Ron!" breathed Harry, lowering his wand just before he nearly blasted a spell directly into the space Ron's head was occupying. He saw Ron begin to clamber into Harry's bedroom.
"Wait—don't!" Harry warned, worried that if Ron came into the room, the magic might seal him in as well.
"Whassa matter?" Ron asked concernedly, paused in an awkward position as Harry closed the distance towards the window.
"I've been sealed in by some mad house-elf," Harry told him, starting to examine the window and adjacent wall, which he was distracted away from at once as he took in the full impact of what he was seeing. Ron was leaning out of the back window of an old turquoise car, which was parked in midair. Grinning at Harry from the front seats were Fred and George, Ron's elder twin brothers.
"All right, Harry?" asked George.
"Wait… you don't mean Toory or Zeely?" Ron asked almost defiantly.
"What… oh, no. Not them," Harry said, recalling what he had last said and resuming his assessment of the gap in magic. It seemed that the magical barrier keeping Harry in the room had been connected to the windowpane only from the inside, so that when Ron slid the window up, that section of magic went with it, leaving a gap—a glorious, open gap.
"I was going to say…" Ron said, relieved. "They were the ones who clued us in about where you might be!"
"Who? Toory and Zeely?" Harry asked, distracted again.
Ron nodded. "After we—"
"Could we perhaps get a move on?" Fred asked from the driver's seat. "Not exactly eager to get another Misuse of Magic notice from our dear friend Mafalda."
"He's got a point," George agreed, waving Harry and Ron along. "Come on, you two."
Ron retreated back into the car, and Harry tentatively pushed his hand into the space of the open window. With great relief, his fingers moved across the plane of the window ledge. He wasted no time then in scampering through the open window and into the backseat of what Harry now saw was a Ford Anglia.
The car revved loudly as Fred drove straight up in the air, Harry and Ron grasping onto the seats. Harry rolled down the window, the night air whipping his hair, and took a moment to look back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. He tapped his glasses and searched for any sign of magic, relieved to find that the barrier was not affecting anyone or anything outside of Harry's room. He planned to write a letter to Aunt Petunia explaining the bare minimum and promising to eventually take care of the problem… when he got around to it.
"So — what's the story, Harry?" said Ron impatiently. "What's been happening?"
Harry told them all about Dobby intercepting his post, and the warning he had given Harry about Hogwarts. There was a long, shocked silence when he finished.
"Very fishy," said Fred finally.
"Definitely dodgy," agreed George. "So he wouldn't even tell you who's supposed to be plotting all this stuff?"
"I don't think he could," said Harry. "I told you, every time he got close to letting something slip, he would try to bang his head against the wall."
He saw Fred and George look at each other.
"I know what you're thinking," said Harry. "House-elves can't usually use magic without their master's permission, so Dobby was likely sent by them to try and keep me from going back to Hogwarts."
"Yeah, not as a warning," said Fred, "but to simply keep you from being there at all. Sounds like someone who doesn't like you very much, I reckon."
Harry and Ron looked at one another.
"Malfoy," they each half-asked, half-stated.
"Draco Malfoy," Harry explained to Fred and George. "He hates me."
"Draco Malfoy?" said George, turning around. "Lucius Malfoy's son?"
"Yes," said Harry, thinking he likely knew what George was thinking. "Why?"
"I've heard Dad talking about him," said George. "He was a big supporter of You-Know-Who."
"And when You-Know-Who disappeared," said Fred, craning around to look at Harry, "Lucius Malfoy came back saying he'd never meant any of it. Load of dung — Dad reckons he was right in You-Know-Who's inner circle."
Harry had heard these rumors about Malfoy's family before, and had done research into them. While there were some aspects of the rumors that seemed downright conspiratorial, the historical records he had found overwhelmingly supported the notion that Lucius Malfoy had forever been a staunch supporter of Voldemort and his goals.
"The Malfoys do own a house-elf…," said Harry. He knew this from Toory telling him as much after Harry had tasked him with delivering his New Year's invitation directly to the Malfoy residence. Toory had been denied any interaction with the Malfoys themselves, instead relegated to interacting with the family house-elf, whom Toory had never named.
"Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding family, and they'll be rich," said Fred. "But you know all that already," he added, waving in front of the steering wheel as if dismissing an absent thought.
"House-elves are amazing and wonderful," said Harry. "But this Dobby seemed — no — was genuinely concerned about my well-being. I'm… I'm not easily fooled."
He let that hang there for a while as the car continued soaring through the dark night sky.
"Okay, but how did you know to come find me?" he eventually asked.
"Oh. Okay, erm," Ron began, shifting in his seat. "Okay, well, after like… four days went by without any response from you, Hermione started freaking out."
George chuckled from the passenger seat.
"So a bunch of us — actually every one of us —" Ron went on. "Wrote to you on the same day, with the same question: What color is the sky? Respond immediately. When a few days went by and no one got an answer, we knew there must be something wrong. It was George who came up with the winning plan."
George turned back to them, clearly proud of himself.
