Chapter Text
Summer arrived so swiftly that it seemed impossible the final examinations had taken place only a few weeks earlier. Hogwarts became a warm memory Margareth carried close to her chest, like a lit lantern, casting its glow over every day of her holidays.
Her return to Shepard Manor was less cold than she had expected. Her parents welcomed her with open arms, proud of yet another impeccable year. Nina swept her up into an embrace that nearly knocked the breath from her lungs, and Niall appeared behind them with his familiar, easy smile, asking whether this time she had managed to get into fewer scrapes than the Weasleys.
Margareth replied, with great solemnity, that she never got into scrapes.
Niall laughed aloud.
“We shall see when the redheads come calling.”
The house filled once more with her presence, though, as always, Margareth had the sense that her footsteps were lighter than the atmosphere that surrounded her. The estate was beautiful, elegant, meticulously kept. Tradition breathed from every corner, and although Margareth adored her family, it was impossible to ignore the expectations that lingered in the air like motes of glittering dust, ever watchful.
Even so, that summer promised to be different. Better.
Dawn was perfect: a clear sky, a warm breeze, and golden light filtering through the curtains. Margareth opened her eyes to find a breakfast tray set neatly upon her desk.
Vanilla tea.
Toast drizzled with honey.
Fruit cut into immaculate cubes.
And a note, written in her mother’s impeccable hand:
Happy birthday, my love. May this year find you as sweet and luminous as ever.
Beneath it, in her father’s rounder, friendlier script:
Fourteen already, Mags. Don’t grow up too fast. We love you.
Between the two notes, a small doodle in purple ink:
Finish the jam before Mum sees it. Happy birthday, little mouse.
—Nina.
Margareth laughed. That signature was unmistakable.
Niall knocked on the door a minute later. He was not wearing his Auror robes, but simpler clothes instead. He looked tired, yet the moment he saw her, his face brightened.
“Fourteen,” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “And when did you turn into a tiny adult?”
“I am not tiny,” she protested, laughing.
“You could fool anyone,” he assured her, before pulling her into a tight embrace.
The rest of the morning passed in discreet preparations. The Shepard family did not favour raucous celebrations, but they prized impeccable elegance. The garden was adorned with flowers that shifted colour with the sun, white tablecloths, cut crystal glasses, and a long table laden with sweets. House-elves served small floating desserts that slowly spun in the air.
Margareth received several gifts from distant relatives: books, antique brooches, a quill that never ran dry, and a set of freshly prepared ink bottles.
Her grandmother arrived with her firm stride and assessing gaze. After offering her congratulations—with a kiss on the cheek as cool as ever—she took Margareth by the arm and guided her through the garden.
“Fourteen,” she said, in a tone that sounded more like calculation than celebration. “You are growing quickly.”
Margareth smiled, unsure how to respond.
“Old enough to… understand certain things,” her grandmother added, with a subtly poisoned gentleness.
Margareth felt an uncomfortable prickle at the nape of her neck.
“What… do you mean?”
“I mean that soon you may begin to receive… formal visits. Nothing binding, of course, but it is wise to maintain relationships with suitable families.” Her grandmother tilted her head slightly. “Do you remember the young man from Durmstrang?”
Margareth stiffened.
Remembering him was not difficult. He had been polite, proper… and utterly unbearable. He spoke only of himself, and danced as though he were stepping on snakes.
“Oh… yes,” she replied, finding no other courteous escape.
“Perhaps, in the autumn, we might arrange an informal meeting,” her grandmother suggested. “Families of good name must keep their ties.”
Margareth did not know what to say. She did not wish to anger her grandmother, yet the idea made her deeply uncomfortable. She did not fully understand why—only that something within her resisted it.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, because it was the only thing she could say.
Her grandmother smiled approvingly.
“A wise decision, my dear.”
From a short distance away, her mother pressed her lips together, just slightly. Her father cleared his throat. Nina rolled her eyes, almost imperceptibly.
Fortunately, the rest of the celebration was warmer. Her father gave her a beautiful edition of Ancient Runes: Modern Applications, with a handwritten dedication that filled her heart. Her mother, practical yet affectionate, presented her with a light summer cloak charmed for sun protection. Nina gave her a simple pendant—a small silver moon—“to keep you company when I can’t.”
Niall approached her later, smiling far more than usual.
