Chapter Six.
Ever since his eleventh birthday, when Harry had discovered that he was a wizard, there had been precious few times when he had wished to leave the wizarding world altogether and go back to live with the Dursleys. In second year, he had been accused of being the Heir of Slytherin, and nearly all the students of Hogwarts had turned against him. In fourth year, after his name had been pulled out of the Goblet of Fire, even Ron had fallen out with him. And last Christmas, believing that he had been possessed by Voldemort, Harry had reluctantly planned to leave Grimmauld Place in order not to endanger his friends. In none of those cases was he as depressed and as angry as he was now.
The whole atmosphere of the house had taken a turn for the worse in the days since Harry’s appointment at Gringott’s Bank. Fred and George, the only two who could somehow be relied upon to be cheerful no matter what, were spending most of their days at work, gone before Harry got up and rarely back until after dinner. Harry suspected that it was not so much their work ethic that kept them away as the chance to get out of the house and away from the eagle eyes of their mother “ they probably spent their evenings in the Leaky Cauldron, he thought, under the suspicious eye of the inn-keeper and well away from the cauldrons. Mrs. Weasley, on the other hand, was in what amounted to a state of war with her two younger children over their desire to attend the Wizengamot meeting (which was to be held the next day). Ron was still not speaking to Harry, deliberately avoiding him and only going to bed long after Harry had done so. Worse, he had managed to fight with Hermione, who had retired to the library and was stubbornly engrossed in the enormous Transfiguration book. And Kreacher was still in the house...
It was a situation that Harry could never have expected. Lupin had warned him that he was likely to be the sole heir to the House of Black and all it entailed, and Harry had no reason to doubt him. At Gringott’s, he, Lupin, and Hermione had all followed the goblin in his scarlet and gold uniform to a private office. They had agreed to settle both Hermione’s account and Sirius’s will at the same time “ Harry thought that Lupin was unlikely to let either of them out of his sight in any case. The office was magnificent in a very cold way, marbled and austere. There was even a pair of very sharp, very deadly looking swords hanging on the wall behind the desk, and Harry noticed that the goblin himself had a long knife strapped to his belt. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a goblin so obviously armed before “ Gringott’s usually had their own, more subtle, forms of security. As he stared at the knife, he began to think that the goblin looked somehow familiar...
“Griphook?” he asked tentatively.
The goblin seated itself behind the desk and grinned at him, a mouthful of very sharp teeth glittering nastily at him. “It’s always good to see you at Gringott’s, Mr. Potter.”
Harry turned to his friends. “Griphook was the goblin who helped Hagrid and me when I came here before first year.” He smiled nervously at the goblin, who only widened his shark-like grin. “Got promoted, did you?” Griphook stared at him flatly. He seemed to almost visibly resist rolling his eyes, and Harry was reminded sharply of Snape. “Er, that’s good then... isn’t it?” he finished lamely. Hermione, he noticed, had no compunctions about rolling her eyes. He flushed.
After opening an account for Hermione and having the insurance money paid into it “ Harry was gob-smacked at the amount her parents had set aside for her, he wasn’t exactly sure of his own financial standing but Hermione’s seemed to easily exceed it “ Griphook had turned to the last will and testament of Sirius Black. Lupin was right in that Sirius had changed his will after he had gotten out of Azkaban, but he was wrong in that Harry was the main beneficiary.
“Me?” said Lupin weakly, in amazement. “I think you must have read that wrong. Sirius was the godfather to Harry here; he would have left it all to him.” He looked at Harry in apology. “Don’t worry, we’ll get this all cleared up in a minute.”
“Mr. Potter is indeed referenced in Mr. Black’s will,” pronounced Griphook. “But I corresponded with Mr. Black myself on this matter and he was very clear. Half the money in the Black family vault (a quite considerable sum), and all of the ancestral jewellery, were to go to young Mr. Potter. It was felt,” and Griphook gave a nasty smile “... it was felt by my client that you, sir,” he turned to look at Lupin “would not particularly well suit the jewellery. The other half of the vault and the deed to the Black residence was to go to you, Mr. Lupin. My client was particularly clear on this point. He felt that you would understand.”
Lupin blanched at his words. “Of all the stupid, selfish things for him to do...” he muttered. He looked at Harry directly. “I am sorry. I knew nothing of this. You were his godson, it should be yours. If you want to contest the will I’ll help you do it.”
