Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince hp-6 Page 8

  He made Mrs. Weasley a bow and followed Tonks, vanishing at precisely the same spot. Mrs. Weasley closed the door on the empty yard and then steered Harry by the shoulders into the full glow of the lantern on the table to examine his appearance.

  “You’re like Ron,” she sighed, looking him up and down. “Both of you look as though you’ve had Stretching jinxes put on you. I swear Ron’s grown four inches since I last bought him school robes. Are you hungry, Harry?”

  “Yeah, I am,” said Harry, suddenly realizing just how hungry he was.

  “Sit down, dear, I’ll knock something up.”

  As Harry sat down, a furry ginger cat with a squashed face lumped onto his knees and settled there, purring.

  “So Hermione’s here?” he asked happily as he tickled Crookshanks behind the ears.

  “Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday,” said Mrs. Weasley, rapping a large iron pot with her wand. It bounced onto the stove with a loud clang and began to bubble at once. “Everyone’s in bed, of course, we didn’t expect you for hours. Here you are…”

  She tapped the pot again; it rose into the air, flew toward Harry, and tipped over; Mrs. Weasley slid a bowl nearly beneath it just in lime to catch the stream of thick, steaming onion soup.

  “Bread, dear?”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.”

  She waved her wand over her shoulder; a loaf of bread and a knife soared gracefully onto the table; as the loaf sliced itself and the soup pot dropped back onto the stove, Mrs. Weasley sat down opposite him.

  “So you persuaded Horace Slughorn to take the job?”

  Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he could not speak.

  “He taught Arthur and me,” said Mrs. Weasley. “He was at Hogwarts for ages, started around the same time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like him?”

  His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and gave a noncommittal jerk of the head.

  “I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Weasley, nodding wisely. “Of course he can be charming when he wants to be, but Arthur’s never liked him much. The Ministry’s littered with Slughorn’s old favorites, he was always good at giving leg ups, but he never had much time for Arthur… didn’t seem to think he was enough of a highflier. Well, that just shows you, even Slughorn makes mistakes. I don’t know whether Ron’s told you in any of his letters… it’s only just happened… but Arthur’s been promoted!”

  It could not have been clearer that Mrs. Weasley had been bursting to say this.

  Harry swallowed a large amount of very hot soup and thought he could feel his throat blistering.

  “That’s great!” he gasped.

  “You are sweet,” beamed Mrs. Weasley, possibly taking his watering eyes for emotion at the news. “Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new offices in response to the present situation, and Arthur’s heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. It’s a big job, he’s got ten people reporting to him now!”

  “What exactly?”

  “Well, you see, in all the panic about You-Know-Who, odd things have been cropping up for sale everywhere, things that are supposed to guard against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You can imagine the kind of thing… so-called protective potions that are really gravy with a bit of bubotuber pus added, or instructions for defensive jinxes that actually make your ears fall off… Well, in the main the perpetrators are just people like Mundungus Fletcher, who’ve never done an honest day’s work in their lives and are taking advantage of how frightened everybody is, but every now and then something really nasty turns up. The other day Arthur confiscated a box of cursed Sneakoscopes that were almost certainly planted by a Death Eater. So you see, it’s a very important job, and I tell him it’s just silly to miss dealing with spark plugs and toasters and all the rest of that Muggle rubbish.” Mrs. Weasley ended her speech with a stern look, as if it had been Harry suggesting that it was natural to miss spark plugs.

  “Is Mr. Weasley still at work?” Harry asked.

  “Yes, he is. As a matter of fact, he’s a tiny bit late… He said he’d be back around midnight…”

  She turned to look at a large clock that was perched awkwardly on top of a pile of sheets in the washing basket at the end of the table. Harry recognized it at once: It had nine hands, each inscribed with the name of a family member, and usually hung on the Weasleys’ sitting room wall, though its current position suggested that Mrs. Weasley had taken to carrying it around the house with her. Every single one of its nine hands was now pointing at mortal peril.

  “It’s been like that for a while now,” said Mrs. Weasley, in an unconvincingly casual voice, “ever since You-Know-Who came back into the open. I suppose everybody’s in mortal danger now… I don’t think it can be just our family… but I don’t know anyone else who’s got a clock like this, so I can’t check. Oh!”

  With a sudden exclamation she pointed at the clock’s face. Mr. Weasley’s hand had switched to traveling.

  “He’s coming!”

  And sure enough, a moment later there was a knock on the back door. Mrs. Weasley jumped up and hurried to it; with one hand on the doorknob and her face pressed against the wood she called softly, “Arthur, is that you?”

  “Yes,” came Mr. Weasley’s weary voice. “But I would say that even if I were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the question!”

  “Oh, honestly…”

  “Molly!”

  “All right, all right… What is your dearest ambition?”

  “To find out how airplanes stay up.”

  Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but apparently Mr. Weasley was holding tight to it on the other side, because the door remained firmly shut.

  “Molly! I’ve got to ask you your question first!”

  “Arthur, really, this is just silly…”

  “What do you like me to call you when we’re alone together?”

  Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell that Mrs. Weasley had turned bright red; he himself felt suddenly warm around the ears and neck, and hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as he could against the bowl.

  “Mollywobbles,” whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the edge of the door.

  “Correct,” said Mr. Weasley. “Now you can let me in.”

  Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband, a thin, balding, red-haired wizard wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty traveling cloak.

  “I still don’t see why we have to go through that every time you come home,” said Mrs. Weasley, still pink in the face as she helped her husband out of his cloak. “I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer out of you before impersonating you!”

  “I know, dear, but it’s Ministry procedure, and I have to set an example. Something smells good… onion soup?”

  Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table.

  “Harry! We didn’t expect you until morning!”

  They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the chair beside Harry as Mrs. Weasley set a bowl of soup in front of him too.

  “Thanks, Molly. It’s been a tough night. Some idiot’s started selling Metamorph-Medals. Just sling them around your neck and you’ll be able to change your appearance at will. A hundred thousand disguises, all for ten Galleons!”

  “And what really happens when you put them on?”

  “Mostly you just turn a fairly unpleasant orange color, but a couple of people have also sprouted tentacle like warts all over their bodies. As if St. Mungo’s didn’t have enough to do already!”

  “It sounds like the sort of thing Fred and George would find funny,” said Mrs. Weasley hesitantly. “Are you sure…?”

  “Of course I am!” said Mr. Weasley. “The boys wouldn’t do anything like that now, not when people are desperate for protection!”

  “So is that why you’re late, Metamorph-Medals?”

  “No, we got wind of a nasty backfir
ing jinx down in Elephant and Castle, but luckily the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had sorted it out by the time we got there…”

  Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand.

  “Bed,” said an undeceived Mrs. Weasley at once. “I’ve got Fred and George’s room all ready for you, you’ll have it to yourself.”

  “Why, where are they?”

  “Oh, they’re in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat over their joke shop as they’re so busy,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I must say, I didn’t approve at first, but they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business! Come on, dear, your trunks already up there.”

  “’Night, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry, pushing back his chair. Crookshanks leapt lightly from his lap and slunk out of the room.

  “G’night, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley.

  Harry saw Mrs. Weasley glance at the clock in the washing basket as they left the kitchen. All the hands were once again at mortal peril.

  Fred and George’s bedroom was on the second floor. Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at a lamp on the bedside table and it ignited at once, bathing the room in a pleasant golden glow. Though a large vase of flowers had been placed on a desk in front of the small window, their perfume could not disguise the lingering smell of what Harry thought was gunpowder. A considerable amount of floor space was devoted to a vast number of unmarked, sealed cardboard boxes, amongst which stood Harry’s school trunk. The room looked as though it was being used as a temporary warehouse.

  Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top of a large wardrobe, then took off through the window; Harry knew she had been waiting to see him before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good night, put on pajamas, and got into one of the beds. There was something hard inside the pillowcase. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple-and-orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep.

  Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was awakened by what sounded like cannon fire as the door burst open. Sitting bolt upright, he heard the rasp of the curtains being pulled back: The dazzling sunlight seemed to poke him hard in both eyes. Shielding them with one hand, he groped hopelessly for his glasses with the other.

  “Wuzzgoinon?”

  “We didn’t know you were here already!” said a loud and excited voice, and he received a sharp blow to the top of the head.

  “Ron, don’t hit him!” said a girl’s voice reproachfully.

  Harry’s hand found his glasses and he shoved them on, though the light was so bright he could hardly see anyway. A long, looming shadow quivered in front of him for a moment; he blinked and Ron Weasley came into focus, grinning down at him.

  “All right?”

  “Never been better,” said Harry, rubbing the top of his head and slumping back onto his pillows. “You?”

  “Not bad,” said Ron, pulling over a cardboard box and sitting on it. “When did you get here? Mum’s only just told us!”

  “About one o’clock this morning.”

  “Were the Muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?”

  “Same as usual,” said Harry, as Hermione perched herself on the edge of his bed, “they didn’t talk to me much, but I like it better that way. How’re you, Hermione?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” said Hermione, who was scrutinizing Harry as though he was sickening for something. He thought he knew what was behind this, and as he had no wish to discuss Sirius’s death or any other miserable subject at the moment, he said, “What’s the time? Have I missed breakfast?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Mum’s bringing you up a tray; she reckons you look underfed,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “So, what’s been going on?”

  “Nothing much, I’ve just been stuck at my aunt and uncle’s, haven’t I?”

  “Come off it!” said Ron. “You’ve been off with Dumbledore!”

  “It wasn’t that exciting. He just wanted me to help him persuade this old teacher to come out of retirement. His name’s Horace Slughorn.”

  “Oh,” said Ron, looking disappointed. “We thought—”

  Hermione flashed a warning look at Ron, and Ron changed tack at top speed.

  “—we thought it’d be something like that.”

  “You did?” said Harry, amused.

  “Yeah… yeah, now Umbridge has left, obviously we need a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, don’t we? So, er, what’s he like?”

