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Author: Lady Whizbee Story: The Skullduggery of Muckle Delight Rating: Teens Status: WIP Reviews: 4 Words: 40,817
"Sorry—erm, sorry—didn't see you there—" Harry apologized, turning only briefly to acknowledge the wizard whom he had almost knocked over as he rounded the corner into the barely-lit offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He glanced at the clock on the wall, panting to catch his breath. He was late. Lupin wouldn't say anything, but he would give him that look that was ten times worse. Straightening his disheveled robe, Harry rushed through the corridors in the direction of the Viewing Chamber, which was in the furthest corner of the Department. The hushed office stretched before him in a series of empty cubicles and winding halls. Lamps flickered to life as Harry passed, rousing the myriad of wanted criminals whose faces were posted haphazardly across every available space. They each cursed the disruption, breaking the stillness with a wave of jeers that echoed in Harry's wake. The early morning corridors were vacant of actual people and, although Harry clipped along at a brisk pace, the carpet under his feet muffled every step. He rubbed his eyes, wishing that he had taken one less drink the night before. He and Neville had met in a Muggle pub to catch up over dinner and stayed out entirely too late—considering that he'd been awakened at 6:00 this morning. He was lucky that Lupin's owl had managed to come through Hedwig's window. By the annoyed way in which the owl nipped at his ear, Harry had a feeling the bird had been tapping outside his window for quite some time before figuring out an alternate route for delivering his letter. Harry ran a hand through his unfamiliar short hair, still damp from his shower, and felt for the flask of Polyjuice stowed safely in his pocket. This necessary potion was the reason why he was running late. In his haste to leave his flat, he had made it all the way down to the ground floor Floo connection before remembering that he hadn't taken the required potion. It had been so long since he had been in daily contact with anyone from the Ministry that he had simply forgotten to take it. No one knew that Harry Potter worked for the Ministry. They only knew him as Nighthawk; the Agent who found Death Eaters. He skidded around the corner to find the heavy oak door of the Viewing Chamber closed. Lupin's Aide was there though, leaning against the wall, clearly waiting for him to arrive. Damian Snothe had worked with Lupin for over two years, first assisting him in dismantling Fenrir Greyback's operations and now at the MLE. Damian was thorough, dependable and something about his demeanor had instantly won Harry's trust. He was slightly taller than Harry and broader in the shoulders, but very agile; he reminded Harry a lot of Dean Thomas. Harry realized that Damian looked as polished and alert as ever, making him feel even more self-conscious about the beads of sweat penetrating his neckline. Damian pushed off the wall when he spotted Harry. "Ah, Nighthawk, there you are." He smiled briefly. "They've already gone in, but Mr. Lupin asked that I escort you in as soon as you arrived." Harry nodded, following him. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "What are we viewing?" "Your memory." "My memory?" "Yes, from the pub in Paris." Damian opened the door. "But, why—?" Harry stopped short, thoroughly perplexed. Surely he hadn't been called here this early on a Saturday morning to relive something he had already witnessed—in person—only a few days previous. "Mr. Bestwicke wanted you to see it, and Mr. Lupin agreed." Damian pushed the door open. The Pensieve sat centered in the dark room on a raised platform, its soft silvery light glowing from within its deep basin. Damian closed the door behind them. "May I bring you anything, sir?" Harry sighed. Something told him this was going to be a long morning. "Coffee, please, a big cup of it." Damian smiled. "Yes, sir." Harry approached the Pensieve, peering down into its depths. He could just make out the interior of the dark pub and its questionable patrons. He couldn't see Lupin or Bestwicke, but knew that they must be there. With a deep sigh he bent forward and plunged his head into the shimmering silver substance that was his memory. His feet instantly left the platform; and he began whirling through the black murky substance until, quite suddenly, he landed with a thud on the grimy pub floor. He stood, brushing the dust and crumbs off his robes. Lupin lifted his chin in acknowledgement of his arrival and motioned him over to where he stood next to Mervyn Bestwicke, the Chief Memory Analyst. Both were within an elbow's distance of Lestrange's table and intent on listening to her conversation which was already in progress. Harry glanced over at the corner table where he had known himself to be sitting. The table wasn't there, which was good. That meant that his Confundus charm had been successful, and it meant that lab assistants, who were running around identifying everyone in the pub, wouldn't successfully identify one of the patrons as Harry Potter. Harry approached