"I thought—how incredibly elitist of us! If we want to know what's going on with Harry, who better to ask than his keepers!"
Harry turned back to Ron, not understanding.
"Instead of trying to write to you, we wrote to Toory and Zeely," Ron explained.
"You should think about getting them some penpals," Fred chimed in. "I've gotten three letters a day from them since then."
"The pair of them gave us enough information to know that something was definitely wrong," Ron went on. "Together, we eventually came up with a list of places you might be. Luckily, you were actually at the first place we checked."
"Your old stomping grounds," Fred called from the front seat.
"What were you doing there, anyway?" Ron asked in a voice only Harry could hear.
Harry thought back to his decision to visit Privet Drive. "I thought I had forgotten something last summer," he lied. "I just stopped in to check."
There was no doubt that Ron had seen through the lie, but he did not say anything, for which Harry was glad. They drove on for a while, George eventually pointing out that they were headed too far east.
"The sun's starting to come up. Don't want any Muggles spotting us," he reminded everyone.
"It was really great of you three to come looking for me," Harry said. "Thanks for that."
"No worries," Ron said with a shrug and a smile. "Let's just hope what's-her-name from Underage what's-it-called doesn't find out."
"I don't think you have to worry about that," Harry said. "I'm technically an adult in the eyes of the Ministry, so if anyone notices us, I'll just say it was me flying the car—speaking of which, why do you have a flying car?"
All three of the brothers chuckled at this.
"That would be our dear father," George answered.
Fred laughed. "Yeah, Dad's crazy about everything to do with Muggles; our shed's full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided our house he'd have to put himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad."
"Wait — that's right! He works in The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, doesn't he?" Harry asked.
Ron shook his head before turning it into a nod.
"The most boring department there is," he confirmed. "Couldn't have been in the Department of Mysteries, or the Department of Magical Games and Sports — imagine the free tickets we'd have gotten! — No, it had to be people charming trumpets so they blew raspberries when Muggles tried to play them. That's Dad's legacy."
"He deals with things more dangerous than that," George argued.
"Dangerous to Muggles," Ron said.
"Yeah, because of wizards and witches being careless," Fred chimed in. "There is a purpose to his department."
"Yeah all right, all right," Ron relented.
"Besides, sometimes he finds some cool stuff and brings it home," George said.
"Like this car?" Harry asked, assuming it to have been the case.
Again, all three boys laughed.
"You'd think, wouldn't you?" Fred called, checking his mirrors and putting the car into a gradual descent.
"We suspect he's got the paperwork doctored up to make it look that way, just in case anyone asks, be he did this all himself," George said, sounding rather proud and giving the roof of the car an appreciative caress.
Harry raised his eyebrows, impressed at both Mr. Weasley's daring at subverting the rules of his own department, and at his abilities. A flying car was nothing to sneeze at.
Ron shrugged his shoulders as if it were no big deal. Harry took a moment to use his senses to examine the magical modifications done to the car. There were several layers to it, and he was getting a feel for how they played off of one another when he noticed something else. He wondered if perhaps the boys did not know about this particular feature, as they would have surely used it tonight if they did. He decided to keep it to himself, regardless, just in case it was something Mr. Weasley did not want known.
"That's the main road," said George, peering down through the windshield. "We'll be there in ten minutes… Just as well, it's getting light…"
A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the east. Fred brought the car even lower, and Harry saw a dark patchwork of fields and clumps of trees.
"We're a little way outside the village," said George. "Ottery St. Catchpole."
Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees.
"Touchdown!" said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground. They had landed next to a wide garage in a small yard, and Harry looked out for the first time at Ron's house. It looked as though it had started as a modest one-room stone cottage, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked it looked as though it were held up by magic (which Harry could tell it definitely was). Four or five chimneys were perched on top of different parts of the many-layered red roof. A rather newer-looking sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read, The Burrow. Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a black iron cauldron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard.
"It's actually changed a lot since Christmas," said Ron. "Mum and Dad have been making upgrades pretty much non-stop. It's nothing like your place, obviously."
"No—it's wonderful," said Harry happily. "It has so much character! That's something I've really struggled with at my place, but this… this is brilliant!"
Fred laughed as he turned off the ignition with a tap of his wand. "Keep those types of comments up, and you'll get on Mum and Dad's good side right quick."
"But it's true," Harry muttered as they all got out of the car. He was not sure anyone heard him.
"Now, we'll go upstairs really quietly," said Fred, "and wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you come bounding downstairs going, 'Mum, look who turned up in the night!' and she'll be all pleased to see Harry and no one need ever know we flew the car."
"Right," said Ron. "Come on, Harry, I sleep at the — at the top —"
Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house. The other three wheeled around. Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.
"Ah," said Fred.
"Oh, dear," said George.
Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a flowered apron with a wand sticking out of the pocket.
"So," she said.
" 'Morning, Mum," said George, in what he clearly thought was a jaunty, winning voice.
"Have you any idea how worried I've been?" said Mrs. Weasley in a deadly whisper.
"Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to —"
All three of Mrs. Weasley's sons were taller than she was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.
"Beds empty! No note! Car gone — could have crashed — out of my mind with worry — did you care? — never, as long as I've lived — you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy —"
"Perfect Percy," muttered Fred.
"YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY'S BOOK!" yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred's chest. "You could have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your father his job —"
It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself hoarse before she turned on Harry, who had to put forth effort to not back away.
"I'm very pleased to see you, Harry, dear," she said kindly. "Come in and have some breakfast."
She turned and walked back into the house and Harry, after a nervous glance at Ron, who nodded encouragingly, followed her.
The kitchen was large and nicely stocked. There was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Harry sat down on the edge of his seat, looking around.
The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like Time to make tea, Time to feed the chickens, and You're late. Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, and One Minute Feasts — It's Magic!
Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan. Every now and then she muttered things like, "don't know what you were thinking of," and "never would have believed it."
"I don't blame you, dear," she assured Harry, tipping eight or nine sausages onto his plate. "Arthur and I have been worried about you, too. Just last night we were saying we'd come and get you ourselves if you hadn't written back to Ron by Friday. But really" (she was now adding three fried eggs to his plate), "flying an illegal car halfway across the country — anyone could have seen you —" She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.
"If they hadn't showed up, things might have gotten really bad," Harry said, hoping to defuse the situation. "Something had me trapped in my old bedroom at my aunt's house — some kind of magical barrier. I tried everything I could think of, which was quite a lot, and was just about ready to try some rather drastic magic when these three showed up. If Ron hadn't opened my bedroom window, I don't know what might have happened. I'm not sure it would have ever been possible to get out from the inside."
Mrs. Weasley cast him a look as she continued shifting links of sausage around in the frying pan, and in her face, Harry could see the anger starting to subside.
At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small, redheaded figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, made eye contact with Harry, and froze.
Harry recognized her from the train platform last year—Ron's little sister.
"Hullo Ginny," Harry said with a jaunty wave, immediately hating how much enthusiasm he had put into it.
Ginny's eyes grew wide, and then she simply spun on the spot and ran away.
"She's been talking about you all summer," Ron said, shaking his head as he took a bite of toast. "I guess you're famous, or something?" He shrugged, then smiled cheekily.
"Yeah, she'll be wanting your autograph, Harry," Fred said with a grin of his own, but he caught his mother's eye and bent his face over his plate without another word. For a while, the only talking consisted of Harry thanking Mrs. Weasley each time she added more food to his empty plate. He had not realized how hungry he had been until he had started eating.
"Can I ask—what seasoning do you use on the eggs?" Harry said as he came to put his plate in the sink, where it joined a que of dishes waiting to be washed by the hovering brush already scrubbing a pan on its own.
"Oh, well…" Mrs. Weasley began, wiping her hands on her apron and turning around. "Salt and pepper, of course, and I like to add a sprinkle of cilantro—to fried eggs, at least," she explained, seeming to enjoy being asked.
"Oh! Okay, I thought at first it was parsley, but it didn't taste like parsley."
This led to a few more minutes' worth of discussion about breakfast meals and their preparation. Breakfast had been the main focus so far with Harry's learning about cooking, and he enjoyed getting Mrs. Weasley's opinions on things.
"Blimey, I'm tired," yawned Fred, setting down his knife and fork at last. "I think I'll go to bed and —"
By now Harry had slid his way next to Mrs. Weasley as they talked, helping to tidy-up after breakfast both through magic and elbow grease. It seemed to take Fred's comment to prompt her to realize what he had been doing. She scoffed and shooed him away from the sink, even if it was with a smile.
"Not yet you won't," Mrs. Weasley said to Fred. She then set her sons the task of de-gnoming the garden, telling Harry he need not bother, and could go get some rest. Harry was eager to partake in it, however, thinking he understood the basic principles even if the gardens at Potter Manor had no problems with gnome infestations.
While Fred, George, and Ron assured their mother that they already knew how to properly de-gnome a garden, she insisted on consulting a book on the subject, which Harry could find no fault in, having learned nearly everything he knew about the wizarding world from books. He looked at the cover of the book Mrs. Weasley had pulled from the shelf. Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests. There was a big photograph on the front of a very good-looking wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. The wizard, who Harry supposed was Gilderoy Lockhart, kept winking cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down at him.
"Oh, he is marvelous," she said. "He knows his household pests, all right. It's a wonderful book…"
"Mum fancies him," said Fred in a very audible whisper.
"Don't be so ridiculous, Fred," said Mrs. Weasley, her cheeks rather pink. She put the book face-down on the table and put her hands on her hips. "Fine, then. If you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there's a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it."
Yawning and grumbling, the three Weasley brothers slouched outside with Harry behind them. The garden was large and, in Harry's opinion, incredibly interesting with its variety of foliage and features. Like the towering house, it had an abundance of character.
There was a violent scuffling noise and a peony bush shuddered. Ron pointed. "There's our first victim," he said grimly.
