Harry Potter and the Keeper of the Horcrux

News of the attack at Hermione’s house had hit the Evening Prophet before Harry and Mr. Weasley had taken a Portkey back to the Burrow at sundown. Mrs. Weasley greeted her husband and Harry at the rear entrance to the house with tearful hugs and kisses, and then ushered them into the kitchen where Ginny, Ron, and Fleur Delacour demanded to know what had happened.

“Bill,” Fleur said, her eyes watery and red, “is Bill all right?”

“Bill is fine,” Mr. Weasley said, just as Ron accosted Harry.

“Is Hermione hurt?” Ron asked Harry, his face unusually pale.

“No, she’s all right,” Harry said.

He and Mr. Weasley sat at the kitchen table amid a maelstrom of questions, each new question being asked before the answer to the previous could be finished. Finally, once the story was told, Harry, Ron, and Ginny were settled enough to begin putting dinner on the table with Mrs. Weasley.

Dinner was a somber affair. The kitchen was filled more with the tinkle of cutlery on plates, and the sipping of drinks than it was with conversation. Ginny finally broke the silence after cake was served.

“Where are Hermione and her parents now, Dad?”

“Dumbledore has ordered magi-masons to repair their house. They were working when we left. He and Filius—er, Professor Flitwick, that is, are putting protective charms in place. They’ll be safe in their own home tonight, once it’s been properly repaired and charmed.”

“What made them attack Hermione’s?” asked Ron.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Weasley said, but Harry was skeptical of this, and so was Ron from the look he gave Harry. It wouldn’t be the first time the Order had information that they weren’t willing to share with him, and he was betting now was one of those times. Sensing Harry and Ron’s skepticism, Mr. Weasley said, “Really, boys, I don’t know. I expect Dumbledore will have some idea.”

“Yeah, but will he tell us?” Ron asked thickly, his mouth full of cake.

“All right, you lot,” Mrs. Weasley said, after the last cup of coffee had been poured and Ron had polished off the last slice of chocolate cake (the exciting, if not disturbing, news of the evening having done nothing to diminish his appetite), “off to bed with you.”

“But it’s only nine—” Ginny started, but Mrs. Weasley was hearing none of it this evening.

“Don’t argue, Ginny. Off to bed, all three of you. Harry, you can have Fred and George’s old room just as soon as they clear out their things. As it is, I think you’ll be more comfortable in Ron’s room.”

“Safer, too,” said Ron, “from the some of the sounds coming out of those crates.”

With a stony face, Ginny got up from the table, followed by Ron and Harry. They were at the second floor landing when Ginny turned to them and said, “You two will have loads to talk about, while I have to sit in my room alone.”

And off she went, leaving Harry and Ron chuckling as she slammed her bedroom shut.

“She’s a lot more worried about Hermione than she wants to let on,” said Ron, opening the door to his room. Inside, Ron quickly set up the old camp bed Harry had been using for years, changed, and then settled down for the night, listening to the ghoul in the attic bang half-heartedly on the pipes and moan without much enthusiasm.

“You don’t reckon the ghoul takes the Prophet and is upset at the news?” Harry asked jokingly, but Ron wasn’t smiling.

“I’ve been wondering how cheesed off You-Know-Who and his mates are at us,” Ron said. “Now we know. You reckon they’ll go after Neville and Luna?”

Harry mentally kicked himself for not having thought of Neville and Luna. “Yeah, I expect they will.”

Ron looked extremely worried at this, and Harry was sure that he was going to ask about the Prophecy. Dumbledore hadn’t given him clearance to tell Ron and Hermione what the Prophecy had said, though the papers had seemed to figure it out for themselves just fine. Harry just hoped Ron didn’t start talking about Sirius, a subject that, he was relieved, no one had brought up with good intentions of helping him deal with his godfather’s loss.

“But Dumbledore had guards posted at Hermione’s, so I’m sure Luna and Neville are guarded as well,” Harry said, after a long stretch of silence from Ron.

“And us?” Ron said, propping himself up on his elbows. “Who’s looking out for us?”

“Ron,” Harry said, also sitting up, but he did so too quickly and banged his head hard on the sloping ceiling, making his head throb. “We’re all going to be okay.”

“Nobody’s ever okay in a war, Harry,” said Ron, and then he lay down, turning his back to Harry so that he faced the window. Moonlight was mostly obscured by mist, so that the light was weak and watery on Ron’s worried face.

Harry lay back, thinking about all that had happened that day, and drifted slowly into a fitful sleep that was plagued with dreams of masked wizards, flashing wands, and deadly fire.