“Can’t be done,” hissed Griphook, looking rather insulted. “This is a perfectly legal will, a signed magical contract. It cannot be gainsayed. I should know, I set it up myself and Gringott’s prides itself on the work done here. Our contracts are watertight. We have found that it saves us having to get involved in family squabbles.” He glared at them, as if daring them to object.
“It doesn’t bother me,” said Harry immediately. “Take it. He wanted you to have it.” He felt the frost coming from Hermione lessen a little.
Lupin looked at him miserably. There were circles under his eyes and new lines on his face, and Harry realised that the full moon must be approaching. Lupin always became sicker around that time. “Are you sure, Harry?”
“It’s not like I need it,” said Harry honestly. “Just do me one favour,” and he looked his former Professor straight in the eye. Part of him was glad that Lupin now had a home and money enough to support himself in relative luxury. As a werewolf, he had had considerable difficulty getting a job, and Harry had never known him not looking ill-fed and shabby. But Harry also knew that Lupin would be feeling a great deal of guilt right now, for the unexpected windfall that he no doubt felt should have gone to another. He was utterly ashamed of himself for trading on that guilt, but the words spilled out before he could help himself, cold and uncompromising.
“Get rid of Kreacher.”
To his left, he felt Hermione scowling at him in renewed disgust, and she rose and stalked out of Griphook’s office without a backward look.
Lupin had seemed to crumple in on himself at Harry’s demand, and grief and self-hatred was plain in his eyes for a moment before hardening into a wretched determination.
“No, Harry,” he said. “No, I’m sorry. Kreacher stays.” And at that moment, the breach between them widened into a gulf.
Morosely, Harry watched Buckbeak shred another curtain. He felt as if the hippogriff must be as frustrated as he was, and had no urge to stop him. Buckbeak had been trapped inside Grimmauld Place for longer than Harry, and what was meant to be a temporary arrangement had lengthened into something more permanent. Due to the death sentence still in effect against him, Buckbeak could not return to Hogwarts, and as yet no-one had decided what should be done with him. Harry supposed that someone needed to decide something soon before the hippogriff wrecked the entire house, but it seemed that Buckbeak was a low priority. Harry scowled to himself, feeling hard-done-by and sympathetic towards the creature.
He could hear someone stumping up the stairs, and hoped it wasn’t Ginny. The youngest Weasley sibling, fed up with the moodiness and surliness of everyone in the house, had been trying to jolly him along since their return from Diagon Alley. Harry knew he was being unfair but couldn’t bring himself to appreciate her effort.
A red head poked around the door. “Hi,” said Ron tentatively. Harry shrugged at him noncommittally. Ron seemed to be in a better temper, but Harry couldn’t tell for certain and was sick of trying not to provoke his friend.
“Er... should you be letting him do that?” said Ron, pointing over at Buckbeak, who had started to gnaw disconsolately on the curtain rail.
Harry shrugged again. “It’s not my house.”
Ron came and flopped down beside him, looking sheepish and a bit nervous. “Right,” he said. There was a newspaper in his hand, and Harry recognised it as the Daily Prophet. His stomach dropped at the sight of it. It seemed that the Prophet was determined to dog him wherever he went. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the paper when he had not been sickened, angered, or simply embarrassed by what had been printed in it. It crossed his mind for a moment that there might be a perfectly innocent reason for Ron having it with him, a reason that had nothing to do with him, but as much as he wanted to believe that he knew that it was unlikely. He heard Snape’s voice echo in his head for an instant “ Arrogant, Potter “ and for the first time wished that his Potions professor was right.
“Tell me you’re planning to use that for Buckbeak’s dirt box,” he said, and felt the joke go flat. Ron was looking at him in a curious mixture of sorrow and pity, and that was one expression that Harry wasn’t used to seeing from his volatile friend. Harry sighed. “Who is it now?”
“What?” said Ron. “Oh. No, it’s no-one. It’s not like that.” Again the look of pity. “It’s just... I know that we haven’t been getting along lately,” Ron said carefully, “but I didn’t want you or Hermione being surprised by this at lunch.” He thrust out the paper, folded carefully around an enormous photo that took up half of the front page. It was of the foyer at Gringott’s bank, and dimly Harry remembered seeing a flash out of the corner of his eye; a flash that had patently come from a camera.
The photograph showed Harry, Neville, and Hermione huddled together in front of a fanged geranium, whispering urgently to each other and casting worried, miserable looks out of the frame. Numbly, Harry turned to the caption.
Is this the future of our world?