"Gerroff me! Gerroff me!" squealed the garden gnome which Ron had grabbed with impressive speed.
It was small and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, bald head exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm's length as it kicked out at him with its horny little feet; he grasped it around the ankles and turned it upside down.
"This is what you have to do," he said. He raised the gnome above his head ("Gerroff me!") and started to swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the shocked look on Harry's face, Ron added, "It doesn't hurt them — you've just got to make them really dizzy so they can't find their way back to the gnomeholes." He let go of the gnome's ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and landed with a thud in the field over the hedge.
Harry reached out and confirmed what Ron had said. The gnome was not only uninjured, but was feeling rather energetically murderous towards whatever force had just propelled it through the air, which it then immediately forgot about as it began to wander somewhat aimlessly.
"Pitiful," said Fred. "I bet I can get mine beyond that stump."
Harry learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the gnomes. He decided just to drop the first one he caught over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing weakness, attempted to sink its razor-sharp teeth into Harry's finger. There was no hesitation on Harry's part as he grabbed the perplexed gnome tightly ("My teeth!") and held it at arm's length, spinning his body in circles of increasing speed until the garden blurred across his vision, finally using his momentum to launch the gnome in the direction of the hedge, the air whistling with its transport.
"Wow, Harry — that must've been fifty feet…"
Before long, the area was cleared of gnomes, the majority of the little creatures stupidly coming out of hiding to take a look at what all the commotion was about, only to be chucked. Harry uncovered the final two trying to blend in with the gnarled roots of a rhododendron. He performed a whirling double-expulsion of these stalwarts from the garden, to which George gave an appreciative round of applause.
"They'll be back," said Ron as they watched the gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of the field. "They love it here. Dad's too soft with them; he thinks they're funny."
"Speak of the devil," George said, gesturing towards the house where the kitchen door had just clattered shut.
"Dad's home!" Ron said. "C'mon, Harry—you can say hi."
They walked back through the garden towards the house.
"Just try not to scare him away like you did flirting with Ginny," George advised.
"I—"
"'Hullo, Ginny'" Fred mimicked, shaking his head. "I don't know what you were thinking, saying a thing like that—in front of our mother, no less!"
Harry simply sighed in defeat as Ron snickered next to him.
When they entered the kitchen, it was to find Mr. Weasley slumped in a kitchen chair with his glasses off and his eyes closed. He was a thin man, going bald, but the hair he had was as red as any of his children's. He was wearing long green robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.
"What a night," he mumbled to the kitchen at large, groping for the teapot as they all sat down around him. "Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned…"
"Hullo, Mr. Weasley," Harry said in the exact same timber of his greeting to Ginny, leading all three Weasley boys to try to hide their smiles.
Mr. Weasley looked up, his brow furrowed until he put his glasses back on, but he seemed only slightly less confused when he could see Harry clearly.
"Hello…" he said questioningly.
"Dad, this is my friend Harry," Ron explained.
"Oh. Oh! Harry! Well it's very nice to meet you, especially considering all the hubbub about your whereabouts lately. Glad to see you're safe and sound and… here… somehow."
"Yes, somehow! Why don't you tell your father exactly how, boys? Hmmm?"
Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley's eyes jerked open with concern.
"Boys?"
Harry wanted to explain, but felt it might be… disrespectful to be the first one to answer Mr. Weasley. The other boys seemed to have no such aspirations, looking at one another to see which one of them would answer first. Harry was about to tell the tale when Mrs. Weasley beat him to it.
"Your sons flew that car of yours to Harry's house and back last night!" said Mrs. Weasley with an air of controlling her emotions on the matter. "What have you got to say about that, Arthur?"
"Did you really?" said Mr. Weasley eagerly. "Did it go all right? I — I mean," he faltered as sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley's eyes, "that — that was very wrong, boys — very wrong indeed. . . ."
"Let's leave them to it," Ron muttered to Harry as Mrs. Weasley swelled like a bullfrog. "Come on, I'll show you my bedroom."
They slipped out of the kitchen and down a passageway to an uneven staircase, which wound its way, zigzagging up through the house. On the third landing, a door stood ajar. Harry just caught sight of a pair of bright brown eyes staring at him before it closed with a snap.
"Ginny's room," said Ron. "You don't know how weird it is for her to be this shy. She never shuts up normally —"
The twins disappeared at a landing, and Ron and Harry climbed two more flights until they reached a fourth set that was clearly new—a spiral staircase leading to a solitary door which had a golden plaque on it with Ronald's Attic inscribed into its surface.
Ron opened the door and Harry stepped in, then blinked. It was like walking into a furnace: Nearly everything in Ron's room seemed to be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling. Harry saw that a good portion of the far wall of this "room," which seemed to actually be the entire attic of the Burrow, was covered with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks, and waving energetically.
"Still a Cannons fan?" Harry asked facetiously.
