Jinx Not-So-Malfoy and the Triwizard Tournament

Chapter 7

Have you heard Little Things yet? 

It's just.... perfect. There are no other words to describe it.

It's everything every girl needs to hear. 

I cried when I first listened to it.

Most people think it's weird that I'm self-conscious.

But when kids run around saying, "Angeline germs, no returns" and touching each other and basically acting like you have some sort of disease.....

It hurts.

A hell of a lot.

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 them 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." 

We 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 clamoring 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, and thinking longingly of our breakfast. 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 us, 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, 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..." 

"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.