Two days ago, at the headquarters of Gringott’s bank, Diagon Alley, three of the youngest victims of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named comforted each other in a world that is increasingly comfortless. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was in his infancy the miraculous survivor of an attack by the Dark Lord that claimed the life of his parents, Lily and James Potter. The First War also saw the vicious incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom, who now reside permanently in St. Mungo’s. Their son Neville is pictured to the left. And a few
short weeks ago, the parents of Muggle-born Hermione Granger were left dead after a Death Eater attack. All three are students of Hogwarts, and all three were involved in the brave defence of the Ministry of Magic at the end of June this year, surviving yet another Death Eater attack. Who can say the same? Whatever the fate of Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger, it would seem that they have been marked out.
The Daily Prophet would like to know just how many more children are going to suffer in the same way as these three. If left to the current Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, the number may be incalculable...
“So are you going to tell me how unfair it is that I get on the cover of the Prophet and you don’t?” said Harry nastily, and then winced. “Sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Maybe I did,” said Ron reluctantly. “It’s just, you’re my best mate and all, but for so long I’ve been so jealous of you. You’re famous, and rich, and everyone cares about you. And then when this came in, after breakfast, I saw the picture and... well. There doesn’t seem so much to be jealous of, right now,” he said bluntly.
Harry snorted disbelievingly. “You’ve only just realised this? Come on, Ron! My parents have been dead for years. You’ve met the Dursley’s. What did you think my life was like?”
“I know, I know,” said Ron. “Well, I did,” he said defensively, seeing Harry roll his eyes. “I just never really understood it before, I s’pose,” he finished lamely.
“Must be nice,” said Harry coolly.
Ron reddened. “Look, I’m trying to say I’m sorry, right? But if you’re not interested...” He scrambled to his feet.
“It’s alright,” said Harry hastily. “Sit back down, you prat.” He was still upset with Ron, but then he was upset with everyone at the moment, including himself. He found it difficult to believe that Ron’s realisation would completely change his behaviour, but when he looked into his friend’s eyes he could see, without the need for words, that Ron was ashamed of himself, and that any future jealousy on his part would at least be better controlled. Harry looked at Buckbeak, still gnawing away in a lonely, dejected manner, and decided that he would take what he could get.
“Has anyone else seen it?” he asked.
“Just Mum. I found her crying over it in the kitchen,” said Ron uncomfortably. “You know, she’s doing that a lot lately.”
“What about Hermione?” Harry asked. “Have you shown it to her?”
“Not yet,” said Ron. “I don’t much want to, either. But the Wizengamot’s tomorrow, and you’ll have your public to meet,” he gave a sheepish half-smile as he said it, to show that he was not really serious “...so someone’s going to have to warn her.” He brightened. “You could do it.”
“Nice try, Ron,” said Harry, beginning to grin himself. “She’s not really talking to me at the moment.”
“Yeah, I know. What did you do, anyway?”
“Who said I did anything?” said Harry, stung. “I just... I just... Oh, fine. It was my fault. I should have kept my mouth shut. Lately I can’t seem to help myself. How’d you know, anyway?”
“Oh, she borrowed Pig to send a letter to Neville. I asked her why she didn’t use Hedwig and she nearly bit my head off.” Ron looked at Harry judiciously. “You really should be nicer to her right now, you know.”
“I know,” said Harry wearily. “I told you, I can’t help it. We were at Gringott’s, and she was filling out her forms. Griphook “ he was the goblin “ was just kind of helping her, telling her where to sign, and Hermione... well, she asked him if he was going to the Wizengamot meeting tomorrow...”
Ron guffawed. “I can see where this is going. Goblins won’t be allowed in. It’s only for witches and wizards.”
“That’s what he said. And Hermione, well, you know what she’s like, she started going on about how unfair it was and how goblins had as much right to be there as anyone. Why can’t they go, anyway?”
“I dunno,” said Ron. “Tradition? House-elves can’t go either, or anyone who’s not human. Don’t suppose they feel like they’re missing much. So?”
Harry sighed. “Well, she just went on and on... and I, I might have told her to give it a rest,” he finished in a rush.
Ron goggled at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it!” said Harry defensively. “It’s just, the sooner we got to the will, the sooner I could have gotten rid of Kreacher.”
“Well we know how that turned out,” said Ron quietly. The two of them stared morosely at Buckbeak, who had ground half the length of the curtain rod almost down to powder.