“Happy birthday, little one,” he said, hugging her tightly. “I don’t have much free time, so I thought I’d give you something you can actually use at Hogwarts.”
He produced a small black box. Inside was an enchanted quill case: sturdy, discreet, and perfectly organised.
But the most uncomfortable gift came from her grandmother.
“For when it becomes necessary,” she said softly.
Margareth’s smile tightened just a fraction.
“Thank you, Grandmother,” she replied, with impeccable manners.
She held the ornament delicately, though inside she felt a small knot form. She did not want to think about commitments, nor about ancient traditions that everyone but her father seemed to regard as inevitable.
Before the discomfort could take hold, however, a beautiful sort of chaos arrived in the form of a parcel.
Or rather: a parcel that exploded into golden confetti when she opened it.
Inside was a letter written in bright red ink:
Happy birthday, Mags!
Your fourth year is going to be EPIC.
Enjoy your day, eat lots of cake, and don’t forget about us.
Signed:
The most handsome twins in all of Hogwarts.
At the bottom, in a different hand:
Ignore the above. Only one of us is handsome. And it isn’t George.
—Fred.
Margareth laughed, covering her mouth.
The gift was a small pink smoke bomb. When she shook it, it burst into a sparkling star that hovered above her head before gently fading away.
It was a simple gesture—mischievous, warm.
Like Fred.
Her chest felt a little lighter.
Margareth arrived at the Weasleys’ home on a bright afternoon. The Burrow was, without question, one of the most peculiar houses she had ever seen. It bore no resemblance whatsoever to the ordered, quiet manor of the Shepards; instead, it seemed to be a structure built out of affection, improvisation, and a version of physics that was far too forgiving.
It was tall, narrow, and charmingly ramshackle, as though several rooms had been stacked atop one another without any clear plan. Each floor appeared to sit at an improbable angle, held up by nothing but magic, luck, and perhaps a fair measure of Weasley stubbornness. Chimneys smoked gently, the garden teemed with wild herbs and irritable gnomes, and lines of washing flapped in the breeze like the banners of a domestic kingdom.
The exterior, with its weathered brick and uneven wood, felt welcoming—almost familiar—even before one crossed the threshold. Muddy boots were piled near the door, empty buckets lay forgotten against the wall, and a large outdoor clock seemed less concerned with telling the time than with measuring Molly Weasley’s patience.
But the true magic lay inside.
The kitchen was the heart of the house: warm, noisy, and steeped in the scent of bread and spices. A teapot bubbled away on the table of its own accord, enchanted mops scrubbed the floor to their own rhythm, and a curious clock hung on the wall, its hands wavering between Mortal Peril and Time for Dinner.
Each room told a different story: Quidditch posters plastered across the walls, books stacked in precarious towers, old Gryffindor scarves draped over beds, and tables crowded with the twins’ half-finished inventions.
Everything felt alive.
Everything breathed.
It was a house that sounded of laughter, of feet racing up the stairs, of knitting needles clicking, of old floorboards creaking—a house where every corner seemed to hold a memory.
Margareth always felt that the moment she crossed the threshold, something inside her loosened. The Burrow was chaotic, noisy, and utterly unlike her own world… yet it was also sincere, a place where everything bore a personal touch. A warm home, full of imperfections that made it perfect.
And for reasons she could not quite explain, with every summer she spent there, Margareth felt as though she belonged a little more.
Molly Weasley emerged the moment she heard her arrive.
“Margareth, dear!” She wrapped her in a warm, tight embrace, utterly unlike the formal greetings Margareth was accustomed to. “It’s so lovely to have you here again!”
Margareth felt her lungs protest slightly under the pressure, but she smiled all the same.
“Thank you for having me, Mrs Weasley.”
Molly took her by the shoulders with that unmistakably maternal gesture.
“Oh, please—call me Molly, love. We don’t need formalities here.”
Margareth nodded, her heart still warm.
“I’ve got your room ready,” Molly said, guiding her towards the narrow staircase that creaked underfoot. “We don’t have much space with so many boys, but you’ll have a cosy little corner. Ginny is absolutely thrilled to be sharing with you.”
The red-haired girl, two years younger than Margareth, appeared in the corridor with a shy yet radiant smile.
“Hi, Mags!” Ginny said, taking her hand for a moment before letting go again, blushing fiercely.
Margareth greeted her gently. Ginny always looked at her with a mixture of admiration and affection, as though she were another older sister.