Lupin's side and began to hear snippets of Lestrange's muffled conversation with the Alchemist. Their voices were barely above a murmur, and Harry found himself straining to make out their words. "It's complete then?" Lestrange was saying, her voice edgy and impatient. "Yes, as I said before." The Alchemist leaned forward. Tendrils of pink smoke curled upward from his drink, wafting past his hunkered form and vanishing into the general haze of the bar. His voice rumbled deeply, as gravelly and craggy as his pitted face. "But it isn't ready?" she pressed, clearly nettled. "Again, as I said before," he repeated, with the tone of one speaking to a two-year old child. Harry almost smiled. "But, Arailt, you promised—" "These things take time." He stilled her with the wave of a hand. "We'll have a finished potion soon enough, and I'm certain that it'll be what you want." Lestrange sat back in her chair, triumphant. After a moment her eyes narrowed shrewdly, and she licked her thin lips. "How much? How much do you want for it?" The Alchemist tilted his head, calculating his words. His voice was steady as he spoke. "Ah but, Madam Lestrange, you don't seem to realize…it's my potion and, therefore, it isn't for sale." Lestrange started, clearly not anticipating this development. Her expression hardened. Harry turned to look at the Alchemist, really look at him, for the first time. He was old, disheveled and tattered. If Harry had seen him outside the pub, he would have instantly mistaken him for a vagrant. The Alchemist's unkempt hair framed a pocked face, and his faded robes hung open, revealing layers of padded clothing that failed to disguise his crooked back. He looked frail, yet his eyes were clear and his hands steady. Harry held no doubt that, if necessary, the Alchemist could draw his wand just as quickly as Lestrange. "Have you forgotten who I am?" Lestrange hissed, finally finding her voice. The Alchemist didn't respond, but his jaw tightened. "That was never a part of our agreement." Lestrange snarled, her fingers reaching for her wand. "I would suggest you reconsider." Undeterred, the Alchemist waved his hand, as if swatting away a pesky fly. "You forget—you will need an Alchemist to oversee the making of the potion." He lifted his tankard to take a drink. Returning it to the table with a dull thud, he stated simply, "I want in." "You want in?" "I want in." Her nostrils flared, and her knuckles turned a translucent white as she tightened her grip on her wand, its tip shuddering in jerky spasms. Her shoulders rose and fell rapidly, but she did nothing—said nothing—and Harry was transfixed. What could possibly be so important that Bellatrix Lestrange would keep her anger in check? She finally spoke, her tone controlled. "All right, I'll speak to the others." The Alchemist nodded. "Then our business here is done." They stood, and Harry quickly glanced over to his hidden table in the corner of the pub, just in time to see it materialize. The lab assistants hadn't missed the table taking form, and were quickly scurrying over to identify him. Harry stopped them. "There's no need—that's me. But you need to make sure and identify him." Harry pointed to the man reading the newspaper. He, too, was standing and pocketing his newspaper as he did so. Redirected, the two assistants ran towards the man instead, and Harry followed, intrigued. He could hear Lupin following on his heels. One of the two assistants took out the identification wand and ran it over the front of the man's body as he walked. The assistant grabbed the white tickertape that issued out of thin air and stopped short. Shaking his head, he ran the wand over the man again, quickly snatching the tickertape as it materialized. He looked up. His jaw opened and closed a few times before he spoke. "Dolohov…that's Antonin Dolohov." All eyes snapped to Dolohov's back as he wove his way through the other patrons and toward the bar. "FREEZE!" A voice boomed. Instantly, the replay of the memory halted. Startled, Harry turned to see Mervyn Bestwicke making quick strides toward Dolohov. He bobbed in and around all the patrons who stood suspended in movement, like some sort of odd collection of mannequins. Harry glanced around the room. Liquid was frozen in mid-pour, the music from the magical gramophone had stopped, and even the dust particles hung fixed in the air. The room wasn't just still, it was eerily lifeless. The only people capable of free movement were those who were there to view the memory, and they all converged in front of a very frozen Antonin Dolohov. His hood hung not so far forward as to obscure his face, and one of Bestwicke's assistants rushed forward to take photos of the former Death Eater for evidence. She disappeared behind a cloud of purple smoke with each captured image. Bestwicke moved within a hair's distance from Dolohov's nose, inspecting the deep lines on Dolohov's face with great interest. Lupin stood dumbfounded. "We haven't had a sighting of him since—since—" "The Battle at Hogwarts," Harry murmured, remembering all to well. Dolohov had suddenly vanished while in the middle of a fierce duel with Lupin. Harry stepped around Lupin and moved forward to study