The morning of the Wizengamot meeting was tense and exciting. With the prospect of getting rid of Fudge at the forefront of everyone’s minds, a cheerful attitude percolated through Grimmauld Place. Everyone gathered in the kitchen, waiting for their portkey to activate. Mr. Weasley had brought one in from the office “ “It’s alright, Molly dear, Dumbledore set it himself,” “ explaining that the large amount of people that would be travelling through to the Ministry of Magic that day meant that they had had to put a timetable in place to avoid any awkward collisions. Harry remembered that a similar thing had happened at the Quidditch World Cup.
The kitchen was in last minute chaos. Mrs. Weasley had relented after getting a letter from Mrs. Longbottom, and was hurriedly scrubbing at Ron’s face with a wet dishcloth (“Really, Ron, if you had gotten up earlier you wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to gobble down breakfast”). Hermione, a bag stuffed with parchment slung over her shoulder, had cornered the twins. Harry listened in idly.
“Did you get it?”
“Relax, Hermione,” said Fred. “You’ve been reminding us for days now. We got it last night, didn’t we George.”
“Yep. You were asleep when we got home or else we would have given it to you then.” With a flourish, George offered her a small object from his robes. “One Quick-Quotes-Quill, as requested.”
Hermione looked at them both narrowly. “That better be the real thing, and not one of your tricks,” she said. “Because if it is I’ll make you both feel so guilty that you’d wish you-”
“Alright, alright,” said Fred hurriedly, casting a glance at Mrs. Weasley. “Keep your voice down.” He removed another quill from his own robes and stuffed it into Hermione’s hand, before looking at George aggrievedly. “I told you she wouldn’t fall for it.”
“I’m surprised that anyone takes anything from you two anymore,” said Hermione loftily. She moved over to Harry, stowing the quill in her bag. Ron, red and shining, joined them with a very disgruntled look on his face. He had been able to escape, Harry noticed, only because his mother had started fussing over Ginny’s hair (“I won’t have you children looking like scarecrows today!” “But Mum,” Ginny protested, “Harry’s hair is worse than mine. Why don’t you go and bother him?”) Nervously Harry flattened down his hair as best he could and moved to hide behind Ron.
“What have you got one of those for?” asked Ron, seeing the Quick-Quotes-Quill poking out of Hermione’s bag.
“I need it to take notes, don’t I?” she replied.
“But Hermione,” said Harry, amused, “You’ll be right there. What do you need notes for?”
“I don’t,” said Hermione, in a tone of voice that got distinctly cooler as she went on. “But it’s absolutely not right that the goblins and the house-elves don’t get to see this. The Minister of Magic will end up affecting them as much as everyone else. They’ll who be getting the notes. Fred and George picked me up one of these quills so it can write down everything anyone says today.”
Ron gaped at her. “Are you mad? It’ll all be over in a few hours and then they’ll know who’s won anyway.”
“I could say the same to you,” snapped Hermione. “But I don’t notice you wanting to stay home. What is said “ and not said “ today might be equally as important as the final result. They should get to know the same as anyone else.”
Seeing that Ron was about to argue, Harry broke in “I don’t suppose that it can hurt.” Ron glared at him but took the hint. The Prophet article of the previous day had broken the ice between the three of them, and Harry was determined just to get through the day without starting up any more fights. It was made easier by the fact that Lupin wasn’t going with them. He said that it was because that with the full moon coming up, he wasn’t feeling well enough to attend, and indeed he looked very ill. But Hermione had fumed that the real reason was more likely to be that he wouldn’t be allowed into the building. With Voldemort on the rise again, people were less likely to tolerate a known werewolf at such an important event.
“It’s not enough that they know he’s fought Death Eaters,” she had snapped. “And no-one is willing to stop him from going into Diagon Alley or anywhere like that “ yet. But we can’t endanger the precious Ministry, oh no! So they’ll keep him out because he’s a half-breed...They probably wouldn’t let Hagrid in either.” Harry had felt a small twinge of sympathy for Lupin then, but did his best to ignore it.
At half-past ten the portkey was ready to activate, and Harry reached out a finger, crowding around the knitting needle with everyone else. The jerk beneath his navel always took him by surprise, and moments later he stumbled into the great hall at the Ministry of Magic, the only place large enough to accommodate all those who were willing to come. The building was nearly full, but Harry noticed very few children there. Apparently most people had kept their families away.
“Neville!”
“Hi everyone.” Neville and his grandmother were standing a few metres away, and Neville came up to them. “Professor McGonagall said you’d be dropping in about now.”
“Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to her,” said Hermione. “Finally.” McGonagall hadn’t answered her letter, and Hermione had been quite grumpy about it.
