Harry Potter and the Dark Mark

Chapter One: The Dark Mark

On the twenty-second of June, at precisely 19:00 hours Greenwich Meantime, Vernon P. Dursley of number four Privet Drive had a heart attack. Well. . . nearly. He was starting on his second helping of mash and happily flipping through the Evening Standard, the evening drifting along perfectly peacefully, when it happened.

The kitchen window had been left open ajar, letting in the lovely light evening breeze, when suddenly a loud whoosh of wind burst through it, and with it a large, squatty, spotty, wild-eyed owl. It's huge wings fluttered furiously about Uncle Vernon, the room filling with its' ear piercing squawk which were soon coupled with the deep, heaving wheezes of a beet-red faced Vernon Dursley.

"POTTER! GET-THAT-BLOODY-BARNYARD-BEAST AWAY FROM ME!"

Harry Potter cleared his throat, trying to fight off an impending laughing fit, and snatched the letter from the hyperactive owl, which happened to belong to his best friend. "Thanks Pigwidgeon-- best get going, all right?"

Pigwidgeon kept his squawking and circled Harry's head a couple times, before returning to Vernon for a few last flaps and then soaring out of the kitchen window once more.

Vernon's mouth was agape, Aunt Petunia's gaunt face looked even more emaciated than before, both staring at Harry with blood in their eyes. Harry said nothing and merely concerned himself with opening the letter.

"Who's it from, mate?"

The voice belonged to Dudley Dursley. Yes, the Dudley Dursley who had spent fourteen years of his life making life a living hell for Harry. That is, up until the previous year when the boy had done quite a bit of changing.

"Both of us, actually. Ron is inviting us to spend a fortnight with him and his family in Ireland!"

"Wicked," said Dudley, his blue eyes widening at the thought of a holiday. "That'll be a blast! What do you say Dad? Can I?"

Of course, Harry and Dudley both knew quite well what the response would be.

Vernon's face went from beet to fire engine red. He opened his mouth to scream at the boy, but instead put his hand to his heart, heaving and gasping. His gaunt wife Petunia shrieked and ran to the telephone to dial the paramedics, but Vernon soon calmed down, his breathing regulated and his face returned to its normal color (which was actually just a tad lighter than fire engine red anyway).

Dudley looked only mildly concerned at the scene, and when things settled down a bit, he shrugged his shoulders. "So then . . . that's a yes, right?"

Harry recoiled in his chair at the dinner table, absolutely certain that his Uncle Vernon would reach across the table and strangle him with a single massive, porky hand.

And this he did.

"Y-you," came the strained voice of a man consumed in anger, "Y-you've done this! You've torn apart our home! You've turned our own son against us!"

Dudley sniggered. "Really, Dad. You're out of order! I mean, how can you say--"

"See how he defies us?" Vernon grabbed hold of Harry's shirt collar and lifted him off his chair, pushing his enormous face against Harry's. "You've bewitched him! Give us our son back!"

"Dad! Stop!" Dudley heaved Harry away from his father's grip.

Harry stumbled and backed away to the far end of the kitchen, glaring at his uncle. This made the fifth such accusation within the past two weeks, and Harry had finally had enough. "No one has Dudley bewitched, all right? How many times do we have to go through this--"

"Don't you dare raise your voice to your Uncle," said Petunia-- her voice could wake the dead, there was no doubt. "The older you get, the more deplorable your behavior--"

Dudley stood up at this. "If you call standing up for yourself bad behavior, then you're even more of a flipping psychopath than I thought!"

Harry looked at his cousin in a quiet sort of awe: it had nearly been one year since the two had started to forge their friendship, but Dudley's unprecedented change of heart still amazed Harry.

"Now the both of you are going to listen to me," said Dudley, his blue eyes furious. "The Weasleys invited Harry and Me to spend a fortnight in Ireland, and I'm bloody well going!"

Vernon managed to choke out the scathing words "I forbid you."

"You what?"

"You heard! Not while you live under this roof--"

"Oh come off it. What, you're going to turn me out? I'm a minor! Tell you what: when I turn eighteen, I'll do us both a favor and ship on out, all right?" He stood up, "Come on, Harry. Let's go."

Harry Potter wasn't accustomed to leaving the kitchen without first clearing away the table and washing the dishes. He stood up hesitantly, giving Dudley a look that screamed 'are you sure this is a good idea?'