"'Til I die," said Ron, pointing at the orange bedspread, which was emblazoned with two giant black C's and a speeding cannonball. "Ninth in the league, the poor bastards."
Harry had been waiting for a good time to share with Ron how he had landed a spot with Puddlemere Uni, and thought this was as close as he might get. He shared the general information, then found himself having to go back and add details to quench Ron's insatiable thirst for every bit of information he could muster about the process.
"I get tickets to give out to friends and family, and you're already on the list, so hopefully your parents let you come."
"I'll run away from home if they don't," Ron said with determination, making Harry laugh.
Ron shared his own details about his room—a new addition to the house, its existence owing to the windfall of gold the Weasleys had received from the reparations fund Harry had set up in secret.
"Should have seen my room before. The two of us would barely have fit in it. We use it as a closet now, which was definitely its intended purpose to begin with. Not that I'm complaining! I was just happy to have my own room with so many of us here, but this sure is nice. And having my own bathroom is a game changer."
Ron gestured around at the large space that was his room, and Harry smiled appreciatively. He had picked up on enough information from Ron last year to know that the Weasleys worked hard to make ends meet, to the point of it almost being a struggle. He was glad to see that his fund had made their lives easier—they deserved it, especially now that they had potentially saved his life, which reminded him…
"You said you had written to Toory and Zeely," he said, shifting the conversation. "Did they ever come here?"
"No," Ron said. "They wanted to, but said they couldn't unless you gave them permission. Seemed rather put out about it, actually."
Harry nodded, having assumed as much but wanting to check considering the oddity of the situation as a whole. He was glad that the elves had not come to the Burrow. He knew it was perhaps a bit paranoid of him, but he was worried about Dobby doing something else, now that Harry had escaped. He preferred Toory and Zeely remaining safe at home.
Harry had just picked up the Quaffle next to Ron's bed and was about to take a shot at one of the three hoops hanging at the pinnacle of the attic ceiling when a blur of white and flapping of wings interrupted him. Hedwig soared through a window, landing haphazardly onto Harry's arm with a great amount of hooting.
"Hiya, Hedwig!" Harry cooed, scratching her feathers. She could barely stand still, so excited was she to see him. "Okay, all right. I was only gone for like, a day!" Hedwig hooted disdainfully at him, and Harry considered her point-of-view. Somehow, Dobby had been intercepting letters to and from his friends for weeks now, which must have been stressful — at least — for Hedwig. He was ashamed for not having felt her unhappiness, and made a promise to himself to do a better job of protecting her.
"I should go home," Harry said, realizing the truth as he said it.
"What? But you just got here!" Ron scoffed.
"No — I mean yeah," Harry said quickly. "But I need to put Toory and Zeely at ease, and do some checking into this Dobby situation. I also want to try to figure out a way to communicate that's tamper-proof."
He was getting ahead of himself, Harry knew, and backtracked. "Let me just pop home and check in. I can come back whenever you want!"
Ron frowned, but eventually nodded. "Well, I could use a nap… Do you want to come back maybe for dinner? And we can watch the Canons match after!" He gestured to a wall, which Harry could see had a space for projecting the Wireless Wall Harry had given him. "And you could stay the night!"
Harry nodded agreeably. "As long as that's all right with your mum and dad…"
Ron waved him off. "They're used to having seven of us running around. It's been way too quiet around here lately."
Just then, a staccato of explosions emanated from Fred and George's room, followed by three simultaneous shouts from different locations in the Burrow.
"Everything's fine!"
"Do you mind? Some of us are trying to think!"
"Haven't you done enough today?"
Listening to Mrs. Weasley's footsteps thundering up the staircase, Harry turned to Ron.
"I think now might be a good time for me to leave."
For the remainder of the summer, Harry had a standing invitation to Join the Weasleys for dinner twice a week. On those days, he would still eat an early supper with Toory and Zeely before Apparating to the Burrow, owing to how incredibly hungry he seemed to be all the time thanks to Quidditch training with Puddlemere, and the unexpected addition to his summer schedule that had arrived a few days after Harry had gotten his owl post sorted out.
Having seen no reason to reinvent the wheel, Harry had gone to the Ministry to report the rogue house-elf having been tampering with his mail. The person Harry had spoken to had at first brushed off Harry's claims rather rudely until he got to the section of the form asking for Harry's name, at which point he did a triple-take and then became much more earnest. Interfering with owl post was a serious crime, Harry knew, and while the involvement of a house-elf complicated things, the Ministry had existing procedures in place for investigating and enforcing those laws. Harry had left out the detail of Dobby's name when giving the Ministry the information about the situation, wanting their help in securing his mail, but not wanting the machinery to delve any further into the situation. Any family that could afford a house-elf was likely well-connected at the Ministry, and Harry did not want them to know that Dobby had warned him, just in case this was not part of whatever nefarious plan someone might be concocting.
