pretty girl diggory- R.Weasley

5:19

Everyone but Celeste spent the rest of the morning sleeping. She went up to the bedroom she had sometimes shared with Ginny over the summer, but while Ginny crawled into bed and was asleep within minutes, Celeste sat fully clothed, hunched against the cold metal bars of the bedstead, keeping herself deliberately uncomfortable, determined not to fall into a doze, terrified that she might become the serpent again in her sleep and awake to find that she had attacked Ginny, or else slithered through the house after one of the others.

When Ginny woke up, Celeste pretended to have enjoyed a refreshing nap too. Their trunks and pets arrived from Hogwarts while they were eating lunch so that they could dress as Muggles for the trip to St. Mungos. Everybody except Celeste and Harry were riotously happy and talkative as they changed out of their robes into jeans and sweatshirts. They greeted Tonks and Mad-Eye, who had turned up to escort them across London, gleefully laughing at the bowler hat Mad-Eye was wearing at an angle to conceal his magical eye and assuring him, truthfully, that Tonks, whose hair was short and bright pink again, would attract far less attention on the underground.

Tonks was very interested in Celeste's vision of the attack on Mr. Weasley, something she was not remotely interested in discussing.

"There isn't any Seer blood in your family, is there?" she inquired curiously as they sat side by side on a train rattling toward the heart of the city.

"I have no idea," Celeste said, remembering that she still didn't know who her birth parents are -- or were. "I'm adopted. I don't know who my birth parents are."

"Really?" Tonks said musingly, "Dumbledore doesn't know either?"

Celeste did not answer; fortunately, they got out at the next stop, a station in the very heart of London, and in the bustle of leaving the train, she was able to allow Fred and George to get between herself and Tonks, who was leading the way. They all followed her up the escalator, Moody clunking along at the back of the group, his bowler tilted low, and one gnarled hand stuck in between the buttons of his coat, clutching his wand.

"Not far from here," grunted Moody as they stepped out into the wintry air on a broad store-lined street packed with Christmas shoppers. "Wasn't easy to find a good location for a hospital. Nowhere in Diagon Alley was big enough, and we couldn't have it underground like the Ministry — unhealthy. In the end, they managed to get hold of a building up here. The theory was sick wizards could come and go and blend in with the crowd. ..."

"Here we go," Moody said a moment later.

They had arrived outside a large, old-fashioned, red-brick department store called Purge and Dowse Ltd. The place had a shabby, miserable air; the window displays consisted of a few chipped dummies with their wigs askew, standing at random and modeling fashions at least ten years out of date. Large signs on all the dusty doors read CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. Celeste distinctly heard a large woman laden with plastic shopping bags say to her friend as they passed, "It's never open, that place. ..."

"Right," said Tonks, beckoning them forward to a window displaying nothing but a particularly ugly female dummy whose false eyelashes were hanging off and who was modeling a green nylon pinafore dress. "Everybody ready?" They nodded, clustering around her; Moody gave Harry another shove between the shoulder blades to urge him forward, and Tonks leaned close to the glass, looking up at the very ugly dummy, and said, her breath steaming up the glass, "Wotcher ... We're here to see Arthur Weasley."

The next second, the dummy gave a tiny nod, beckoned its jointed finger, and Tonks had seized Ginny, Celeste, and Mrs. Weasley by the elbows, stepped right through the glass and vanished.

They had arrived in what was a crowded reception area where rows of witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of-date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra hands sticking out of their chests. The room was scarcely less quiet than the street outside, for many of the patients were making very peculiar noises. A sweaty-faced witch in the center of the front row, who was fanning herself vigorously with a copy of the Daily Prophet, kept letting off a high-pitched whistle as steam came pouring out of her mouth. A grubby-looking warlock in the corner clanged like a bell every time he moved, and with each clang, his head vibrated horribly so that he had to seize himself by the ears and hold it steady.