“I hope you don’t mind sharing,” Molly added, pushing open the door.
The room was small, yes… but utterly charming.
Ginny’s bed stood by the window, covered with a red quilt embroidered with fine golden threads that seemed to glimmer in the light. Beside it, Molly had added a second bed—smaller, set a little lower—dressed in a soft blue hand-knitted woollen coverlet.
On her pillow, Margareth found a small note written in a round, friendly hand:
Welcome home, dear. —Molly
There was also a little vase of wildflowers on the windowsill, and a stack of clean towels folded with near-military precision.
And of course, laid neatly atop the bed, Molly had left something else:
A small plate of chocolate biscuits.
“I know you’re growing up,” Molly said, “and that what young girls need is a space where you can talk, laugh, and feel at ease. If you need anything—anything at all—you only have to call for me.”
Margareth clutched her bag in her fingers, deeply moved.
“It’s beautiful… truly.”
Ginny smiled.
“And it’s right next to Fred and George’s room!” she announced, with guileless excitement.
Molly’s ear twitched slightly, like a magical radar.
“And I expect,” she said, with maternal severity, “that those two will NOT cause a single disturbance while Margareth is staying here.”
A pair of suspicious noises echoed from further up the corridor.
Something rather like—
“We haven’t done anything!”
—followed by the sound of two bodies colliding in a hurried attempt to flee.
Molly pursed her lips.
“Ah. We’ll discuss this later. We most certainly will.”
Ginny let out a quiet giggle.
Margareth set her suitcase beside the bed and drew a deep breath. The air of the Burrow always smelled of bread, of damp earth, of old wood, of home. Nothing like the immaculate, muted, and chilly scents of Shepard Manor.
This was a real home.
“Molly…” she said softly. “Thank you. For everything.”
Molly cupped her face as a true mother would, without reserve.
“Love… you will always have a place here. Always.”
Ginny nodded vigorously.
“And—if you like—I could show you my things,” she said nervously. “My diaries, or my Famous Witches cards… or—well—if I’m not bothering you.”
Margareth beamed.
“I’d love that.”
Ginny seemed to light up, as though someone had lit a lantern inside her.
And from the corridor, a rather familiar voice shouted,
“MAGS! HAVE YOU SETTLED IN YET? DO YOU NEED HELP? DO YOU WANT ME TO—?”
“FRED!” Molly roared. “IF YOU SET ONE FOOT IN THAT ROOM I’LL TURN YOU INTO A HAT!”
Instant silence.
Then the distinctly comic sound of footsteps retreating at full speed.
Ginny laughed aloud.
Margareth, her cheeks faintly warm, merely murmured,
“I’m really happy to be here.”
And she was.
In a way that was deep and true, so much so that it almost made her chest ache. As though the Burrow were not merely a place to spend a few days,
but a refuge.
A home to which she—despite her surname, her strict upbringing, the cool distance of her grandmother—belonged without effort.
Without masks.
And without fear.
That week at the Burrow was a respite.
Margareth helped Molly in the kitchen, learned new knitting stitches, wandered through the fields with Ginny, listened to Arthur speak with boundless enthusiasm about plugs and Muggle radios, and spent entire afternoons with the twins preparing harmless charms.
Fred walked with her to gather flowers by the stream.
George asked her to test his latest jokes.
Ron complained about Percy every two hours.
And Margareth breathed.
For the first time in weeks, she truly breathed.
Her red bracelet—the one Fred had given her for Christmas—caught the sunlight. He noticed.
“You’re still wearing it,” he said one day, with a half-smile. “I thought you might have lost it, or… I don’t know, got bored of it.”
Margareth looked at him, open and calm.
“I like it very much. In a way, I think of it as a sort of lucky charm.”
Fred was quiet for three seconds. Then he smiled, soft and unguarded.
“Then I’m glad.”
The night before the rescue of Harry Potter, Margareth had already noticed that the twins were whispering far too much in the room they shared.
Ron seemed restless.
And George wore a smile that was suspiciously restrained.
At midnight, a soft knock on her door woke her.
“Mags,” Fred whispered. “Come here a moment. We want to show you something.”
She got up at once.
In the twins’ room, all three Weasley boys were gathered, lit only by the glow of a single candle.
Ron spoke first.
