minimized her volume, but it was to the point that her voice became so small you can barely hear her. Percy didn't participate in the phone calls very much other than that one time where he boisterously told you he was made Head Boy.

"Good, actually," you said, folding the rag so that the unused side was exposed. "I thought Mr. Weasley would've told you the details. You've been keeping in touch with him, after all."

Your father leans on the handle of the broom, both hands on the end as he props his chin on them. "Yes, but we were so busy discussing Quidditch that I forgot to ask when he called me," he confesses with a bashful smile, soon replaced with a jolt of his eyebrows. "Ah, that reminds me, aren't you going to tryouts for Quidditch this year?"

You sigh deeply and shake your head. "I'm not interested, Dad. Unless you want my head pulverized."

The wizarding world was fascinating. You were eager to learn more about it, but some things are best left alone. Trying out for Quidditch was one of them. It never interested you despite Oliver's constant (and exaggerated) praises for the sport. You did read a few books so you can understand the hype, but it was so unbelievably boring you think you'd rather throw yourself off the clocktower than read anything Quidditch-related ever again.

"And that's Harry's thing, anyway," you tell him. "He knows enough for the both of us."

At the thought of your friend, it made you wonder how he was doing. Just like the last two years, you had no doubt he was suffering under his family's care. Ron even informed you of holding off on calling Harry. Ron's first and last phone call was received by his uncle Vernon and it didn't end well. You were tempted to call anyway, even lie that you didn't go to Hogwarts, but having normal friends sounded like enough of a reason to punish Harry. It was bothersome that you couldn't do anything to make his situation better. You hope the birthday gift you sent him last week made him happy.

Your father opens his mouth to say something, possibly to persuade you into trying the cursed sport, when your mother emerges from the doorway, face splotched with dirt. A testament to her dedication to maintaining the flower-decked lawns of your home.

"Turn on the television, quickly," she urges, fumbling with her rubber gloves.

You were just reaching for the remote when your mother snatches it off the coffee table anyway and presses the red button herself. You and your father exchange a questioning look at her frantic behavior.

"Dearest," said your father, standing up straight. "What's going on?"

Your mother ignores him and continues to switch channels, eyes narrowed in concentration. Her free gloveless hand was placed loosely on her mouth, but through the gaps of her fingers, you can tell she was frowning.

"Mum?" You said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "What're you...doing..."

You trail off as the news reporter's voice fills the silence, currently halfway through an announcement about an escaped convict. The wanted man in the television had matted hair that reached his elbows and a haggard face that looked almost skeletal with how thin he was.

"...the public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately."

"So it is true," your mother mutters, a panicked look washing over her face. "Mrs. Jones from next door told me while I was in the backyard. Oh, goodness"—she falls backward on the sofa—"what if that-that insane man is in our neighborhood? The news didn't tell us where he escaped from!"

Your father sits beside her and gingerly rubs her back. "Dearest, you're going to have another panic attack. Sweetheart," your father said to you, "Go and get her some tea. It'll calm her nerves."

You left without questions. Preparing the drink felt like hours, so you tried speeding up the process for your mother's sake. You come back to the living room several minutes later and hand her the cup of herbal tea, and she takes it while saying her thanks through shaky breaths. Your mother has always been a worrywart. That's why your father prefers to read the newspaper so that she wouldn't grow anxious over anything she hears on the television.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." She takes another sip from the cup. "I suppose I was just overreacting. Nothing to worry about, really," she dismisses offhandedly but her expression said otherwise.

"Mum, you don't need to fuss over that," you reassure her. "What are the chances that we'll even see him?"

Your mother gnaws at her bottom lip, another telltale sign she was anxious. "I don't know. It isn't every day an armed convict escapes," she said while placing her tea back on the coffee table, her left knee bouncing restlessly. "He could be anywhere right now. In the park, in Central London, near our house..."

It took a few more minutes for her to recover. Spring-cleaning is put on hold as your father guides your weary mother upstairs to rest. You stay at the foot of the stairs, staring at their retreating backs. A small voice in the back of your head was screaming to be careful after the news, but it was weak, a mere echo that sounded once before disappearing entirely, so you didn't find it hard to dismiss it.

It was simply ridiculous to mull over that impossibility. Black had no reason to come after you or your family. Especially when you'll be spending the rest of the school year at Hogwarts.