Uncle Vernon slammed his fist on the table. "Damn you, boy! Your mother and I will not have those freaky Weedley's in our home again!"

"It's Weasley's--"

"I don't care what it is! They'll not step one foot in this home!"

"Then we'll wait for them outside. Come on, Harry."

Harry followed his cousin upstairs-- someone who was not only a shadow of himself in personality but in appearance as well. Aside from the incredible change in Dudley's weight from last year, he'd done a bit of growing and was no longer the short one of the family. In fact, it was likely he would reach up with Harry up by summer's end. Harry had gone through a growth spurt the year before (he'd passed up the girls at school, finally!) and his hopes were high at one day actually being tall like Ron! But those hopes were now quite low as he hadn't done anymore real growing and he resigned himself once more to being content with being the "little guy."

To Harry's surprise, the Dursleys didn't kill him or Dudley that night. Or the next night, for that matter. Actually, the entire week prior to the Weasley's scheduled arrival, there were no further blow-ups (odd for Privet Drive, to be sure!). Of course, that was due to the fact that not a word was spoken between Mr. and Mrs. Dursley and Dudley and Harry.

At night, after Dudley had finally left his room after their usual habit of chatting away for positively hours, Harry opened his desk drawer and pulled out his well used quill and ink bottle, and took a seat at his desk beneath the bright moonlight. He held his quill pensively, deciding to whom he should write to first . . . but there really wasn't a question in the matter. For Harry Potter, there was really only one person whom he wrote to religiously--even moreso than Sirius Black. And that was a girl by the name of Sophie Banbury.

Dear Sophie . . .

Harry's pen still trembled slightly when he wrote her name on paper. She'd been Harry's neighbor last year, and she was the main reason for Dudley's unfathomable transformation: he'd fallen head over heels in love with her. (It reached the point where when Sophie made an offhand comment that her favorite dog was the terrier, Dudley felt it necessary to take one as a pet. Petunia hadn't been thrilled.)

The difficult thing was, that Dudley wasn't the only person at 4 Privet Drive to have fallen for the girl. For the past month (all right: five weeks, three days and seventeen hours) Harry had not been able to think of anyone else. Nor had he wanted to think of anyone else. She'd been his friend, first and foremost, and over the past year he'd found that he was able to tell her anything. He could talk to her more freely than anyone else--yes, even Sirius. Because whenever he was around Sophie he didn't feel awkward, or strange, or famous or anything else--he felt like just Harry.

Dudley didn't know any of this (and thankfully so, nor was he aware of the fact that Sophie felt the same way towards Harry.

But Harry put that out of his head for the moment, and focused on the words he was writing. Hedwig was only to proud to take the finished letter from Harry's hand and, nibbling his fingertips affectionately, she gracefully flew out of the window into the horizon and Harry wished upon wish that he could go with her.

The morning of their departure was a deliciously warm one, the sky cloudless and brilliant blue. Harry and Dudley brought their suitcases downstairs, bade Vernon and Petunia a quick, unconcerned 'farewell' and waited outside, suitcases in hand, to wait for the Weasleys. Harry could feel Petunia staring down at him from behind her lace curtains, probably bracing herself for the Weasleys' always-conspicuous arrival.

Thankfully, the Weasleys were learning! Arthur had acquired yet another Muggle car (this time a brown, mid 1970s model clunker) and it turned onto Privet Drive with far less commotion than their usual arrivals. (aside from the very noisy, squeaking brakes)

Ron was the first out of the car, heartily greeting Harry.

"All right there, Harry?"

"Brilliant, now that you're here." He blinked. "Ron? You've. . . "

"Cut my hair, yes. Hermione likes it this way. Too short, do you think? Ginny reckons it's naff."

Harry laughed. "Well I like it. And where is Ginny anyway?" asked Harry, peering into the car.

"Ah, well, she's at home-- a bit, ah, under the weather these days. She got into a . . . disagreement last week with the witch down the road. She accused Ginny of dumping all of our garden gnomes into her back garden and, well, let's just say the end result of the argument wasn't pretty. They don't call her Margaret the Miffed for nothing --"

"Ohhh," said Harry. "Bad temper, eh?"

"Ghastly. And poor Ginny got the receiving end of it." Ron was apparently doing all he could to not break into laughter. "She made me swear I wouldn't tell you what happened to her, but you can imagine. It must be bad if she'd give up an opportunity to spend two weeks holiday with you."