“Harry hasn’t answered any of my letters. Mum says he’s ‘fine’, but I don’t trust that. And… we think his family doesn’t treat him well.”
George added,
“We have a plan.”
Fred produced the key.
“We’re going to rescue him.”
Margareth blinked.
“How?”
Fred leaned closer, proud.
“With Dad’s flying car.”
It was impossible to tell which of the three was the most excited.
“It’s night, Mags,” Ron explained. “Mum’s asleep. Dad’s not home. It’s perfect.”
George looked at her with a seriousness he rarely showed.
“We want you to come. You’re clever, quick… and Harry trusts you.”
Fred added, more quietly,
“And so do I.”
Margareth did not hesitate.
“I’m in—purely as damage control.”
The experience of climbing into the flying Ford Anglia was… indescribable.
Ron was nervous.
George adjusted buttons at random.
Fred drove with surprising skill.
And Margareth sat between them, watching London stretch out beneath the enchanted car.
“There!” Ron said, pointing at a house that was perfectly square and perfectly dull. “Privet Drive.”
Fred lowered the car with care.
“Right,” he said. “Operation Potter Rescue.”
Harry had been awake for hours. The room was dark, Hedwig slept fitfully in her cage, and the sticky summer heat weighed heavily on the air. Harry got up to peer out at the street for the umpteenth time, with the vague hope of seeing… anything at all.
What he saw made him blink several times.
A turquoise-blue car was floating outside his window.
A floating car.
“Ron!” Harry exclaimed, scrambling up to the window and wrenching it open. “Ron—how—? What—?”
Ron Weasley stuck his head out of the back window, his hair completely windblown.
“All right, Harry?”
Harry did not know how to answer. His attention was immediately caught by the occupants of the front seats:
Fred and George Weasley, waving with identical grins. And just behind George, leaning forward to peer out as well, Margareth Shepard—her hair pulled back into a loose braid, her expression bright with excitement.
“Hi, Harry!” she called, smiling warmly.
Harry blinked, incredulous.
“M-Margareth? What… what are you doing here?”
“The twins said they were going to rescue you,” she replied calmly. “And I thought you might need some help. Well…” she glanced sideways at Fred. “Supervised help.”
Fred rolled his eyes.
“It was under control.”
“Of course,” Margareth said serenely.
George cut in.
“Harry, Ron wouldn’t stop worrying! And Mags here was ready to provide magical backup in case anyone fell out of the car.”
“Which nearly happened,” Margareth added, eyeing Fred.
Fred ignored the remark entirely.
“What’s going on?” Ron asked. “Why haven’t you answered my letters? I sent you, like… I don’t know, twelve.”
Harry gripped the bars on the window.
“They wouldn’t let me see them. Or leave my room! And now the Ministry thinks I used magic in front of Muggles, but it wasn’t me—”
“My dad read about it,” Ron said. “You know he works at the Ministry. You can’t use magic outside school, Harry. It’s mad.”
Harry stared at him.
“And you’re telling me this while you’re in a FLYING CAR?”
“That doesn’t count!” Ron protested. “We didn’t enchant it.”
Margareth intervened gently.
“The car is perfectly legal… technically. Depends how you look at it.”
Fred tossed a length of rope through the window.
“Tie this to the bars.”
“If the Dursleys wake up, they’ll kill me,” Harry whispered as he knotted the rope.
Margareth leaned slightly out of the car.
“We’ll keep watch. If any lights come on, we’ll warn you.”
Fred revved the engine.
“Stand back, Harry!”
There was a crack. A tremendous crack. The bars tore cleanly away from the window and dangled a metre above the ground.
“Perfect!” George crowed.
Margareth clicked her tongue softly.
“‘Perfect’ isn’t the word I’d use…”
Ron hauled in the rope until the bars were inside the car, while Harry held his breath, listening for any sound from the Dursleys’ house.
Nothing.
When Fred edged the car as close to the window as possible, Ron reached out a hand.
“Get in!”
Harry stepped towards the window—then stopped.
“My things! My wand, my broom… they’re all locked in the cupboard.”
George was already halfway out of the car.
“Leave that to us.”
Fred and George clambered through the window with practiced efficiency.
Margareth stayed in the car, wand in hand, ready to act if anything went wrong.
Fred winked at her.
“If anything happens, shout.”
“Be careful,” she replied softly.
George gave a low laugh.