The investigation into Dobby turned out to be a dead-end all around, Harry discovered after mentioning the name to Toory and Zeely to see if they recognized it. At once, Harry had felt the magical conflict arise in both of them. He was still not certain as to whether or not they knew to which family Dobby belonged, but the moment Harry had asked them about it their anxiety skyrocketed. It had not taken him long to realize that there was magic at play beyond their bond to Harry, so that while they wanted desperately to help him learn more about Dobby, something was equally binding them to not divulge such information. Harry had quickly canceled his request and had not brought it up against since.
Regardless, he could now send and receive letters with no interference, getting one particular piece of correspondence just in time. From what Professor Flitwick wrote, Harry inferred that this was the fourth or fifth attempt to reach out to him this summer, encouraging him to enter himself in the upcoming English Dueling Championship. The tournament itself was still a month away, but the deadline for expressing interest was the very day he had opened Flitwick's letter.
Checking the tournament times against his Quidditch schedule and finding that he could manage to participate in both, Harry had sent the application in, grateful to Professor Flitwick for having enclosed his signature as sponsor on Harry's form, which Harry saw was also signed by Moody. Feeling wholly confident about being accepted with two such prestigious sponsors (not to mention his celebrity status), Harry happily sent Hedwig with his completed application.
Since then, Harry had spent much of his free time at Quidditch practice, or sparring against Flitwick or Moody—and sometimes both simultaneously. Harry figured that he must have slept more during the past three weeks than he had in the past year, thanks to his busy schedule. Flitwick seemed to have reached a turning point with Harry's training, each session pushing Harry to an almost dangerous limit only to find that he would rise to the task every time.
After being away for a few days on an assignment, Moody was caught off guard by Harry's progress the next time he came to training. Facing off against Harry, the old Auror had specifically told Harry to show him something new he had learned, and Harry had not disappointed.
It was, of course, Flitwick's skill and instruction that Harry had to thank for pulling off what he did against Moody, but he still felt good about it. They had begun following the official English rules for dueling, since that was what Harry was training for. Most of the time, Moody dispensed with those formalities, preferring to ready Harry for the "real world," but he played along for the sake of the tournament. They had only traded a short series of volleys before Harry cast the spell Flitwick had taught him, which was really a combination of three different spells.
With a complicated movement of his wand, Harry caused the ground under Moody to become unstable, unpredictably rising, falling, and crumbling under the man's weight. Moody handled the problem like a pro, but it was still enough of a distraction for Harry to get in an Impediment Jinx just under Moody's guard, which he utilized to land further spells until he eventually knocked Moody onto his backside, the Auror holding up his hand in the official yield gesture.
Harry cancelled the spell on the ground, and Moody climbed to his feet. Harry waited to see what his reaction would be. The spell Harry had used would have disqualified him under English dueling rules, so he had essentially disqualified himself. Moody dusted off his robes and turned to look at Harry, his scarred face unreadable… until it broke into a wicked grin.
"You cheated," he said appreciatively.
Harry shrugged, allowing himself his own small smile. "I felt like I needed to try it on someone who wasn't expecting it," he said by way of explanation.
Moody nodded. "Good thinking, and it was well done, but you should have been faster to attack. You almost let me recover before using it to your advantage. You don't have the luxury of letting your guard down—not for one moment. Constant vig—"
Harry knew it was going to happen. Moody struck out at once mid-word, trying to catch Harry off guard. He sidestepped the orb of purple light that came at him from Moody, counter-attacking immediately and already preparing the next four of five moves in his head, constantly updating their possibilities each time Moody made a move of his own. It became clear very quickly that they were no longer concerning themselves with the official English dueling rules, which Harry knew he had only himself to blame for, but also found that he did not mind it.
Harry found sparring unabashedly with an energized Moody to be invigorating, but Professor Flitwick did not seem to share such enthusiasm. After several minutes of the battle, which continued to increase with intensity, Flitwick attempted to get them to pull back. When his words had no effect, he resorted to magic, putting up a Shield Charm between Harry and Moody, the latter of whom did not take kindly to the interference, throwing a spell in Flitwick's direction out of annoyance.
And that was how Harry found himself behind an upended picnic table a half-hour later, desperately shielding himself from an onslaught of spells coming from both Flitwick and Moody, the situation having escalated to the point where Harry's garden had become a veritable battlefield, the three wizards engaged in a fierce duel, every man defending himself against the other two. Harry had held back less and less as things had escalated, feeling more empowered with each full release of magic. He was thinking about faking an alliance with Flitwick against Moody, planning to betray the professor once his guard was down, when the ground under him began to vibrate. At first, Harry thought that one of his opponents was trying the same hex he had performed against Moody earlier, but then he heard the true source of the rumble.
"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" The thunderous cry erupted from the edge of the forest to Harry's right. He turned to see Hagrid bursting into the clearing with surprising speed, moving like a cannonball into the middle of the fray, intercepting a blue spell from Moody, which bounced off of Hagrid with a loud bang.