  “He looks a bit like a walrus, and he used to be Head of Slytherin,” said Harry. “Something wrong, Hermione?”

  She was watching him as though expecting strange symptoms to manifest themselves at any moment. She rearranged her features hastily in an unconvincing smile.

  “No, of course not! So, um, did Slughorn seem like he’ll be a good teacher?”

  “Dunno,” said Harry. “He can’t be worse than Umbridge, can he?”

  “I know someone who’s worse than Umbridge,” said a voice from the doorway. Ron’s younger sister slouched into the room, looking irritable. “Hi, Harry.”

  “What’s up with you?” Ron asked.

  “It’s her,” said Ginny, plonking herself down on Harry’s bed. “She’s driving me mad.”

  “What’s she done now?” asked Hermione sympathetically.

  “It’s the way she talks to me… you’d think I was about three!”

  “I know,” said Hermione, dropping her voice. “She’s so full of herself.”

  Harry was astonished to hear Hermione talking about Mrs. Weasley like this and could not blame Ron for saying angrily, “Can’t you two lay off her for five seconds?”

  “Oh, that’s right, defend her,” snapped Ginny. “We all know you can’t get enough of her.”

  This seemed an odd comment to make about Ron’s mother. Starting to feel that he was missing something, Harry said, “Who are you…?”

  But his question was answered before he could finish it. The bedroom door flew open again, and Harry instinctively yanked the bedcovers up to his chin so hard that Hermione and Ginny slid off the bed onto the floor.

  A young woman was standing in the doorway, a woman of such breathtaking beauty that the room seemed to have become strangely airless. She was tall and willowy with long blonde hair and appeared to emanate a faint, silvery glow. To complete this vision of perfection, she was carrying a heavily laden breakfast tray.

  “’Arry,” she said in a throaty voice. “Eet ’as been too long!”

  As she swept over the threshold toward him, Mrs. Weasley was revealed, bobbing along in her wake, looking rather cross.

  “There was no need to bring up the tray, I was just about to do it myself!”

  “Eet was no trouble,” said Fleur Delacour, setting the tray across Harry’s knees and then swooping to kiss him on each cheek: He felt the places where her mouth had touched him burn. “I ’ave been longing to see ’im. You remember my seester, Gabrielle? She never stops talking about ’Arry Potter. She will be delighted to see you again.”

  “Oh… is she here too?” Harry croaked.

  “No, no, silly boy,” said Fleur with a tinkling laugh, “I mean next summer, when we… but do you not know?”

  Her great blue eyes widened and she looked reproachfully at Mrs. Weasley, who said, “We hadn’t got around to telling him yet.”

  Fleur turned back to Harry, swinging her silvery sheet of hair so that it whipped Mrs. Weasley across the face.

  “Bill and I are going to be married!”

  “Oh,” said Harry blankly. He could not help noticing how Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, and Ginny were all determinedly avoiding one another’s gaze. “Wow. Er… congratulations!”

  She swooped down upon him and kissed him again.

  “Bill is very busy at ze moment, working very ’ard, and I only work part-time at Gringotts for my Eenglish, so he brought me ’ere for a few days to get to know ’is family properly. I was so pleased to ’ear you would be coming… zere isn’t much to do ’ere, unless you like coo
king and chickens! Well… enjoy your breakfast, ’Arry!”

  With these words she turned gracefully and seemed to float out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Mrs. Weasley made a noise that sounded like, “tchah!”

  “Mum hates her,” said Ginny quietly.

  “I do not hate her!” said Mrs. Weasley in a cross whisper. “I just think they’ve hurried into this engagement, that’s all!”

  “They’ve known each other a year,” said Ron, who looked oddly groggy and was staring at the closed door.

  “Well, that’s not very long! I know why it’s happened, of course. Its all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who coming back, people think they might be dead tomorrow, so they’re rushing all sorts of decisions they’d normally take time over. It was the same last time he was powerful, people eloping left, right, and center…”

  “Including you and Dad,” said Ginny slyly.

  “Yes, well, your father and I were made for each other, what was the point in waiting?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Whereas Bill and Fleur… well… what have they really got in common? He’s a hardworking, down-to-earth sort of person, whereas she’s…”

  “A cow,” said Ginny, nodding. “But Bill’s not that down-to-earth. He’s a Curse-Breaker, isn’t he, he likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour… I expect that’s why he’s gone for Phlegm.”

  “Stop calling her that, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, as Harry and Hermione laughed. “Well, I’d better get on… Eat your eggs while they’re warm, Harry.”

  Looking careworn, she left the room. Ron still seemed slightly punch-drunk; he was shaking his head experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of water.

  “Don’t you get used to her if she’s staying in the same house?” Harry asked.

  “Well, you do,” said Ron, “but if she jumps out at you unexpectedly, like then…”

  “It’s pathetic,” said Hermione furiously, striding away from Ron as far as she could go and turning to face him with her arms folded once she had reached the wall.

  “You don’t really want her around forever?” Ginny asked Ron incredulously. When he merely shrugged, she said, “Well, Mum’s going to put a stop to it if she can, I bet you anything.”