“Come on, Romeo—let’s go before the Muggles wake up.”
Harry told them where the cupboard was.
“Be careful—the last step creaks,” he whispered.
“Brilliant,” Fred muttered dryly.
The twins vanished into the darkness.
Margareth kept watch from the car window, fingers tightening around her wand.
“Are you all right?” Ron asked quietly. “You look nervous.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Just… a little.”
The twins returned a few minutes later.
Harry passed his belongings out to Ron one by one. When Fred and George came back with his trunk, it took them a good while to haul it up the stairs and drag it to the window.
Ron and Fred pulled from the car.
Harry and George pushed from inside the room.
Margareth, braced against the side of the car, leaned just far enough to help Ron steady it.
“Watch your fingers,” she murmured.
“You watch yours,” Ron replied. “If Mum sees us, she’ll kill us all.”
Unfortunately, at that very moment, Uncle Vernon coughed.
Very loudly.
Everyone froze.
“Just a bit more,” Fred panted.
With one last coordinated shove, the trunk slid through the window and thumped into the back seat.
“I forgot Hedwig!” Harry exclaimed.
And then everything happened far too quickly.
The hallway light snapped on.
“THAT BLASTED OWL!” Uncle Vernon roared.
Harry ran, grabbed the cage, and rushed back to the window.
Margareth stretched out her arms to receive it.
“Give her to me—quickly!”
Hedwig was passed into her hands, squawking indignantly.
Harry scrambled onto the windowsill just as Uncle Vernon burst into the room and, without hesitation, seized him by the ankle.
“PETUNIA! HE’S ESCAPING! HE’S ESCAPING!”
“Pull him!” George shouted.
Margareth gripped Harry’s forearm with both hands, hauling backwards, teeth clenched. For someone so slight, she had more strength than anyone might have expected.
Ron pulled on Harry’s other hand.
Fred shoved from the front seat.
George tugged at the collar of Harry’s shirt.
And finally—
FLOP.
Uncle Vernon let go.
Harry tumbled into the car and slammed the door shut.
“FRED, GO!” Ron yelled.
The car shot skywards.
Margareth slumped back against the seat for a moment, releasing a long breath.
“That… was… dangerous,” she admitted.
Fred turned to look at her.
“But we did it.”
Margareth smiled, looking at Harry, who was breathing as though he had just run a mile.
“We’ve got you, Harry,” she said softly. “Everything will be all right now.”
Wind streamed through the open window. Hedwig soared alongside the car like a white ghost. And far below, Privet Drive grew smaller and smaller.
Harry leaned back, relief washing over him.
Margareth, still holding Hedwig’s cage, looked at him with a mixture of tenderness and resolve.
“You’re safe.”
Fred added, with a proud grin,
“Welcome to freedom, Potter.”
George finished,
“And to the worst rescue ever planned.”
Ron laughed.
“But it worked.”
Harry smiled for the first time in days.
“It worked because of you.”
Margareth lowered her gaze, modest.
“All of us,” she corrected.
“Then, Harry, why—?” Ron pressed eagerly. “What exactly happened?”
The turquoise-blue car continued gliding through the clouds, the engine humming softly as the lights of Privet Drive faded behind them. The night air rushed in through the windows, tossing Margareth’s hair as she sat just behind Fred, watching everything with a blend of exhilaration and lingering fear.
Harry had just finished explaining about Dobby and the incident with the pudding, and a heavy, almost stunned silence settled inside the car.
When he finished, Fred was the first to react.
“Very suspicious,” he declared, frowning.
“Stinks,” George agreed.
Margareth hugged her knees, thoughtful.
“If smashing himself into walls was his way of avoiding saying something,” she murmured, “he might not even have been able to speak. House-elves have very strict bindings.”
Fred looked at her in the mirror, a mix of surprise and pride in his expression.
“Exactly—Mags has nailed it,” he said, jerking a thumb in her direction. “They can’t use magic without their masters’ permission. That’s the strange part. Who has enough power to order an elf to stop you going back to school, Harry?”
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance.
“Draco Malfoy,” they said in unison.
George raised an eyebrow.
“Isn’t he Lucius Malfoy’s son?”
Harry nodded.
“I suppose so. It’s not exactly a common surname. Why?”
George shifted in his seat, resting an arm along the back.
“I’ve heard Dad talk about him,” he said. “He was a major supporter of You-Know-Who.”
