The Other Potter. Book Four.

ALL ABOARD

There was a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the air when I awoke next morning. Heavy rain was still splattering against the window as I got dressed in jeans and a Hoodie; I would change into my school robes on the Hogwarts Express.

Why am I bothering to think that? I already know I’m going to get changed on the train, so why am I verifying this in my mind?

I don’t know.

Hermione, Ginny and I had just reached the first-floor landing on our way down to breakfast, when Mrs. Weasley appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking harassed. 

“Arthur!” she called up the staircase. “Arthur! Urgent message from the Ministry!”  

Fish.

I flattened myself against the wall as Mr. Weasley came clattering past with his robes on back-to-front and hurtled out of sight. When we entered the kitchen, we saw Mrs. Weasley rummaging anxiously in the drawers – “I’ve got a quill here somewhere!” – And Mr. Weasley bending over the fire, talking to Amos Diggory. His head was sitting in the middle of the flames like a large, bearded egg.

Because it’s normal to shove your head into someone’s fireplace.

“… Muggle neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so they went and called those what-d’you-call-’ems - please-men. Arthur, you’ve got to get over there —” 

“Here!” said Mrs. Weasley breathlessly, pushing a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a crumpled quill into Mr. Weasley’s hands.

 “- it’s a real stroke of luck I heard about it,” said Mr. Diggory’s head. “I had to come into the office early to send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use of Magic lot all setting off — if Rita Skeeter gets hold of this one, Arthur —” 

“What does Mad-Eye say happened?” asked Mr. Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes. 

I know we’re wizards and everything, but why don’t we use muggle pens? Do we need to be so different? We could use pens and be equally awesome.

Screw it; I’m using pens this year.

Mr. Diggory’s head rolled its eyes. “Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house, but was ambushed by his dustbins.” 

“What did the dustbins do?” asked Mr. Weasley, scribbling frantically. 

“Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell,” said Mr. Diggory. “Apparently one of them was still rocketing around when the pleasemen turned up -” Mr. Weasley groaned. 

“And what about the intruder?” 

“Arthur, you know Mad-Eye,” said Mr. Diggory’s head, rolling its eyes again. “Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely there’s a very shell-shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Mad-Eye, he’s had it — think of his record — we’ve got to get him off on a minor charge, something in your department — what are exploding dustbins worth?” 

Llamas.

“Might be a caution,” said Mr. Weasley, still writing very fast, his brow furrowed. “Mad-Eye didn’t use his wand? He didn’t actually attack anyone?”

“I’ll bet he leapt out of bed and started jinxing everything he could reach through the window,” said Mr. Diggory, “but they’ll have a job proving it, there aren’t any casualties.” 

“All right, I’m off,” Mr. Weasley said, and he dashed out of the kitchen again.  Mr. Diggory’s head looked around at Mrs. Weasley. 

“Sorry about this, Molly,” it said, more calmly, “bothering you so early and everything… but Arthur’s the only one who can get Mad-Eye off, and Mad-Eye’s supposed to be starting his new job today. Why he had to choose last night…”