Arthur had woken them up after only a few hours of sleep. Due to the tents burning down, they had no clothes to change into (and no shoes in (Y/n)'s case). Ginny, Hermione, and (Y/n) were a tangle of limbs on an air mattress.
"I can't move until one of you do," (Y/n) said bitterly. She was stuck in the middle of the other girls.
"Hm. Right," Hermione hummed, sitting up and instantly getting to her feet, swaying slightly as she did so. (Y/n) followed suit, sitting on the edge of the air mattress for a moment before getting up. Ginny was the last to get up, muttering under her breath as she slipped her shoes on. (Y/n) put on the slippers that had been cleaned with her clothes last night. They, unfortunately, would be getting dirty all over again.
"Stay safe," Lily whispered. She, James, and Remus were up to see them off.
"You too," (Y/n) mumbled as Remus kissed her forehead.
The Weasley party left the campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts had a strange, dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a vague "Merry Christmas."
"He'll be all right," said Arthur quietly as they marched off onto the moor. "Sometimes, when a person's memory's modified, it makes him a bit disorientated for a while... and that was a big thing they had to make him forget."
They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot where the Portkeys lay, and when they reached it, they found a great number of witches and wizards gathered around Basil, the keeper of Portkeys, all clamouring to get away from the campsite as quickly as possible. Arthur had a hurried discussion with Basil; they joined the queue and were able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had really risen. They walked back through Otter St Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because they were so exhausted, and thinking longingly of their breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane.
"Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!"
Molly, who had evidently been waiting for them in the front yard, came running toward them, still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand.
"Arthur— I've been so worried— so worried—"
She flung her arms around Arthur's neck, and the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the ground.
"You're all right," Molly muttered distractedly, releasing Arthur and staring around at them all with red eyes, "you're alive... Oh boys..."
And to everybody's surprise, she seized Fred and George and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads banged together.
"Ouch! Mum— you're strangling us—"
"I shouted at you before you left!" Molly said, starting to sob. "It's all I've been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn't get enough O.W.L.s? Oh Fred... George..."
"Come on, now, Molly, we're all perfectly okay," said Arthur soothingly, prising her off the twins and leading her back toward the house. "Bill," he added in an undertone, "pick up that paper, I want to see what it says..."
When they were all crammed into the tiny kitchen, and Hermione had made Molly a cup of very strong tea, into which Arthur insisted on pouring a shot of Ogdens Old Firewhisky, Bill handed his father the newspaper. Arthur scanned the front page while Percy looked over his shoulder.
"I knew it," said Arthur heavily. "Ministry blunders... suspects apprehended... lax security... dark wizards running unchecked... national disgrace... Who wrote this? Ah... of course... Rita Skeeter."
"That woman's got it in for the Ministry of Magic!" said Percy furiously. "Last week she was saying we're wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it wasn't specifically stated in paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans—"