Dolohov. He and Bestwicke probably made a ridiculous sight, peering so closely at Dolohov's face, but Harry didn't care. Dolohov had aged since he had last seen him, but his long, pale, twisted face was as familiar to Harry as any. Dolohov's pointed chin jutted upward in a forward motion and his dark eyes bulged slightly as they focused on the bar. The gap in his cloak revealed fine silk robes, and his grey-black hair was pulled back tightly at the nape of his neck. Harry stepped back. A million possibilities ran through his head as to why Dolohov was in this pub on this particular night, but not one of them made sense. He looked at Lupin. "What do you suppose?" Lupin shook his head. "He must be either working with Lestrange, or tailing her to find out what she's up to. It's too great a coincidence that he's in Paris, at the same pub, on the same night, as Lestrange." "Nearly impossible odds," Bestwicke nodded in fast agreement, beginning to circle Dolohov like a bird of prey. "Shall we go back a few minutes and see what Dolohov was doing at his table?" Lupin nodded. "REVERSE—FIVE MINUTES!" Bestwicke bellowed. Harry winced and rubbed his ear, wishing he had been further removed from the source of Bestwicke's bellow. The scene around them instantly returned to five minutes earlier and, with all of the patrons instantly transported to where they were before, Harry found that he was being trampled through by two rather large wizards. Thankfully, no feeling of cold permeated him; in fact it felt as if nothing had happened at all. Harry joined the others who were gathered around Dolohov's table. Dolohov stared fixedly at Lestrange, even though his newspaper was open in front of him. The intense way in which he was watching her led Harry to believe that he didn't like her—at all—but then, it was hard to know. None of the Death Eaters had particularly pleasant expressions, and a severe scowl was the most common. Harry glanced down at the newspaper Dolohov held open in his hands. The style of it looked nothing like The Daily Prophet, but the scrolling text and moving photos made it instantly recognizable as a wizarding paper. Dolohov flipped a page and Harry caught the name, The Express & Shooting Star. It was a newspaper from the Midlands. The light glinted off a gold ring on Dolohov's index finger and Harry bent down to take a good look at it. Definitely a signet ring, it appeared to be Goblin made. The crest at its center shimmered, emblazoned with a cross and a large bear clasping a dead swine in each paw. Harry squinted at the letters written across the top, but quickly realized that the words weren't Latin but Cyrillic. He had seen this family crest before; a photo of it existed in Dolohov's file. Harry stood up, satisfied that he was nearing the end of what had been a very long search. "So…this means that there are only four Death Eaters left." "What do you think, Bestwicke? Do you agree that this is Dolohov?" Lupin asked. Bestwicke moved back from Dolohov's table and folded his arms across his chest. After a moment he turned to look at them both and nodded. "And then there were four." *** Harry paced, trying to work out the source of his agitation. He was so lost in thought that he failed to notice that he was kicking up quite a layer of dust in the small patch of weeds upon which he was treading, or that the squirrels were watching him with great interest, or that the birds had stopped chirping. Lupin sat on a park bench, legs outstretched and arms tightly folded across his chest. Other than the two of them, no one could be seen in this particularly small, unkempt, square in London. "But I don't understand," Harry said, for what he thought must be the hundredth time that morning. He looked at Lupin who was watching him with silent interest. "Why? Why would Dolohov be there?" "It certainly isn't a coincidence," Lupin agreed, leaning back and crossing his ankles. "We've gone over this, Harry—he's either working with Lestrange, spying on Lestrange, or spying on you. Those are our options. I do think it unlikely that he was spying on you, given that he never glanced at you once, but regardless of this, we won't know anything else until our mole is able to find him again. Which he will—" Harry interrupted: he didn't care about the informant who had been providing them with all their leads. "Dolohov was reading a paper from the Midlands." "Yes, he was." "Lestrange has been in Birmingham quite a lot lately." "Yes, we know." Harry stopped pacing to look at Lupin. "That isn't a coincidence." "Of course it isn't." Sitting forward on the bench, Lupin looked Harry straight in the eye. "What is it? What's bothering you?" Harry sat on the bench next to Lupin, studying the dusty ground upon which he had been treading. All the various pieces that he'd been trying to pull into a coherent thought were now beginning to slowly fall into place and, realizing what they were, he drew a deep breath. "Let's say, just for the sake of argument, that Dolohov isn't working with Lestrange but is instead her enemy…that he's spying on her." He swallowed, beginning to pick up speed. "If that's the case, don't you think that he might do the same as we did and