Harry ignored that and threw his case into the boot. Dudley followed suit.

Arthur heaved the boot closed and rubbed his hands. "I'd simply love to have a chat with your Mum and Dad, Dudley. They are in, aren't they?"

Dudley laughed nervously. "Yes. . . but now really isn't a good time."

"Oh, but I want to assure them you'll be perfectly safe on the holiday and--"

"They know, they know. We're wasting time, aren't we, Mr. Weasley?"

Arthur got the hint and happily changed the subject as they all filed into the car.

* *

Ron was positively bored out of his mind. He rested his head against the window, staring out at the passing scenery as though he were in a trance. "Still can't bloody understand why we couldn't just use the Floo powder! We'd have been there days ago. . ."

"Enough of that whining, Ronald Weasley!" Molly craned her neck to give him the evil eye. "We've told you a million times that Dudley cannot travel with floo powder and we are not separating, understand? Besides, Harry's home is no longer permitted in the network."

This was news to Harry. "Oh?"

Molly was quiet for a moment too long-- betraying the fact that she probably hadn't meant to say that. "Oh. . . yes, Harry. The ministry doesn't allow it anymore, given what happened last year."

"Oh. Right," said Harry quietly, remembering it all too well. It had been the floo network that had allowed Death Eater Delphine Lestrange's treacherous plot to take place-- the plot that led to the death of Sophie's Mum (a witch at the Ministry of magic, and the twin sister of Delphine Lestrange) and it nearly cost Harry his life as well as Ron and Sophie's.

"Besides," said Arthur, gleefully drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, "don't you find this fascinating? Real-life Muggle travel!"

Ron grunted. "No offense, Dudley, but at the rate you Muggles travel, it's a wonder that you can get anywhere on time at all. Our travel is pretty much instantaneous, really, and somehow we still always manage to run late."

Harry nudged Dudley's arm and leaned over. "Don't tell Ron, but that's actually just a Weasley problem," he whispered.

"Arthur," said Molly, "Muggle cars play music, don't they? Maybe a little background music will brighten Ron's disagreeable disposition."

"I'm not being disagreeable--"

"Capital idea, Molly dear. Dudley, my boy, once this wireless sound projector is turned to the on position. . . how is it that I get the music I wish from it? No special words to recite, I expect?"

"The radio? See that round knob on the right? Turn it slowly-- that gives you different, er, what we call "stations," which all play a different sort of music. You just search until you find the one you like best . . ." he winked at Harry. "Er . . . I personally suggest 104.1 FM."

"One-oh-four-point-one," Arthur repeated, "Oh, confound-it! Where is the point-- oh, the red dial, of course, yes--"

"Arthur! Watch the road!"

"I am, darling, I am. Oh, you take a look at this contraption, I can't make heads or tails of it."

Molly Weasley pushed her husband's hand out of the way and promptly found the station.

She smiled triumphantly. "See? Simple!"

Harry started to giggle. Dudley had chosen a station that specialized in playing polka music-- something that was sure to drive Ron stark raving mad!

"What the bloody hell is this?" he shouted, staring menacingly at Dudley. "What are you trying to do, kill me?"

Harry was now laughing out loud. "Oh go on, Dudley, change it before Ron has another fit."

Ron folded his arms. "You're sounding like Hermione."

"Lovely girl, that Hermione," said Arthur jovially. "Still dunno why you didn't ask her to come with, Ron. Not a very considerate beaux--"

"I told you already. Parvati and Padma Patil invited her and a few other Gryffindor girls to go on holiday with their family in Greece." He paused irritably. "Though I doubt they drove all the way!"

* *

It was late afternoon by the time the Weasleys drove down a particularly steep hill towards a small seaside inn. Harry, Ron and Dudley nearly fell out of the backseat. Harry's knees felt weak and about ready to give out beneath his weight. Dudley held onto Ron for support.

"Really, boys, must you make such a fuss?" Molly shook her head and pulled the cases out of the boot. "Come along and help with the luggage."

They walked into a half-timbered inn with very low ceilings and doorways-- even Dudley had to duck through a couple doorframes. The Inn was a Muggle-run establishment, the landlords being an old married couple with an evaluating stare. They led the group up the narrow, winding wood staircase to their rooms.