Harry, meanwhile, was staring in puzzlement at Mrs. Longbottom, who was wearing a familiar-looking stuffed vulture hat. “Hey Neville,” he said quietly. “I thought your grandmother was going to get a new hat.”
Neville smirked at him. “She did.”
Harry didn’t understand him at first, until he noticed that the feathers on the vulture seemed slightly newer than normal, and that there were more of them. He, Ron, and Neville laughed quietly together, while Hermione glared at them and shook her head in mock disgust. The moment was broken when a small group forced their way through the crowd towards them. Harry noted with a sinking feeling that they were all wearing badges that said, in bright purple letters: PRESS. It was with an even worse feeling that he saw that the leader of the pack was none other than Rita Skeeter.
“Here come the rest of the vultures,” said Hermione tightly. The small commotion was making the rest of the room turn towards them in curiosity. Harry felt his face begin to burn.
“Mr. Potter,” Rita began, “How nice to see you again. I realise that for the past year I haven’t been able to interview you in an official capacity,” she shot Hermione a venomous glance, “But as you can see, I’m back with the Prophet.”
“Wonderful,” said Harry sarcastically.
Rita smiled back at him like a crocodile. “I’m so glad we agree,” she said sweetly, motioning to the photographer. “And to see you again with all your little friends...” she gave them a sweeping glance and her smile became, if possible, even wider. “Did you see yesterday’s article? It got the biggest response of the last few months...” She elbowed Ginny and Ron out of the way, and herded Harry, Hermione and Neville closer together. Hermione was looking as if she was about to slap the reporter, and as if she was mightily regretting that her restriction on Rita’s writing had only lasted a year. Flashes went off as the photographer started taking pictures. Half-blinded, Harry could only get brief images of what was happening a few feet away. He could hear from the noise that people were again pointing and whispering, and he could catch glimpses of Ron’s face outside the circle, his face carefully blank but with a mutinous set to his jaw. Harry could almost hear his teeth grind.
“So you three, how does it feel to be back in the Ministry so soon after your battle here?” asked Rita, clearly and loudly.
Most of the room was now listening in, Harry realised, and he could feel Hermione quivering in rage beside him.
“It wasn’t just us here,” said Harry trying to speak equally loudly.
“Of course, the Aurors arrived after you had disarmed most of the Death Eaters,” said Rita, even louder. “We know about that, but the public wants to hear more about the three of you.”
“There were six of us,” said Harry through gritted teeth. Before he could explain further, and try to give Ron, Ginny, and Luna Lovegood the credit they deserved, Rita again interrupted him.
“Yes, yes,” she said dismissively. “So, Harry, how do you feel about the possible replacement of Minister Fudge, after all he has said about you the past year?”
“The Minister wasn’t the only one spreading lies about Harry,” said Hermione savagely.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, dear,” said Rita, in a saccharine tone.
“You must be the only one that doesn’t,” said Neville, unexpectedly. “I’ve had enough of this. My parents “ our parents,” he said in clear tones that rang through the room, “are not up for public consumption. Mind your own bloody business, will you?” And grabbing their arms, Neville hauled them out of the spotlight and through the crowd to the other side of the room. Harry noticed that Rita Skeeter seemed about at shocked as he was “ so shocked, that she didn’t even try to follow them.
“Neville,” he said, when he could catch his breath, “Neville, that was bloody brilliant!” It struck Harry just how much his friend had changed since the night in the Ministry. There was a confidence and calmness in him that Harry actually envied. In a way, he seemed almost easier to be around at the moment than Ron or Hermione, what with the one’s tendency to jealousy and the other’s grief.
“I’ll second that,” said a new voice. Susan Bones, her long heavy plait swinging behind her, had moved up to them unexpectedly. She greeted them all and squeezed Hermione’s arm in silent sympathy. Harry couldn’t help but stare at her. Five years at Hogwarts and he hardly knew her, but Hermione had obviously made a good friend in her. Harry supposed it helped that they shared classes that he never took. “I wouldn’t worry about Ms. Skeeter,” Susan continued. “I saw my auntie headed towards her when she started in on you, and she didn’t look very happy. I don’t think she’ll be bothering you again today, at least.”
“You sure about that?” said Harry. “It’s just we’ve had to deal with Rita Skeeter before, and she doesn’t like taking no for an answer.”