All three of the duelers abandoned their spellcasting and shouted towards Hagrid in explanation, which turned into an incomprehensible jumble that did nothing to deter him. Hagrid was feet away from Moody when Harry Apparated into the remaining space, holding up his hands to stop Hagrid both through gesture and magic. It was more difficult than Harry had anticipated to absorb and impede Hagrid's momentum, but he just managed to bring him to a stop before Hagrid trampled him, Harry having to dig his feet into the ground to push back against Hagrid's weight as he pressed into him.
"We were just sparring, Hagrid! We were just sparring!"
Finally, Hagrid came to understand what was being shouted at him, pulling back on his assault and looking to Harry, Flitwick and Moody. Harry could see the acceptance seep in past his instinctive protectiveness, and Hagrid's entire demeanor shifted.
"Ah. Gave me a right fright, tha' did! What're yeh doin' messin' around like that?"
They explained to Hagrid about the tournament. It took him a minute to fully relax back into his normal persona, at which time everyone was able to appreciate the humor in the scene that had transpired.
"You ought to join us, every now and then," Moody told Hagrid one they had shared the tentative training dates still remaining in the summer. "It'll give Potter a chance to fight against an atypical opponent."
"Me, fight Harry?" Hagrid protested in shock. "I could never!"
Harry smiled, knowing how true it was, even if the idea had some merit.
Harry was able to invite three guests to the dueling tournament. Flitwick was already attending as a past champion, and Moody was unavailable (and rather unwilling to watch perfectly qualified witches and wizards agree to a set of rules that so terribly limited their creative spellcasting). Harry had wanted to bring Toory and Zeely along, but the moment he had mentioned it to them, he could feel the stress they experienced in even thinking about him fighting anyone, and thought the better of it. Instead, Harry reached out to Hermione, having not yet seen her at all this summer, knowing she would likely find the tournament interesting. She had agreed predictably enthusiastically, full of trivia and tips the moment Harry arrived at her doorstep to pick her up the morning of the tournament, Ron and Mr. Weasley at his side. Inviting Ron had been a no-brainer, and while there were plenty of other friends to whom Harry could have extended the third invitation, it just felt right to have an adult in the stands to accompany Ron and Hermione. Besides, Harry had enjoyed getting to know Mr. Weasley this summer, and thought it likely that he would get along with Hermione, whose curiosity about the magical community was matched only by Mr. Weasley's own curiosity about Muggles.
Indeed, by the time Harry was saying goodbye to them and heading to the competitors' tent, the pair of them were deep in a rich conversation focusing on the cultural impact on both societies of the invention of Muggle aeroplanes, Ron seeming a bit bored, but taking advantage of their distraction to talk to Harry on his own.
"Don't get murdered, yeah?"
Harry laughed. "Oh! Got it. Keep an eye out for any mad house-elves, will you?"
Ron saluted in acknowledgement. "Fred and George gave me 100 Galleons to bet on you," he said. "You're a 22-1 wager, apparently. I dunno what they could possibly need more gold for, but the bloke at the counter wouldn't let me place the bet anyway. Maybe they were just trying to get me arrested."
"I'd place it for you, but I'm not allowed to bet on the tournament, for obvious reasons," Harry said apologetically. "If you want, I can lose on purpose so it'll end up that you saved their Galleons from being wasted."
Ron put his hand to his chest in mock relief. "That's perfect! Thanks, Harry. Bad luck, then!"
"Wow. Thanks, Ron," Harry said dryly, but he was highly amused.
"Do be careful, Harry," Hermione said, she and Mr. Weasley coming to join Ron in seeing Harry off.
"Agreed," Mr. Weasley said. "But… erm… I did place a rather large wager on you winning the thing, so… just try your best."
Harry smiled sincerely, ignoring the face that Ron pulled at that, as well as the scoff of shock from Hermione. For some reason, it made Harry happy to have Mr. Weasley bet on him.
"Fred and George gave Ron 100 Galleons to bet on me too," he said, Ron jerking his head around in surprise. "There's still time to place the bet, if you're okay with it…" He shrugged and smiled, attempting to entice him while also trying to make it look like it was no big deal.
Mr. Weasley looked to Ron, who eventually returned the eye contact. The man sighed, shaking his head resignedly.
"Might as well, I suppose," he said. "If you win, it'll make them happy, and if you lose, it'll teach them a lesson."
The final schedule for the tournament had been released two weeks ago, which had not given Harry much time to research his opponents. The way the bracket worked, Harry would not be sparring against every other participant, but rather was placed in a tier amongst others the committee felt would be a fair match-up, each tier working its way towards the eventual championship match. Harry felt he had performed rather well in the qualifying match that followed his accepted application, but also thought the committee might have underestimated him.
It was difficult to blame them for assuming an eleven-year-old would underperform in the tournament, but Harry managed to do it anyway. While both Flitwick and Moody had tried to get him to see that being underestimated would only work to his advantage, Harry hated the notion too much to embrace it, knowing his take on it was wrong, but unable to control it.