Harry, Ron and Dudley's room was quite tiny, but loaded with charm. The windows looked out over the pebbled drive and out to the sea stretched on into an infinite green mist. The soothing, gentle rhythm of the crashing surf in the distance was the only sound as the travelers stared out the window, positively entranced.

"Cor," said Dudley, "this is beautiful. Went to Majorca last summer and it was beautiful too, but, I dunno, it was really more city than anything else, you know? This is like it's never been touched."

It was enough to even yank Ron out of his mood! After a quiet, lazy afternoon, the boys trekked downstairs to find Mr. and Mrs. Weasley relaxing in the foyer. Ron started in with the not-so-subtle hints to his mother and father about getting out and into the nearby village, Heatherwood Hollow.

Molly had rather been looking forward to a cozy evening alongside the fire, but upon seeing the boys' hopeful smiles, she heaved herself out of the chair and threw on her shawl and hat.

"Come along Arthur," she said in her singsong voice. Mr. Weasley responded with an unenthusiastic grunt and ushered the boys outside. Dudley made a start for the car, only to have Arthur stop him abruptly.

"No, my boy, the village isn't far. Let's all have a nice evening stroll."

There were no complaints, since the walk was a gorgeous stretch of road along cliffs, which dropped sharply into the crashing waves below. The sun was vast in the distance, still claiming the sky as its own thanks to the late summer daylight hours. The longer they kept on their journey, however, the lower it edged towards the waters, turning them from green to pink, then purple, then finally to deep blue. By the time the company reached the village, night had fallen.

Heatherwood Hollow was a quaint village with one High Street ('Heatherwood High,' the locals called it) crammed with shops. Tall torches hung in midair up and down the pavement, lighting up the street impressively well for the mid evening strollers. And indeed, the warm temperatures ensured that the streets were teeming with robe-clad, hat sporting patrons.

Molly took a deep breath, her face red from the brisk walk and the flickering red and orange from the torches seemed to exaggerate the flush to her cheeks.. "Ahhh-- smell that, lads? Heatherwood Bakeries. Nothing like it in the world-- Muggle or wizarding. Arthur dearest, we will be picking up a tart or two won't we?"

"Of course Molly dear, of course, as soon as I take a quick peek inside Marvingtons--"

Molly grabbed his arm and yanked him most forcefully in the other direction. "After the bakers, Arthur darling."

Arthur tripped over his feet and followed his wife begrudgingly towards the bakers at the far end of the High street, leaving the three boys alone on the crowded pavement.

Ron shook his head. "Won't be seeing them again any time soon. They're worse than kids sometimes! Come on, I'll show you two about the place. Oh! Dudley, you've got to see Busby's! See, at Hogwarts, we get to go to this village called Hogsmeade and they've got this wicked joke shop called Zonkos. And aside from Zonkos', this is one of the best joke shops in all of Britain."

Harry wagged his finger. "Ah tsk, tsk, Ron. Lest we forget Weasleys Wizard Wheezes?"

"Notice that I said one of the best joke shops. Not the best joke shop. We all know that coveted title belongs to the Wheezes. But come on, Dudley, have a look!"

Harry followed closely as Ron ushered Dudley inside the inviting shop. The lighting was a warm orange-- very homey. They examined the aisles of outlandish offerings, Dudley laughing and pointing in awe at everything he saw. Harry couldn't help but feel a bit like a father watching his son take his first steps: Dudley was asking questions, genuinely interested in how the different pranks worked, waiting patiently as Harry and Ron explained them all.

"Oh, I like this," said Dudley, holding a round glass ball that started to glow red.

Harry laughed. "Oh dear, I haven't seen one of those in years. It's called a Remember-All, and whenever it turns red like that, it means that you have forgotten something."

"But. . . it doesn't tell you what you've forgotten?"

"Well, no--"

"Then what bloody use is it?"

Harry blinked. "Point well made, Dudley.

"Here we are Dudley," said Ron triumphantly, pouring a handful of small, multi-colored beans from a wicker basket into a small drawstring bag.

"Oh no," Dudley said, quickly backing away, "those aren't those nasty buggers that swell up your tongue, are they?"

Harry nearly fell into stitches! "No! These are Every-Flavored-Beans! Although. . ." he was trying hard to suppress his giggles, "I completely forgot about that, Dudley! I'll never forget the look on your Mum's face--"

"I'll never forget the look on his face," laughed Ron.