Fred cut in from the driver’s seat, leaning back slightly so Harry could hear.
“And when You-Know-Who vanished, Lucius denied everything. Dad thinks he was one of the closest to him. Smells like a lie from miles away.”
Margareth frowned, troubled.
“And if he has a house-elf,” she said, “he could use it to do things he doesn’t want to do himself.”
Harry didn’t answer at once. He stared ahead, processing the thought.
“I don’t know if the Malfoys have an elf,” he said finally, cautiously.
“Well, whoever it is,” Fred continued, “it has to be a wealthy old family. There’s no other explanation.”
“Mum always says she’d love an elf to do the ironing,” George added. “But all we’ve got is a grumpy ghoul in the attic and a garden full of gnomes.”
Margareth let out a soft laugh.
“I suppose chaos suits you better.”
Ron snorted.
“Much better than it suits me,” he said, glancing at his brothers. “I nearly had a heart attack when Fred took the car out of the shed.”
Margareth stifled a laugh in her sleeve.
“It wasn’t that terrible. You were flying fairly straight… I think.”
“Thank you, Shepard!” Fred said, delighted. “See? A reasonable person.”
“You’re drifting west, Fred,” George warned.
Fred jolted slightly and corrected course.
“That’s the conversation,” he protested, affronted. “I’m listening. I’m a multitasking driver.”
Margareth smiled patiently.
“As long as we don’t crash, I won’t complain,” she said, looping her arms around the back of Fred’s seat—and therefore around him—to steady herself as the car jolted, leaning in so close she was almost cheek to cheek with him.
Fred glanced at her arms, then at her, then fixed his eyes firmly on the road ahead, a faint flush creeping up that only Margareth—and probably George—noticed.
George nudged his brother with an elbow.
“Drive, Romeo,” he whispered.
Fred ignored him with great professionalism.
The car climbed ever higher over the fields, and Margareth kept her hands firmly resting on her knees, caught between nerves and fascination. The Burrow was not yet in sight, but dawn was already beginning to tint the clouds pink.
From the front seat, George suddenly spoke.
“This summer Percy’s been acting very strangely.” He frowned, genuinely concerned. “He’s been sending loads of letters and spending hours shut up in his room… You can’t spend an entire day polishing a prefect’s badge.”
“Not even Percy,” Margareth added mildly.
George laughed.
“Exactly, Mags. Even for him, it’s a bit much.”
“You’re drifting west again, Fred,” he added, pointing at a blinking indicator on the dashboard.
Fred corrected course with a sharp tug on the steering wheel that made Ron let out a startled gasp.
“Does your dad know you’ve taken the car?” Harry asked, though the answer was painfully obvious.
“Well… no,” Ron admitted, slumping in his seat. “He’s on night duty. I’m hoping we can put it back in the garage without Mum noticing.”
“I… hope he’s in a good mood,” Margareth murmured, attempting optimism.
Harry looked out of the window.
“What does your dad do at the Ministry?”
Ron snorted.
“He works in the most boring department of all: the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.”
Margareth added,
“Though he doesn’t find it boring. He loves anything with buttons, plugs, or wires.”
Ron nodded emphatically.
“Exactly. If it were up to him, we’d live in a house made entirely of enchanted toasters.”
Harry frowned.
“I don’t really understand what that department does.”
“They deal with Muggle objects,” Ron explained, “that witches or wizards have enchanted and that end up back in Muggle hands by accident. Last year, for example, an old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antique shop. A Muggle woman bought it, and when she tried to serve tea to her guests—”
George let out a dramatic whistle.
“It was a monumental disaster.”
“A nightmare,” Ron confirmed. “Dad had to work overtime for weeks.”
Margareth chimed in calmly.
“The teapot started shooting jets of boiling tea like a baby dragon.”
“Yes!” Ron said eagerly. “And one guest ended up in hospital with the sugar tongs stuck up his nose. Dad said Perkins nearly fainted from shock.”
“They had to wipe everyone’s memories,” George added, “and put loads of enchantments in place so no one would remember anything.”
Harry studied the dashboard more closely.
“But your dad… this car…”
Fred laughed.
“Yes, yes, I know. He goes mad for anything Muggle-related. The shed’s full of Muggle junk. He collects it, enchants it, then puts it back exactly as it was. If he ever came to inspect our house himself—”
“He’d have to arrest himself,” George finished proudly.