The next week was dull and dreary. The sun made sporadic appearances in between the fog and rainstorms that left the Weasley property soaked so that the garden resembled a small pond. Harry stood at the kitchen window with Ginny, cutting vegetables for dinner, and watching the gnomes swim and splash, yelling delightedly, looking like muddy potatoes. In the living room, Harry could hear Fleur complaining about the weather and how there was nothing to do at the Burrow that didn’t involve farming and cooking charms.

“Perhaps you’d care to return to France,” Mrs. Weasley said tightly. “I believe there’s a need for an Order recruiter in your home country. You could do a lot of good over there.”

“Bill would be lost wizzout me,” Fleur said, missing Mrs. Weasley’s point completely. Harry caught Ginny’s eye and they grinned broadly. “Perhaps I should spend some time redecorating zis place—”

“I think not, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, her voice betraying her immense annoyance. “This place is decorated perfectly as is.”

Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were barely tolerating Fleur as it was, though Harry couldn’t imagine why. She was self-centered, true, but otherwise she wasn’t so bad. She was certainly nice to look at.

“Ron should be in here, helping us,” Ginny said, craning her neck to see into the living room. “Instead he’s sitting there staring at Fleur, the great lazy prat.”

There was a whooshing sound from the hearth. A second later, Harry heard Mr. Weasley’s voice as he made his way into the kitchen. “I have good news.”

“You’ve been offered your old job at the Ministry?” Mrs. Weasley said hopefully, following behind him, but her husband only shook his head, his face clouding over with what looked to Harry like barely concealed shame.

“No,” he said. “Bill is bringing Hermione this evening. Also, Herbert Bushman—he’s from the Improper Use of Magic Office—gave me this. He said its becoming quite popular.”

Mr. Weasley held up a tattered leather sack, set it on the table, and pulled out a large, heavy jar full of ruby red liquid. Harry thought it was wine until Mr. Weasley uncorked it and the most awful smell of vinegar, fish, rotted eggs, herbs, and other unrecognizable odors spilled out of it as red spirals of steam rose into the air. At once, the room looked much brighter, warmer, and somewhat humid.

Mrs. Weasley gasped and put a hand to her nose. “Arthur! Why on earth did you accept that? Do you know how much trouble we would be in if the Ministry found out?”

“What is it?” Harry choked out, just as Ron came into the room, following behind a curious Fleur. Even Fleur’s beauty couldn’t distract him from the stench in the jar. Mr. Weasley hurriedly re-corked it.

“A weather changing potion,” he said happily. “To ensure good weather on Harry’s birthday.”

“Isn’t zat illegal in Eengland?” Fleur asked. She’d used the bubblehead charm to keep from smelling the potion. Harry wished, not for the first time, he could do magic outside of school.

Mrs. Weasley took out her wand and began waving it, and soon a breeze had kicked up, cooling the room off, dimming the light back to normal, and ridding them of the stench of the potion. Fleur’s bubblehead charm dissipated accordingly.

“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Weasley said pointedly. “If the Ministry finds out, Arthur, you’ll—”

“What? Lose my job?” Mr. Weasley said bitterly. “Too late, that’s already happened.”

Dinner was prepared quietly, with Mr. Weasley in a dour mood. The only one oblivious to him was Fleur, who kept up a steady stream of conversation about her work at Gringotts, and how much responsibility she had working with accounts and handling gold. She didn’t stop until Bill and Hermione Flooed in with Remus Lupin, and then her lips were otherwise occupied.

“My wand was broken,” Lupin said, spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate. “I can’t go to Olivander’s now, of course.”

“Why can’t you?” Harry asked.

“Umbridge’s petition to ban werewolves from owning a wand fell through, didn’t it?” Hermione asked.

“Haven’t you heard?” Lupin said, frowning. “Olivander was kidnapped by Death Eaters last night. It was all over the Prophet this morning.”

“We get a copy, but it wasn’t properly charmed and got wet,” said Ginny. “Couldn’t make out a thing.”

“He was taken in the night,” Lupin explained, “along with all of his wands.”

The evening passed with more talk of attacks until Mrs. Weasley sent them from the kitchen. Instead of retiring to bed, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny went upstairs to Fred and George’s old room, which was packed floor to ceiling with crates. A camp bed had been set out, upon which Hermione and Ginny sat, while Harry and Ron pulled up crates to face them. Ron quickly replaced his crate, however, after a tentacle reached out and tried to wrap itself about his waist whilst banging ferociously against the walls of its container.

“Mum and Dad aren’t at all happy,” Hermione said, going into more detail about what had happened after Harry left.