"Yes, yes, let's all have a great laugh at Dudley."

"Ah, but that wasn't you, mate," said Ron. "That was your evil twin brother, remember?"

"Yeah," said Dudley, pouting, "but it still hurt like hell, I'm tellin' ya."

"Well," said Ron, "I promise, these will not swell up your tongue. Though a couple of 'em might make you want to run to the toilet, if you know what I mean."

"I'm guessing that "every flavor" is really every flavor?"

"You name it, it's there. Watermelon, lemon drop, grass, coffee, dirt, popcorn, sardines, vomit--"

Dudley blanched. "Sounds lovely." He peered at the sign. "50 sickles-- how much is that in Muggle money, Harry?"

"Er. . . I dunno, actually."

"I've only brought normal money! I mean-- well, it's not yours."

"Not to worry, Dudley," said Harry. He took the bag and they walked towards the check-out counter.

A young girl with long blonde hair, not more than eleven at most, seemed to appear out of nowhere and was at once at Harry's side, taking hold of his arm.

"Oh my--" Her brown eyes scanned his forehead eagerly, "you're Harry Potter aren't you!"

Harry forced a smile even through he really felt like pushing this newcomer away. Of course he didn't have to reply to that question.

"Oh I am such a big fan of yours! Do you know that I keep every newspaper article of you tucked away in a scrapbook? I just can't believe that I'm actually meeting you! OH, here, can you please sign this for me!"

She dug into a satchel and pulled out a quill and . . . to Harry's horror, produced a photograph of him as well. He actually remembered taking the photo--it had been just after the champions of the Triwizard Tournament had been announced. He stood next to Cedric Diggory, Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour-- his own photographic self edging his way towards the edge of the photograph. And this girl carried pictures of him around in her satchel?

Scary.

Harry wanted to run out of the shop, but the girl was forcing the quill into his hand. "Make it out to Zelda Zarate. I'm going to start on at Hogwarts this year too! What House are you in? I hope I'll be sorted into your house!"

Ron, who'd been watching the entire scene with Dudley, had to say something. "Nah. You're a Hufflepuff if I've ever met one."

Harry quickly scribbled his name, thrust the picture back at blushing girl. "Thanks, er, have a good night Zelda. See ya." In other words: okay, get going now.

She was grinning like a Cheshire cat and stared lovingly at the autograph as she hurried out of the shop.

"What the hell was all that about?" Dudley's mouth was agape in surprise.

Ron was rather amused by it all-- especially by Harry's visible discomfort. "Oh, didn't Harry tell you, Dudley? He's a regular celebrity!"

"Shut up, Ron--"

"Well, it's true! Dudley should know just who his cousin is! You see Dudley, it's quite normal for things like that to happen with Harry. Gets it all the time, although he's too noble to admit it. Everyone in our world has grown up knowing the story about Harry and the Dark Lord-- Mum and Dad used to even recite it to us kids as a bedtime story. So anything that Harry does pretty much always makes headline news."

"Knock it off, Ron."

Ron laughed, "all right, mate. All right." He put his arm around Harry's shoulder. "But it is the truth."

Dudley shook his head in disbelief as they stood at the checkout counter. "I can't believe you didn't tell me about all this, Harry!"

"There was nothing to tell. Now where is the clerk--"

A suspicious-looking female ghost appeared at that moment: a funny looking thing with her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She looked frustrated at having to attend to them.

"Will that be all?" came a most accusatory voice, as she glanced at the single item in annoyance.

"Y-yes, thanks," said Harry in a hopefully cheery tone, pulling the money out of his pocket. He handed the money to the ghoul, who stared back at him, her anger growing.

"Please put the money on the scale, sir."

Harry blinked and noticed the scale next to the register. The register, upon closer examination, was covered in cobwebs and hadn't been used in years. The scales were shiny and well used, a sign next to it reading "Please Place Exact Change Here."

Dudley was obviously enthralled with it all. "Oh!" he cried, "Right, of course! You have to pay that way because you can't very well hold the change, right?"

The ghost looked positively murderous. She floated through the counter towards Dudley, her voice straining to keep its cool. "It-would-quite-surprise-you-sir-what-ghosts-can-do. . ."

Harry flipped the coins onto the scale, grabbed the beans and took Dudley in his other arm.