Margareth added, amused,
“And your mum wouldn’t last five minutes without telling him off for it.”
“Exactly,” Ron said.
George suddenly pointed downwards.
“There’s the main road. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Thank Merlin,” Fred added, “because it’s getting light.”
Margareth leaned slightly towards the window, the cold wind brushing her face.
The dawn light washed over the fields, and for a moment she felt that strange, perfect mixture of adventure and home.
The Ford Anglia touched down with a final little hop that sent them bouncing like cushions. As they climbed out of the car, Fred lowered his voice.
“Now we go upstairs without making a sound,” he whispered, “and wait for Mum to call us down for breakfast. Then you, Ron, come bounding down the stairs and say, ‘Mum, look who arrived in the night!’ She’ll be thrilled, and no one ever has to know we took the car.”
“Right,” Ron said, swallowing. “Come on, Harry, I sleep in the—”
Ron stopped mid-sentence.
He went rigid.
He turned green.
And he fixed his gaze on the chicken run.
Margareth felt her skin prickle even before she turned.
All four of them looked at once.
There stood Mrs Weasley.
Stomping forwards.
Scattering chickens.
And wearing an expression that—well, Margareth had seen dragons that looked less intimidating.
“Oh,” Fred breathed, barely audible.
“Oh dear,” George whispered.
“We’re dead,” Margareth murmured, more as an observation than a complaint.
Molly Weasley stopped in front of them, hands on her hips. She was a small woman with a kind face—except when she was furious. Right then, she looked like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
Her wand was sticking out of her apron pocket.
Bad.
Very bad.
“So…” Molly said, her voice heavy with storm-clouds.
George attempted a smile.
“Morning, Mum…”
It was useless.
“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I’VE BEEN?” she exploded.
Fred took a step back.
Harry swallowed.
Margareth straightened her back instinctively, as though posture alone might placate Mrs Weasley.
“Sorry, Mum, but—” Ron tried.
“EMPTY BEDS! NOT A NOTE! THE CAR GONE! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN IN AN ACCIDENT! OR SEEN BY SOMEONE!” Molly roared, moving among them like a concentrated aura of fury. “I THOUGHT I WAS LOSING MY MIND! BILL NEVER PUT ME THROUGH THIS, NOR CHARLIE, NOR PERCY!”
“Percy, the perfect prefect…” Fred muttered.
“YOU COULD FOLLOW HIS EXAMPLE!” Molly snapped, jabbing a finger into Fred’s chest.
Margareth did not know where to put herself.
And yet, at the same time, she knew she would stay right there—out of loyalty, and because, however mad the whole thing was, she had been part of it.
She was not about to let the twins shoulder all the blame.
But before she could speak, Molly turned towards Harry.
And her expression changed completely.
“I’m so glad to see you, Harry, dear,” she said at once, all softness. “Come along and have some breakfast.”
Molly turned on her heel and marched back towards the house, leaving the twins, Ron, and Harry utterly crushed in her wake.
Margareth looked at them with her arms folded, doing her best not to laugh.
“Well…” Fred said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That could have gone worse.”
“I’ve seen dragons that were less frightening,” George sighed dramatically.
Ron, still pale as flour, muttered,
“We’re dead.”
Harry turned to Margareth, who was failing—rather badly—to hide her smile.
“Is she… always like that?” he asked.
“When she’s angry,” Margareth replied honestly. “But if it’s any consolation… she cooks extremely well.”
Fred looked at her in despair.
“Do you think we’ll survive breakfast?”
Margareth smiled then, gently.
“If Molly’s already shouted at you like that… it means you’re forgiven.”
The twins let out identical sighs of relief.
“Come on,” Margareth added. “We’d better go in before she comes back out.”
The Burrow’s kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread, sausages, and fireplace smoke. It was warm, chaotic, and alive, as ever. The wall clocks ticked away, each at its own pace; dishcloths wrung themselves out on the counter; and a teapot steamed faintly, as though it were about to share a bit of gossip.
Margareth took a seat beside Harry, hands resting neatly on her knees, upright and quiet in the way she always was in other people’s homes. She watched everything with wide, fascinated eyes: the Weasley kitchen was so different from the Shepards’ that it always took her a few moments to adjust to its enchanted chaos.
