41[@more@]“Of course, Ron, but people are terrified,” Mr. Weasley replied, “terrified that they will be next to disappear, their children the next to be attacked! There are nasty rumors going around; I for one don’t believe the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts resigned. She hasn’t been seen for weeks now. Meanwhile Scrimgeour remains shut up in his office all day; I just hope he’s working on a plan.”
There was a pause in which Mrs. Weasley magicked the empty plates onto the
work surface and served apple tart.
“We must decide ‘ow you will be disguised, ‘Arry,” said Fleur, once everyone had pudding. “For ze wedding,” she added, when he looked confused. “Of course, none of our guests are Death Eaters, but we cannot guarantee zat zey will not let something slip after zey ‘ave ‘ad champagne.”
From this, Harry gathered that she still suspected Hagrid.
“Yes, good point,” said Mrs. Weasley from the top of the table where she sat, spectacles perched on the end of her nose, scanning an immense list of jobs that she had scribbled on a very long piece of parchment. “Now, Ron, have you cleaned out your room yet?”
“Why?” exclaimed Ron, slamming his spoon down and glaring at his mother.
“Why does my room have to be cleaned out? Harry and I are fine with it the way it is!” “We are holding your brother’s wedding here in a few days’ time, young man –“ “And are they getting married in my bedroom?” asked Ron furiously. “No! So why in the name of Merlin’s saggy left –“
“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” said Mr. Weasley firmly. “And do as you’re told.”
Ron scowled at both his parents, then picked up his spoon and attacked the last few mouthfuls of his apple tart.
“I can help, some of it’s my mess.” Harry told Ron, but Mrs. Weasley cut across him.
“No, Harry, dear, I’d much rather you helped Arthur much out the chickens, and Hermione, I’d be ever so grateful if you’d change the sheets for Monsieur and Madame Delacour; you know they’re arriving at eleven tomorrow morning.”
But as it turned out, there was very little to do for the chickens. “There’s no need to, er, mention it to Molly,” Mr. Weasley told Harry, blocking his access to the coop, “but, er, Ted Tonks sent me most of what was left of Sirius’s bike and, er, I’m hiding – that’s to say, keeping – it in here. Fantastic stuff: There’s an exhaust gaskin, as I believe it’s called, the most magnificent battery, and it’ll be a great opportunity to find out how brakes work. I’m going to try and put it all back together again when Molly’s not – I mean, when I’ve got time.”
When they returned to the house, Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen, so Harry slipped upstairs to Ron’s attic bedroom.
“I’m doing it, I’m doing – ! Oh, it’s you,” said Ron in relief, as Harry entered the room. Ron lay back down on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The room was just as messy as it had been all week; the only chance was that Hermione was now sitting in the far corner, her fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at her feet, sorting books, some of which Harry recognized as his own, into two enormous piles.
“Hi, Harry,” she said, as he sat down on his camp bed.
“And how did you manage to get away?”
“Oh, Ron’s mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me to change the sheets
yesterday,” said Hermione. She threw Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other.
“We were just talking about Mad-Eye,” Ron told Harry. “I reckon he might have