Chapter 70: The Goblet of Fire and Maria ─ 1-1

That day, I was awakened by the groans of my suffering twin.

Even at fourteen, we Potter twins still sleep huddled together in the same bed—mostly because there’s only one bed in the room—which makes me hyper-aware of any changes in him. Harry usually isn't a restless sleeper. But there he was, clutching his forehead and groaning. —It must be a dream about Voldemort.

"Harry, Harry."

Making sure not to accidentally wake the Dursleys, I called his name right by my scowling brother's ear. I tapped his cheek lightly and shook his shoulder.

"Harry, wake up."

As if that were the signal, Harry’s eyes flew open. He let out a voiceless scream for a split second as I leaned over him, then, realizing it was just his sibling sharing the bed, he fumbled clumsily for his glasses. I grabbed them from where they sat on the bedside table and handed them to him. Once his vision was clear, Harry moved toward the window, still pressing a hand to his scar. He looked so desperate he didn't even care about his cold sweat.

"Harry?"

"My scar hurt. He's—he's close."

"Harry, that's..."

"I had a dream! He was in it—and then—"

Seeing his pale cheeks and trembling lips, I gently rubbed his back. That finally seemed to bring Harry back to the present, helping him remember where he was and who he was talking to.

"Maria..."

"Calm down, Harry. What kind of dream was it?"

I guided him away from the window, where the sunrise wasn't even visible yet, and we sat down on the bed together. I kept my hand resting on his back, damp with cold sweat.

Since it agitated his scar, it was almost certainly related to Voldemort. That much I knew. But—what exactly?

"...I don't know—I'm not really sure. I think it was a manor somewhere. I don't know whose perspective I was seeing it from... But I definitely saw it. Him, an old Muggle man, and..."

Harry spoke with a tone that suggested he was doubting his own words.

"Wormtail."

"..."

My hand, which had been rubbing his back, came to a halt. Harry's mind was no longer in the room; he was desperately trying to squeeze out the vague details of his dream.

"Voldemort called the man beside him Wormtail. And Wormtail called Voldemort 'My Lord'. Hey—Maria, does this mean—?"

Wormtail was supposed to have been caught. He was taken to the Ministry of Magic that day. This time, it was a certainty.

I had confirmed through the Daily Prophet Hermione sent us that the investigation into the truth of that incident was proceeding as promised. The Daily Prophet could devolve into terrible gossip depending on the era, but it should still be treating things seriously right now...

No, wait. Fudge is the one at the top. There's a distinct possibility they are covering something up.

"Harry, let's write a letter. We'll ask Sirius."

Right now, the person closest to the Ministry regarding Pettigrew's case is Sirius. Not in a corrupt way, of course. As the most crucial witness, Sirius had been summoned by the Ministry of Magic countless times. His letters mentioned he was sick of it, but he might have caught wind of something strange going on at the Ministry.

"I feel bad for Hedwig, but even now—Harry?"

When I tried to stand up, Harry's arms wrapped tightly around my waist. His forehead pressed firmly against my back in a completely dependent, clingy gesture. But the unmeasured, desperate strength in his arms told me it wasn't just that.

"Harry...?"

"He killed someone. They were talking about it. That old man, he was definitely killed. What if—what if he came here right now?"

"Harry, Voldemort isn't coming. He can't get in here."

"How can you say that? He managed to break into a house protected by the Fidelius Charm. Like this, completely unarmed—"

"Harry."

"Like this—I can't protect you, Maria."

I turned his head, which had been resting against my back, to face me and hugged him from the front.

For Harry, who was entering the thick of puberty, everything probably seemed far more terrifying. Seeing him like this reminded me of Albus, who had struggled with establishing his own identity even more than my other self. I was by no means a good father, but—I at least have the heart to want to stay by the side of a beloved child when they are suffering.

"It's okay, Harry. Do you really think Dumbledore has done nothing? I'm sure he's protecting this house in ways we couldn't even imagine."

"Really?"

"Don't you believe your older sister's words?"

"I'm the older brother."

After our usual exchange and a shared little laugh, I brushed the scar on his forehead with the hand that had taken his glasses. I pressed a light kiss against it.

The letter can wait. Right now, I just want to stay close to this child tossed around by fate.

We lay back down in bed, and I pulled Harry into my arms; even though he had grown taller, his habit of curling his back when he slept hadn't changed.

Voldemort cannot touch you. A mother's love is a magic that overturns even the worst of deaths.

So, please, rest peacefully. —At least, for now.

Staring at the boards nailed over the fireplace, I vaguely observed Dudley to distract myself from the disaster that was surely about to happen. Dudley was clutching his plump bottom with both hands, his family's all-out diet having been completely in vain. Pathetic. A magnificently foolish pig well worth observing. Dudley noticed my gaze and turned pale, as if looking at a monster. Oops, apparently I was smiling unconsciously.