Mrs Weasley prepared breakfast without paying much attention to what she was doing, and in the time it took her to fry the sausages, she shot several murderous looks at her sons. Every so often, she muttered,
“How could you even think of it…” or “I never would have believed it…”
“You’re not to blame, dear,” she said suddenly, leaning towards Harry and piling his plate high with sausages. “Arthur and I have been terribly worried about you. If Ron still hadn’t heard from you by Friday, we were going to fetch you ourselves. But—” she added, serving three fried eggs, “someone might have seen you flying halfway across the country in that car… breaking the law…”
She tapped the dirty dishes in the sink with her wand, and they began to wash themselves, splashing water now and then. Margareth watched them, fascinated; she still wasn’t used to objects springing so cheerfully to life in this house.
Fred protested,
“It was cloudy, Mum!”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” she snapped, without even looking at him.
George tried to interject.
“They were starving him, Mum!”
“Quiet, you too!”
Margareth hid a smile. Fred and George must have been rehearsing those lines all night, judging by how perfectly synchronised they were.
Mrs Weasley, however, softened again when she looked back at Harry—and, out of the corner of her eye, at Margareth as well.
“Eat properly, both of you,” she said, buttering bread. “You need it.”
Harry murmured a shy thank-you. Margareth inclined her head politely.
At that moment, a small red-haired figure appeared in the kitchen: Ginny, in a long nightdress and barefoot. She froze when she saw Harry, let out a small squeak, and bolted back upstairs, tripping twice on the way.
Margareth had to bite back a laugh.
Ron muttered,
“That’s my sister Ginny… she’s spent the whole summer talking about you.”
Fred added,
“She’s probably waiting for an autograph, Harry.”
But the moment he caught his mother’s look, he sank into his plate and said no more.
No one spoke again at the table until every last scrap of breakfast had been devoured—which happened very quickly.
Fred stretched as though he’d run a marathon.
“I’m absolutely stuffed… I think I’ll go back to bed and—”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs Weasley cut in, fixing him with a lethal stare. “If you’ve been gallivanting about all night, that’s your own fault. So now you’re going to de-gnome the garden.”
“Again?” George groaned.
“And you two as well,” she added, pointing at Ron and Fred. “Those gnomes are getting completely out of hand.”
Ron protested.
“But Mum—”
“No buts,” she said curtly.
Then she looked at Harry and Margareth.
“You two can go and rest… you don’t have to pay for these three idiots’ nonsense.”
Margareth opened her mouth to say she could help, but Harry spoke first.
“I’d like to see it, Mrs Weasley. I’ve never witnessed a de-gnoming.”
“That’s very kind of you, dear,” Molly smiled, “but it’s a dull job. Although—wait—let’s see what Lockhart has to say on the matter.”
George let out a groan of pure agony.
“Mum… we already know how to de-gnome a garden…”
Harry leaned over to look at the cover of the book Mrs Weasley was holding: Gilderoy Lockhart: Household Pests. The photograph of a blond wizard with dazzling blue eyes was winking brazenly from the cover.
Molly sighed deeply, smiling like a schoolgirl.
“He’s very good… knows all about household pests… a wonderful book…”
Fred muttered under his breath,
“Mum fancies him…”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Fred!” Molly protested, colouring.
Then she turned to Margareth.
“Love, you can go and lie down as well if you like. You’ve had a long journey.”
Margareth smiled gently.
“I don’t mind helping, Mrs Weasley.”
Molly studied her for a moment, assessing. Then her smile softened.
“What a sweet girl you are. Very well. You may watch, but I don’t want you coming back covered in mud up to your eyebrows because of these three,” she said, casting a pointed look at her sons, who adopted expressions of shameless innocence.
Ron sighed.
“Mum… Mags never gets dirty. It’s like she’s got a built-in charm.”
Margareth lowered her head, shy.
“It’s not a charm…”
“Whatever it is you do,” Fred said, “teach me. It’d be brilliant for this disaster of a garden.”
Mrs Weasley clapped her hands, ending the discussion.
“Right. All of you, outside. And I don’t want to see a single gnome when I come back.”
The boys filed out obediently, dragging their feet.
Margareth followed Harry at an easy pace, taking in the endearing chaos of the garden—the scurrying gnomes, and the twins’ looks of despair, knowing their sentence all too well.
“Well then…” Fred said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s see if we can impress our special guest…”
Margareth smiled, amused.