Susan looked at him and smiled sweetly. “Even Rita isn’t likely to want to get on the wrong side of the new Minister of Magic on her first day.” She giggled. “Well, technically she’s not the Minister of Magic yet, and she might not even get it, but it’s a pretty big gamble to go up against Auntie Amelia at the moment.” Her voice hardened slightly. “Your reporter friend can’t be so foolish.”
Harry snorted with laughter. He wondered if Madam Bones had acted entirely without the prompting of her niece. “Your mind works the same way as Hermione’s,” he said. He was pleased to see Ron and Ginny push their way through the crowd towards them, and when Ron shot him a chagrined smile Harry suddenly felt better than he had in a long time.
That sensation of well-being lasted even through to the afternoon. Wizards and witches, not wanting to stand, had conjured themselves a range of seats, from armchairs to beanbags, to listen in whilst apparently every single member of the Wizengamot gave their opinion, many of which, as far as Harry was concerned, were derived from laws so ancient they should have been decently forgotten by now. Ensconced comfortably in one of the squashy orange chairs that had been conjured for them by Ministry of magic staff (lest they break the restriction on under-age magic), he was more interested in watching the reactions of the audience than in listening to the long and tedious speeches. Hermione, the Quick-Quotes-Quill scribbling busily in her lap, was almost entirely focused on the speeches, whispering from time to time at Susan Bones, who seemed equally absorbed. Harry didn’t know how they could stand it “ it was almost like listening to Professor Binns in History of Magic. Another subject he was happy not to have to take ever again...
The first excitement was over rather quickly, and Fudge was voted out by the Wizengamot with the majority voting ‘no confidence’, although Harry noted that some of the pure-blood families looked less than happy with the prospect. After that came the long round of speeches, and in Harry’s corner of the room, boredom was growing. Ron had sneaked in a copy of the latest Chudley Cannons magazine, and he and Ginny and Neville were chatting quietly and swapping Chocolate Frog cards in a desultory fashion.
A round of applause broke through and Harry was surprised to see Dumbledore get up to speak. He knew, of course, that Dumbledore was a member of the Wizengamot, and that as the (newly reinstated) Chief Warlock he apparently had the responsibility of speaking last. Thankfully, as at Hogwarts, Harry thought, he kept his speech short and to the point, firmly denying any possibility of his taking the job and giving his full support to Madam Bones. When Dumbledore had finished speaking, it was only a matter of minutes before his choice was confirmed by the rest of the Wizengamot in public vote. Madam Bones was the new Minister of Magic.
Harry scanned the room quickly. Fudge had long since left in disgrace, but Rita Skeeter’s face was definitely sour. Harry chuckled to himself.
There was a chaotic half hour as the meeting finished and people began to leave. Susan was pulled away to pose for pictures with her aunt and the rest of her family, and Neville was shooed away by his grandmother and a bent little wizard he had introduced as being his Uncle Algie. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley began rounding them up, and Harry stopped to ask if they were going to see Dumbledore before they left.
“I don’t think so, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley. “He had to go back to Hogwarts rather quickly, I’m afraid. If it’s anything important then I can of course try to get hold of him at once. Everything alright?”
“Fine, actually,” said Harry. “I was just wondering.” A part of him was even glad that he didn’t have to see Dumbledore at present. It just seemed to raise too many complications that he didn’t want to deal with. Stilted conversation with Lupin was bad enough, and the thought of the same with Dumbledore was not comforting.
“Arthur! Arthur! Have you seen Hermione anywhere?” interrupted Mrs. Weasley in a worried tone.
“It’s alright Mum,” said George, pointing, “She’s just over there with Professor McGonagall.”
“I’ll get her,” said Harry, and darted through the crowd before Mrs. Weasley could pull him back. It was obvious when he arrived that he had interrupted a conversation that neither of them were anxious he should hear. Harry wasn’t sure which of them looked more annoyed, although Professor McGonagall’s expression was mixed with sympathy (which was part of Hermione’s annoyance, Harry was sure).
“We’ll continue this later, Miss Granger,” said McGonagall. “You’d best get back as soon as possible.”
“Fine,” said Hermione in coolly, “But if you don’t help me, Professor, then I must tell you that I plan to go ahead anyway.” And she turned and marched off, Harry trailing in her wake. “Oh, don’t even ask,” she grumbled at his questioning look, as they rejoined the Weasleys. “Just tell me that I can borrow Hedwig to send today’s transcript to Gringott’s and to the house-elves at Hogwarts.”
“No problem,” said Harry, having learnt his lesson about keeping his mouth shut. It didn’t stop him wondering though.