Sunday, 5:00 PM—Today was the day the Weasley family was coming here, to the Dursley household. Mr. Weasley had promised to take us to the Quidditch World Cup with tickets he got through his connections at work. This was our pick-up.

Last time, the Weasley party made a rather amusing (from a Muggle's perspective) entrance through the fireplace, but I wondered how it would go this time. ...Probably the fireplace. Because I completely forgot to add a note to Harry's reply to Ron asking them to come by car.

"They're late!"

Uncle Vernon, pacing restlessly around the living room in his best clothes worn strictly for intimidation (looking like an agitated rhino, or perhaps an Erumpent in heat), looked up at the clock just as it ticked half-past five.

BANG! A loud noise, like a heavy piece of luggage being dropped, echoed from behind the boarded-up fireplace. Followed immediately by clear human voices bursting from inside.

"Ouch! No, Fred. Go back—go back... Ouch! There must be some mistake. There's no room, go back—"

Ah—Harry and I clutched our heads at the exact same time. No matter how many times I experience it, the Weasley family's invasion is—hilarious and painful. Dudley caught me secretly laughing again. Don't be so scared, you're not going to sprout a pig's tail from your bottom anymore. ...A pig's tail, that is.

"Harry? Maria? Are you there?"

"Um, Mr. Weasley? I'm sorry. The thing is—you can't use the fireplace in this house. It's blocked up."

"Blocked up?! Are they mad?"

"Mr. Weasley, Muggles don't travel by Floo powder."

He seemed to have completely forgotten that Harry, raised in the Muggle world, was a beginner to the Floo Network.

I knocked on the boards blocking the fireplace, and a knock came back in response. I turned to look at Uncle Vernon, who was too busy trembling with either anger or terror to speak.

"Uncle Vernon, may we remove these?"

"W-What ridiculous—what are you—"

"If we don't, well—they'll wreck the house with that thing you hate so much. Even Aunt Petunia wouldn't want that, right?"

Wizards tend to be quite bold in their actions thanks to convenient spells like Reparo—or rather, they have absolutely zero hesitation when it comes to breaking things. From the perspective of completely rigid Muggles, it must seem like utter madness.

Since we are wizards, we can watch with peace of mind knowing they'll fix it eventually—but the Dursleys are the absolute epitome of rigid Muggles. This was my way of appealing: I tried to resolve this as peacefully as possible.

Uncle Vernon aside, Aunt Petunia was glaring at the fireplace and at us as if looking at her parents' murderer, silently demanding we hurry up. So, I had Harry grab a crowbar, and we immediately set to work removing the boards.

Removing one board revealed a foot, two revealed a waist, three a hand. When we finally cleared them all away, Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, and Ron tumbled out, looking thoroughly cramped.

"Hello, Harry, Maria. That's better... Ah, pardon me. You must be their aunt and uncle!"

Fleeing from Mr. Weasley, who offered a handshake with a smile radiating nothing but pure goodwill, the Dursleys scuttled sideways like cockroaches despite their massive frames. Fred and George went upstairs to get our trunks. During that time, Mr. Weasley tried desperately to keep the conversation going (though the Dursleys didn't reply with a single word), even speaking to Dudley in a coaxing voice. Harry, Ron, and I had to turn our faces away and try our hardest to hold it in. ...Because if we watched that, we'd definitely burst out laughing.

"Dad, we're all set."

The Weasley twins returned carrying our trunks. When they spotted Dudley trying to hide behind his father's back—failing miserably, of course, as he was now wider than he was tall—they smirked with a knowing look, like they had just invented a brilliant new product. Dudley's fate was sealed right then and there.

Cutting short Mr. Weasley's entirely one-sided conversation, the twins took the trunks and disappeared into the Floo Network first, heading to the Burrow, followed by Ron. I cast a quick glance at the nougat Fred had dropped and urged Harry to go ahead.

"Your nephew just said goodbye, didn't he? Surely you're going to say goodbye back?"

"It's alright, Mr. Weasley."

"But Maria, this is a matter of courtesy—"

"Actually, we already said our goodbyes earlier. Right? Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, isn't that right? Now, go on, Harry."

My aunt and uncle mumbled something, clearly annoyed at having to accept my lifeline, but eventually gave slow nods. They were on pins and needles wondering when Mr. Weasley's wand might be pointed at them. They undoubtedly just wanted us to disappear quickly, whether through the fireplace, the chimney, or anywhere else.

—And then, the highly anticipated incident occurred.

"Dudley!!"

Aunt Petunia's shriek made Dudley's predicament known to everyone. With the nougat wrapper lying nearby, anyone could guess this disaster was brought on by Dudley eating right off the floor. Now, our dear cousin had probably learned that eating everything in sight like a pig was a bad idea. Probably. Surely. Most likely.

"It's fine, it's fine, I'll sort him out... Oh, honestly, there's no reasoning with them! Maria, you go on ahead!"

"Okay!"

Waving at the Dursleys, not a single one of whom was looking at the fireplace, I called out triumphantly.

"—The Burrow!"