review his memory using a Pensieve? If he does, then he may find out that I'm at the pub, realize what I'm doing, and blow my whole cover. Making it ten times more difficult to round up the remaining four—worse—putting everyone I care about in danger. This isn't good, Remus—" "Of course it isn't," Lupin said quickly. "But you're jumping to conclusions; we don't know anything. Not yet, at least, and until we find him again we have no choice but to continue with our plan. And hope that we catch him before he discovers anything." "Hope?" Harry queried. "What about—what about action?" "We don't know where he is." "Well, find him!" "Harry—" Harry knew he was being unreasonable. Lupin had no better idea of where Dolohov was than he did. That's why the informant had been given the new task of finding him. Harry stood again. He had to do something—anything—because nothing was too big a risk. "I need to tell Hermione, the Weasleys—Neville—all of them, what I've been doing over the last year. They're all in tremendous danger if I'm found out." Lupin immediately began to shake his head. "Harry, the Statutes forbid it—and you know it. We have other ways to protect them. We can strengthen their wards; we can assign additional Aurors for their security detail; we can tell them that we've heard that they are at risk; there are numerous ways to protect them—but we can't tell them anything about you." Lupin paused. Seeming to read Harry's thoughts he continued, "I know it isn't what you want to hear, but it has to be this way. There are no other options. It's only a matter of time until Quicksilver finds Dolohov, and we'll contain him soon enough." An owl came swooping down out of the sky and landed on the bench in front of Harry. Still frustrated by Lupin's response, he snatched the attached letter roughly. The owl wobbled, nearly losing its balance. The envelope was gilt-edged with a thick wax seal on the back that had I.C.W. pressed in its middle. "What is it?" Lupin sat forward on the bench. "Dunno." Harry broke the seal on the letter and pulled out an elegant invitation. Quickly scanning it, he gaped. "The International Confederation of Wizards…they…they want me to join their membership. The ceremony of induction is in Geneva next month." "Oh, right. I was going to warn you about that." "How did you—?" "The Ministry," Lupin stated simply. "They're pulling together a team of Aurors to accompany you as your protection. Dora is to go as your personal escort, apparently, it's quite a hullabaloo." "But—but—" Harry stammered. "How do they know about this when I just found out about it right now? I don't even know if I want to go." "It's quite an honor, Harry." "But I'm only twenty years old!" Harry stared at the ornate invitation, completely in awe. "Isn't the International Confederation of Wizards for ancient people who like sitting on committees? Why do they want me?" Lupin raised an eyebrow at this. Harry sighed, defeated. Oh, yeah…right. It was the same reason why everyone wanted him to join their group or organization: he was famous…and a hero. He still had a hard time with this, particularly since many of these organizations had not publicly supported him prior to the fall of Voldemort. Harry leaned forward and rubbed his forehead in agitation. "I don't want this." "That's understandable," Lupin said. After a moment he spoke again, cautiously. "Still, you'd be wise not to cast it aside too quickly. There's no need to reply to them immediately. Think about it before finalizing your decision. Many great witches and wizards have been inducted—including Dumbledore—and whether you feel old enough or not, Harry, you are a great wizard." Harry felt his neck grow hot. Not sure what to say in response, he continued to study the ground. "Come on, we should go." Lupin stood. "I'm sure Dora is wondering where we are—she's excited to see you, you know. I hope you're hungry, with Teddy spending the day with his grandmother, I think it's likely she's made us quite a feast." "I was hoping to see Teddy—I bet I wouldn't even recognize him." Harry looked up; thinking of the crumpled photo in his trunk taken right after Teddy was born. "The blue hair kind of gives it away, actually." Lupin laughed. Struck by the sound of Lupin's laugh, Harry smiled. It had been ages since he had heard him laugh. "He's sitting now and loves to watch the Quidditch mobile you sent him—we'll have you over later this week so that you can meet him properly." "That sounds great." "Should we go, then?" Lupin gestured toward the path. Harry glanced around a tree to see the row of houses across the street. His eyes immediately landed on house number twelve. Harry nodded and stood. He and Lupin had been sheltered waiting for Harry's Polyjuice to wear off before arriving for lunch (for even Tonks did not know that Harry was Nighthawk). The potion had actually worn off ages ago, but Harry had been too agitated to do anything other than pace, and Lupin had patiently let him. They emerged from the clump of trees in the square and crossed the street. Counting the houses as they passed, Harry noticed that most were still in great disrepair with peeling paint, grimy windows and broken