In his first match, Harry was paired against Terrence Livestrong, a plump wizard who Harry knew had been involved with the tournament for many years. The man exuded self-assuredness from the moment he stepped into the dueling area, waving at spectators and judges while Harry was preparing himself mentally. Livestrong did not seem to be taking the match seriously, perhaps thinking that Harry was nothing more than a publicity stunt, which made Harry's blood boil.
"Begin!" was barely uttered before Harry let loose with a barrage of spells, his feet scrambling madly over the terrain of the dueling arena in order to maintain an advantageous spot. It took him a moment to recognize that, after only 12.5 seconds, the match had ended, Harry having landed an Incarcerous spell that managed to bring Livestrong slamming to the ground, defeated.
After a second or two of applause from the onlookers, Harry realized that he had won, straightening up and eventually waving in recognition before hurrying back to the tent.
"Okay. That's one," Harry said to himself as he worked to find a spot to stand in, his energy bubbling under the surface too much for him to sit still.
The next several rounds of the tournament moved swiftly. The moment Harry's name was called, he would cease his rather incessant pacing and enter the dueling area, each match feeling brand new in his mind. He would give his opponents a quick once-over, replaying their perceived strengths and weaknesses in his mind before giving in to instinct.
"Winner—Harry Potter!" the announcer called. Harry had to work to come down from "battle-mode," which is what Flitwick had eventually coined the mental state Harry would slip into whenever he was taking a sparring match seriously. He looked around at the crowd, which he only now realized was cheering madly. He flicked his wand towards the witch against whom he had been fighting, releasing her from the cocoon of glass inside of which she had been trapped. She fell to the ground, punching it in frustration, before getting up and walking briskly towards Harry.
"Bloody-fucking-brilliant!" she said both boisterously and angrily. "God damn, you're a force to be reckoned with!"
She clapped him hard on the shoulder and darted away before he could manage any kind of response. Harry looked back at the crowd, finding Hermione, Ron, and Mr. Weasley, who were all cheering loudly, making him smile. He shifted his focus to the leaderboard to see who his next opponent might be, then stopped, confused. His name was the only name on the board, surrounded by exploding torrents of light and sound. It took him a full five seconds to realize what had happened. He had… won. Harry had won the English Dueling Championship. He had been so focused on each match that he had lost count of where he was on the bracket.
A great deal of flourish and pomp followed. Harry was awarded a trophy, happy to receive it from an ecstatic Flitwick himself. He spent some time answering interview questions from various reporters, some of them foreign, and posing for a barrage of photographs with various members of the dueling committee, and even a few of his opponents.
After getting a picture with Hermione, Ron, and Mr. Weasley, Harry decided that he'd had enough, grasping onto the three of them and Apparating them all to the Burrow.
"Toory and Zeely, come here!" Harry called into the night air before the others even had much of a chance to realize what had happened. The elves appeared with a crack almost immediately, and Harry shared the news of his winning the tournament.
What followed was perhaps the most enjoyable evening of Harry's life, thus far. All of the Weasleys were thrilled for Harry's victory, Mrs. Weasley seeming relieved even more than she was happy for his win, hugging him fiercely, which Harry found incredibly wonderful. They had clearly hoped for his win, as the celebration at the Burrow manifested quickly, with professors McGonagall and Dumbledore (whom Harry had seen in attendance at the tournament) showing up along with several others for an impromptu but clearly planned party.
"Maybe I should just be an assassin," Harry said to Ginny after the pair of them happened to find themselves alone, standing next to one another next to the bonfire Fred and George had insisted upon starting. "Is that a thing in the wizarding world? Where you hire someone to kill someone else? I think I might be good at it."
Ginny stared at him, wide-eyed. Harry had grown somewhat tired of this reaction from her, and was trying to jolt her out of it with some dry humor, hoping to get to know her better. His attempt appeared to be a complete failure, however, with Ginny only continuing her stare until the both of them were rescued by Percy, who came over to rather pompously congratulate Harry on his win.
"You showed some remarkable instincts on the field," Professor Dumbledore said later, looking incredibly incongruous holding a bottle of butterbeer in the backyard of the Burrow. "And I especially enjoyed seeing techniques inspired by Professor Flitwick and Auror Moody, but altered to fit your unique style. Quite impressive."
Harry took a sip of his own drink to try to hide his glee at such praise from Dumbledore. He had not entered the tournament with the intention of impressing anyone, but to have done so with Professor Dumbledore was quite the accomplishment.
"Leave it to you to notice, sir," Harry said, trying to return the compliment. "I'm actually not sure I've fully realized the whole thing."
"Oh, I'm sure you haven't," Dumbledore said. "Harry… you're eleven, and you've just won the English Dueling Tournament that is open to every witch and wizard residing in Great Britain. You are an extraordinarily powerful young man. You have no idea how happy it makes me to see not only your success but to see — in earnest — your modesty and humbleness. Your parents… Lily and James… would have been incredibly proud of you."
He put his hand on Harry's shoulder, and then walked away. Harry got the impression that the headmaster had been overcome with emotion from the exchange. He took some time to relish in his own positive feelings this encounter had inspired, before rejoining his friends and family to celebrate.