Adventures of Harriet Potter

Mayhem at the Ministry

Mr. Weasley woke them after only a few hours sleep. He used magic to pack up the tents, and they 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 them off with a vague "Merry Christmas." Harriet was instantly concerned, seeing as it was August not December. "He'll be all right," said Mr. Weasley quietly as they marched off onto the moor because he noticed the look on her face. "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."
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, Harriet 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 —" they said together. "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 O.W.L.s? Oh Fred . . . George . . ."
"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 Firewhisky, 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." Harriet made a mental note of the name, certain the woman was only able to write hit pieces about people from the way Mr. Weasley reacted to seeing she'd wrote the article for the Daily Prophet. "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." Harriet giggled, though felt she could use a bit more sleep as well. "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 whisky. "If I'd seen that, I'd have known you were alive!" Harriet patted her back, trying to help. Mrs. Weasley smiled gratefully. "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 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?" She was clearly desperate to keep him home for a bit. "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 Harriet suddenly, unable to contain herself, "Hedwig hasn't arrived with a letter for me, has she?" She was desperate to hear from her godfather. "Hedwig, dear?" said Mrs. Weasley distractedly. "No . . . no, there hasn't been any post at all besides the news dear." Ron and Hermione looked curiously at Harriet. With a meaningful look at both of them she said, "All right if I go and temporarily dump my stuff in your room, Ron?" Her eyes saying everything she needed while she hoped he wasn't as dense as he was towards Hermione obviously liking him as more than a friend. "Yeah . . . think I will too," said Ron at once. "Hermione?" Looking to the bushy haired pale girl. "Yes," she said quickly, and the three of them marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
"What's up, Harriet?" said Ron, the moment they had closed the door of the attic room behind them. "There's something I haven't told you," Harriet said. "On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar hurting again." Ron's and Hermione's reactions were almost exactly as Harriet had imagined them back in her 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 Harriet. "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. And Ron, if you have to not mention his chosen name then call him Tom or Mr. Riddle." She had teetered for a moment on the verge of saying "me," but couldn't bring herself to make Hermione look any more horrified than she already did. Simultaneously offering a name suggestion that was less likely to generate fear for Voldemort, after all they knew plenty of others named Tom. "It was only a dream," said Ron bracingly. "Just a nightmare."
"Yeah, but was it, though?" said Harriet, 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." It was too much to be mere coincidence. "Don't — say — his — name!" Ron hissed through gritted teeth. "And remember what Professor Trelawney said?" Harriet went on, ignoring Ron. "At the end of last year?" Professor Trelawney was Ron's Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione's terrified look vanished as she let out a derisive snort.
"Oh Harriet, you aren't going to pay attention to anything that old fraud says?" Hermione said dismissively. "You weren't there," said Ron. "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 and Harriet fidgeted absentmindedly with a hole in Ron's Chudley Cannons bedspread. "Why were you asking if Hedwig had come, Harriet?" Hermione asked. "Are you expecting a letter?"
"I told Sirius about my scar," said Harriet, shrugging. "I'm waiting for his answer." She started fidgeting again. "Good thinking!" said Ron, his expression clearing. "I bet Sirius'll know what to do!" Harriet smiled as she'd thought the same. "I hoped he'd get back to me quickly," said Harriet. "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 Harriet, but there was a leaden feeling in her stomach as she looked out of the window at the Hedwig-free sky. "Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard, Harriet," said Ron. "Come on — three on three, Bill and Charlie and Fred and George will play. . . . You can try out the Wronski Feint. . . ." Harriet smiled, though felt like she'd rather Ginny played with them. "Ron," said Hermione, in an I-don't-think-you're-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, "Harriet doesn't want to play Quidditch right now. . . . She's worried, and she's tired. . . . We all need to go to bed. . . ." Clearly very attuned to Harriet's mood. "Yeah, I want to play Quidditch," said Harriet suddenly. "Hang on, I'll get my Firebolt." She suppressed her yawn as she grabbed her things. Hermione left the room, muttering something that sounded very much like "Friends."