"Right, then, thanks so much. We'll be on our way."

Ron and Harry pulled Dudley out of the store and back out onto busy High Street.

"Not the friendliest thing was she?" said Dudley, digging into the bag. "Are all ghosts that charming?"

Ron shook his head. "Most are rather nice-- a bit unnerving at times, but nice."

"Like our House ghost at Hogwarts," said Harry. "Nearly Headless Nick. He's the nicest bloke you'd ever meet-- it's just a bit unsettling that his head hangs on by a wing and a prayer."

Dudley looked appalled.

"I know it sounds horrible," said Ron, "But he's really a great bloke, you know? Then on the other hand there's Moaning Myrtle. She haunts one of the girls' lavatories-- gets on my nerves, that one."

"Oh stop it," said Harry, "you're always bashing Myrtle."

"She's downright mental!"

"She's always been nice to me!"

"That's only 'coz she fancies you, mate!"

"She's a ghost, Ron."

"Exactly! She doesn't have to worry about commitment! How else do you explain the peep show--"

"The WHAT?!?" Dudley spit the sweets he was chewing on out of his mouth and stared at his cousin. "THE WHAT?!?"

"RON! Please! You're already getting the story wrong--"

Ron was laughing. "See Dudley, Harry was taking a bath in the boys' shower-- you know, completely starkers, right? And who should come in and sit watching him, but Myrtle?"

"Ron!" Harry was beet red. "I can't believe you told him that! Didn't I make you swear not to tell anyone?"

"Not that I recall--"

"Well, I should have. . ."

"Don't worry, Harry," said Dudley with a supportive pat on the back. "It's all right." He stifled another giggle. "But honestly Harry, just between us, did she actually see--"

"DUDLEY! Shut up!"

"Wait 'till Sophie hears this one!"

Everything inside of Harry flew into a panic. He reached out and grabbed Dudley's sleeve. "What? No! Don't tell her that!"

Dudley raised his brow, surprised at Harry's adamant reaction. "Relax, Harry, relax. Jeez, I wasn't serious. Why should you care, anyway?"

Change the subject, Harry. Just change the subject. . .

Boom!

A tremendous explosion jolted the pavement and hurtled Harry, Ron and Dudley to the ground. Several thuds and the ensuing screaming told him that this wasn't an accidental explosion from the joke shop. He opened his eyes and found Ron, Dudley and the other bystanders just hoisting themselves from the ground. The people further down the road looked to be covered in smoke-- and little wonder why! Thick black smoke was billowing from one of the store windows, flames shooting up into the sky. . .

The stars in the sky disappeared as a thick cloud obscured them. The cloud certainly wasn't smoke from the fire since the Ministry Wizards had appeared to squelch the fire with their charms. It was almost as though something else was causing it-- something other than the fire.

And then Harry realized what it was. Something that he hadn't seen for two years, but sent shivers down his spine as it always had. . . the thick cloud had taken shape and color: it glowed with green sparks and formed the chilling figure of a skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth.

"The Dark Mark."

The entire High street fell silent, staring up at the Mark in horrified disbelief. Harry pushed past the onlookers towards the scene of the fire.

"Stand back, Harry!" Arthur Weasley stood at the scene, next to Molly, and grabbed onto Harry's arm tightly. Harry peered under Arthur's shoulder and saw a body lying limp on the ground. It was a witch, and from what he could tell, she was dead.

"Oh no--" he gasped. "Mr. Weasley! The explosion. . . it must have shattered the glass!"

She was still bleeding, a large, jagged piece of glass lodged in her chest.

"Grisly," gasped Arthur. "Absolutely horrific."

The Dark Mark cast a green shadow over the streets, which sent a cumulative shudder through the crowds. There were several women, now, who were crying. Molly was one of them-- she buried her face into Arthur's robes, sobbing loudly. Harry was unable to tear his gaze away from the body-- away from the blood saturating the pavement and staining her clothes and skin.

Harry was suddenly overcome with a raging anger. "The Death Eaters," he whispered to Arthur, his voice so wrought with emotion that all he could manage was to ask, "Why?"

"I don't know, my boy, I don't know. But don't worry. The Ministry will sort it out."

For Harry, those words didn't inspire the sort of confidence they were meant to, given the Ministry's recent history. And the scary part was that they really didn't for Arthur either: Harry could hear it in his voice. Everyone was scared.