“I expect not,” Ginny said sympathetically. “They must have been scared half to death.”

“We all were,” said Hermione.

Harry felt a stab of guilt. Hermione (or Neville and Luna for that matter) wouldn’t have been made targets by Voldemort if it weren’t for his decision to rush to the Ministry of Magic a few weeks ago. He wondered if they all secretly blamed him, in some way, especially Hermione, who’d seen her parents hurt by the Death Eaters.

“I’ll bet they don’t think much of our kind,” said Ron. “I mean, the first time they met dad he got into a fight with Lucius Malfoy, and then they’re attacked in their own home.”

“Of course they don’t think ill of wizards!” said Hermione, looking suddenly annoyed with Ron. “They know there’s a war going on. I keep them apprised of everything that’s been going on. They’re mostly unhappy because of the steps Dumbledore has taken to protect them.”

“What steps?”

“Well, he’s made our house unplottable,” she said, “ so they can’t have anything delivered, not even mail. Dumbledore has set it up so that their mail is forwarded to the Ministry, who checks it for safety, and then sends it on by owl post. And Professor Flitwick came by and put up the Fidelius Charm on the house.”

“Who’s the Secret Keeper?” asked Ron.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “They wouldn’t tell me.”

“When Voldemort’s stopped,” Harry said, “things will go back to normal for your family.

They spoke of the attacks that headlined the papers, of Olivander’s disappearance, what people would do for wands now (especially first year students at Hogwarts), and how they would all get to Diagon Alley to pick up their school supplies.

“D’you think another wand maker will set up shop? I mean, the firsties have got to get their wands somewhere.”

“I can’t imagine buying a wand from anyone other than Olivander,” said Ginny. “If he was taken by Death Eaters, you know we’ll probably never hear from him again.”

“Don’t be so bloody gloomy,” said Ron, kicking his sister lightly, trying to cheer her up. “I wonder who the Quidditch captain will be.”

Ron looked as though he regretted uttering these words as soon as he’d said them, and looked sheepishly at Harry.

Harry had completely forgotten the vacant position for Quidditch captain this term. He’d been half-hoping to get the job, but apparently McGonagall must share Dumbledore’s view that he’d got enough to be getting on with.

“Katie Bell would be my guess,” said Harry. “She’s been on the team longer than I have.”

“What’re all these crates for, anyway?” Hermione asked, looking around the room. Harry smiled as Ron told her of Fred and George’s joke shop, Weasley Wizarding Wheezes. Harry had been dying to go for days.

“They’ve thought up a gag for everything,” said Ron enthusiastically. “Hangmen that really hang, punching telescopes, even love potions.”

Ginny and Hermione exchanged grins.

“Don’t you two even think it,” said Ron sternly. “You’ve got enough boys in tow already, Ginny—”

“Oh, shut up, Ron,” Ginny said fiercely. “It’s none of your business who I—”

The door to the room opened and Remus Lupin came in, putting an end to Ginny’s rant before it could gain steam, and chased them out so that he could get some sleep. Ginny and Hermione went to their room, while Ron started up the stairs to his, but Harry begged off to get a glass of water, passing Fleur, who was heading for Percy’s old room while Bill slept on the couch in the sitting room.

Harry heard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen, talking in low voices. He was about to cough to announce his arrival when he heard what they were talking about.

“…can’t go to Fred and George for more money,” Mr. Weasley said. “They’ve got a business to get off the ground and they’re helping Bill and Fleur with the wedding. I’ll not have them supporting me. I’ll find a job, Molly, when we go to Diagon Alley to get Ron and Ginny’s supplies. What’s the bill look like?”

“Ron needs new robes, he’s grown out of his old ones; so has Ginny, come to think of it. I’ve checked for used books, and…”

“How much?”

“Twenty five Galleons, apiece, if we can find acceptable second-hand text books and robes.”

“Eighty Galleons,” Mr. Weasley said heavily. “And how much do we have in the vault?”

“Twenty Galleons.”

“I could always sell off the goblin made tea service my grandmother left me.”

“Absolutely not! That’s for Ginny, when she gets married. It’s tradition,” said Mr. Weasley sternly.

“I’m sure Ginny would understand,” said Mrs. Weasley. “It would bring in at least a six hundred Galleons—”

“No,” Mr. Weasley said with finality. Mrs. Weasley sighed.

“Very well, Arthur. We’ll come up with something.”

Turning from the kitchen, Harry rushed silently upstairs and climbed into bed, wondering how he would manage to help the Weasleys without giving them the chance to turn him down.