shutters. Dustbins of overflowing rubbish were set outside the gate in a haphazard fashion, and stray cats wove in and out of the clutter, delicately avoiding the rain-filled cracks and dips in the pavement. The neighborhood was relatively quiet, with the occasional stereo rattling the glass panes. They finally stopped in front of number twelve. The familiar battered door and front path lay before him, but on closer inspection Harry was surprised to see that 'The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black' stood not nearly as grimy, nor as battered, as he remembered it. There were even flower boxes under the windows, which was completely unexpected. Perhaps they were the touch of Tonks. Although Harry couldn't see her being interested in gardening...maybe Kreacher? But that seemed just as impossible as the last Harry knew Kreacher remained faithfully employed at Hogwarts. Lupin mounted the steps two at a time, and Harry quickly followed. He waited as Lupin lowered the various wards and charms on the door, listening as the locks came undone with loud clickings and clankings. Lupin pushed open the door. A flying mass of bright pink, purple, and a shocking lime green charged at Lupin, startling Harry to a halt behind him. It took Harry only a moment to realize that the banshee-like squeal was coming from Tonks and that she was the colorful mass that had jumped up to wrap itself around Lupin's hips. Lupin didn't seem remotely startled by this greeting; in fact, he seemed thoroughly accustomed to it. "Damian sent an owl—you found Dolohov!" Lupin beamed ear to ear before nodding. Tonks squealed again before kissing Lupin in such an enthusiastic manner that Harry wasn't certain he should be watching. Thankfully, it ended before Harry could figure out where to avert his eyes, but despite this, he was fairly certain his ears were now a bright red. "Wotcher, Harry." Tonks beamed at him over Lupin's shoulder before jumping down with an impressive thump. She ushered them into the hall, leading Lupin by that hand. "Come on, I've got lunch ready. What took you so long? I thought that you'd be here ages ago. You must be starving!" Harry had stopped listening however because it had suddenly dawned on him that Grimmauld Place looked very different from when he had given it to the Lupins last summer. So different in fact, that if he hadn't walked up the front steps with Lupin he would be confused about where he was. The corridor before him gleamed bright, light, and positively cheery. The absence of the dank, dark, moldy smell and all of the musty paintings, including that of Sirus' mother, certainly had something to do with it. But even more noticeable, was the lacking presence of mildewed wallpaper and moth-eaten carpets. The walls were now covered with swaths of pale yellow and the once hidden hardwood floors gleamed. The ancient serpentine lighting fixtures and doorknobs had been replaced with less ornate, non-gilded, models and a spattering of baby toys littered the floor. The overall effect was homey and surprisingly pleasant. Lupin and Tonks stopped when they realized that he was no longer following them down the steps to the kitchen. Harry's jaw hung slack, but he couldn't help it. He gestured at the four walls around them, stammering, "How did you—when did you—?" Tonks laughed, and Remus shot him a quick glance. "You don't mind that we redecorated a bit, do you?" "Are you joking? It's fantastic!" Striding back to Harry, Tonks threw a long arm around his shoulders and pulled him along the hallway toward the stairs. Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "I tell you, Harry, it's truly amazing what you can do with magic." Remus laughed. "Don't let her fool you, Harry, it was still hard work. And we had help." Tonks shushed Lupin with a flap of her hand as they passed him on the stairs down to the kitchen. She whispered in Harry's ear, but her voice still rasped loud enough that Lupin could hear. "Magic, Harry. It's the best redecorating tool a witch can have." Harry grinned over his shoulder at Lupin, and Lupin rolled his eyes. She broke free from Harry to push open the kitchen door. They were instantly greeted by a puff of white powder and a fleeing cat covered from head to toe in the same white dust. The animal frantically pelted across the kitchen floor and over the top of Harry's shoes, leaving a trail of white paw prints all the way up the stairs. "Bollocks!" Tonks ran pell-mell into the room, leaving Harry with a clear view of the kitchen. It wasn't immediately obvious what had happened, but it looked as though there had been an explosion. The air floated hazy with a fine dust that, though still airborne, coated every surface with a layer of white. In addition, a thick gooey substance hung from the rafters slowly stretching itself into something that resembled long yellow stalagmites. Lupin pushed past Harry and strode over to the cooker which clanked and clattered ominously all the while belching billows of blue smoke. Harry could just make out the oven door swinging at a precarious angle having apparently been blown off its hinges. The door creaked dismally, seeming desperate to cling onto its one remaining hinge. "All my food!" Tonks moaned in chorus with the cooker, summoning all of her upturned pots. The scattered remains of what had been cooking inside them, noodles and chopped vegetables, seemed to have been flung in wildly different directions. Harry felt useless lingering in the doorway, so he moved to help Tonks collect the pots and pans. "What happened?" "It's that blasted cooker!" Tonks shot an accusatory glare towards the still hiccupping appliance. "I swear it hates me. Every time I attempt to bake anything it launches it straight out. And this time it catapulted both the cake and the pots cooking on top, as well as setting off the flour canister like a bloody firework!" Harry had never heard of a cooker doing that before, but it sounded awful. He looked over at it. "Do you think it's enchanted?" "Well, Remus doesn't think so, but I do." Tonks blew a lock of green hair off her forehead and wiped her messy hands on her jeans. She threw the cooker another accusatory glare. "You see, I think it knows that I was blasted off the Black family tree, and therefore it won't listen to me." "Dora," Lupin said calmly. "It's a cooker. It can't possibly know about family trees." "Then how come this never happens when you use the oven? And besides, you didn't know my Auntie Walburga—she would have figured out a way!" Lupin suppressed a smile, and Harry fought the beginnings of a grin. A large glob of yellow goo hit Harry swat in the eye. He let out a surprised yelp and Tonks began to giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh, now you laugh!" Harry shot back, wiping his face and looking up at the ceiling. "What is this stuff anyway?" Tonks looked up, eyeing the mass of yellow. "By the looks of it—dessert. How's it taste?" Disgusted that she would even suggest tasting something that had just fallen from the ash-stained ceiling, Harry wrinkled his nose. Tonks caught his eye, and they both laughed; even Remus, quietly helping them pick up the mess, couldn't suppress a chuckle. The priority of cleaning the floor soon turned to cleaning the ceiling as the yellow mixture began to succumb to gravity, dropping in fat blobs that splattered like tiny water balloons on each surface that they hit. And although the droplets did fall on the floor (and the table, the dresser, and the occasional potted plant), to Harry, the majority of them seemed to be aiming directly for his face. If he had not known better, he would have sworn that Peeves was responsible for this precision bombardment. Harry found himself backing his way blindly toward the cooker while attempting to clean the ceiling. Finally able to stumble through the archway and into the nook where the cooker stood (and no cake batter dangled) he stopped to clean his glasses. A glint of light caught his eye and, peering off in its direction, he saw that it came from a small round window in the larder. Its door had been left wide open and given its proximity to the cooker, it had taken the brunt of the explosion. Drenched with healthy covering of cooked vegetables—and a light dusting of flour (which must have followed behind for good measure), the room stood just as messy as the rest. Picking his poison, he retrieved his wand from his back pocket and headed in the direction of the larder, much preferring the idea of soggy vegetables to that of sticky batter. The room stood silent, slightly cool, and quiet. Harry surveyed the mess and shook his head. Aunt Petunia would have thrown a fit if the larder door had been left slightly ajar, let alone, wide open. Still standing on the threshold, he flicked his wand to clean the floor before stepping in and closing the door dutifully behind him. No sooner had he closed the door than he heard a slight rustle in the corner behind a wooden crate of potatoes. Curious, he bent over and aimed a beam of light in its direction. A cat, sopping wet with its fur plastered to its head, crouched there eyeing Harry closely. It was not the same animal that had scrambled in a mad haste over his shoes to leave the kitchen, but instead a different one that resembled a drowned grey rat. The cat blinked before scrambling to get away, but Harry grabbed it up by the scruff of the neck, determined not to let it ricochet about the room upsetting all the bottles and jars. Casting a cleaning and then a drying charm, Harry watched as the grey cat fluffed back to full size. Satisfied, he returned it to the floor and opened the door so that it could leave. But instead of leaving, the cat sauntered with bedraggled dignity to the center of the larder, sat down, and began licking itself. Harry lifted his wand to start cleaning the serried ranks of jams and jellies when he heard a distinctive pop and a flash of green illuminated the walls. Someone had just arrived by Floo. "What—?" a female voice said, obviously taken back by the gargantuan mess that covered every available surface of the kitchen. Tonks squealed. "Oh, excellent! I was hoping that you would come today. I've been anxious to get started." "Yeah, Mum said so—but blimey, Tonks—what happened?" Harry froze mid-spell, his wand almost slipping out of his fingers. Ginny.
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