[Castling] Chapter 68

The rest of the school year flew by in a blur of busyness and fun. We were knee-deep in exam prep, but still managed trips to Hogsmeade, visits to Hagrid, the odd bit of flying, and even spent time with the visiting students.

Hermione introduced us to Krum, who ended up hanging round with us now and then. For all his gruff, brooding looks, Viktor turned out to be a decent enough bloke—talkative even—though at first he kept sneaking glances at me and Harry, clearly sizing us up as competition for Hermione. It was hilarious to watch, really. Hermione clearly enjoyed the attention from someone older and famous, even if she pretended not to notice.

Once the weather warmed up properly, we—like most of the students—often asked the house-elves to pack us a picnic and took our books out to the lake. The idea was to study, though it usually turned into chatting more than anything else.

Krum, unsurprisingly, followed Hermione around like a lovesick Kneazle. If she was in the library, he’d loiter nearby. If we were out on the lawn, he’d show up too—stretching, doing tricks on his broom, trying to show off his fit physique. Eventually, we just invited him to sit with us, which he did, despite Hermione looking like she’d rather sink into the ground.

Of course, all that made studying nearly impossible, which drove Hermione up the wall. And I don’t think even she knew what she wanted half the time. Every time we spread out the picnic blanket under the oak and Krum joined us, more people would drift over. Before long, there’d be a proper crowd, all asking for autographs, and then Krum and Harry would end up showing off on their brooms while everyone screamed like it was the World Cup.

Harry had got into the habit of showing off too—not that I blamed him. After those three awkward dates with Cho in Hogsmeade, he’d started acting more self-conscious. She was older, stunning, and had lads queueing up for her—taller, buffer lads at that. Harry, bless him, was all elbows and skinny limbs, and I think he felt it. Still, watching the two of them faff about with all their drama and posturing was funny as hell. Once I’d passed everything along to Snape, I let the rest go and just enjoyed being a student again, hoping everything would sort itself without me.

We often saw Diggory and Fleur strolling by the lake, looking like a couple straight off some romance. Their companionship was the hot topic of the year—everyone was gossiping about it. Personally, I found Diggory a bit too polished, but there was no denying he and Fleur made a striking pair. Sometimes they’d stop by and say hello, though that was clearly more for Krum’s benefit than ours.

Eventually, the exam crunch hit, and that was that for our lakeside lounging.

When we finally finished our last paper—History of Magic—we all headed down to the Quidditch pitch straight after dinner.

It looked completely different now. The whole area had been turned into a towering maze of hedges, twenty feet high. In the fading light, the green had turned to a gloomy grey, making the whole thing look more like a fortress than a garden. They’d put the stands off to one side, far from the hedge, but right near a small open space where the Triwizard Cup stood glowing faintly on a pedestal. You could just make it out in the dusk.

I figured we wouldn’t be able to see much of what happened inside the maze, but they’d set up magical viewing panels around the platform so everyone could at least see who reached the Cup first. Wouldn’t be shocked if that was Snape’s doing—after everything I’d told him.

Time dragged on, but Bagman kept up a steady stream of commentary:

“Oh Merlin—what a shot! Mr Krum’s dealt with the Tailspike... Brilliant! The Beauxbatons Champion solved the Sphinx’s riddle in thirty seconds flat… Mr Diggory’s handled the Acromantula like a pro!”

He must’ve had some sort of magical feed, ‘cause we couldn’t see a thing—but every shout from Bagman had the crowd gasping and cheering.

Good thing I hadn’t placed a bet. I figured with Harry out of the running, anything could happen—and turns out I was bang on.

All the champions made it to the Cup platform at nearly the same time. The screens didn’t carry sound, but the buzz in the air was electric.

Diggory and Krum lunged for the Cup—until Fleur whipped her wand on both of them. The three of them stood frozen, wands trained on one another, like some Western standoff, until Krum made the first move and raised his wand.

“Oy! Look there—Durmstrang’s Champion is demanding a proper duel! Well, that’s not against the rules… Who’s going to go first?”

While Fleur waited her turn, the lads circled each other and started slinging spells like seasoned pros. The blasts of colour lit up the clearing, no need for the screens at that point—it was brilliant to watch.

Krum was throwing advanced curses like it was nothing, living up to Durmstrang’s reputation. Diggory, to his credit, held his own—dodging with unbelievable agility and firing back with complex spells of his own, though nothing Dark. The crowd was going wild, cheering and hollering from the stands. Diggory was clearly injured, dragging his leg and covered in blood from cuts, but still going. Just when it looked like he was done for, he managed to catch Krum off guard with a side-blast of a Stunner.

The crowd erupted. It was chaos—like the World Cup all over again.

Diggory limped over to Fleur and raised his wand, inviting her to duel. He looked like he was about to collapse at her feet. The French section of the stands went mad, already celebrating. But Fleur did something no one expected—she lowered her wand, conceding the fight.

The French crowd groaned in disappointment.

Diggory paused, said something to her, and then he lowered his wand too. Together, they walked up to the Cup, each taking a handle, and raised it at the same time. Then they hobbled off the platform side by side.

It took a few moments before the crowd snapped out of the shock—but when they did, they roared. Applause exploded from every side of the pitch as the Champions reappeared, side by side, bathed in the Cup’s glow.

“I’d never have beaten Mr Krum if I’d drawn him first,” Fleur said later in an interview with the Prophet. “And Cedric was badly injured — to win against him would’ve felt like cheating. I couldn’t go through with it.”

In the end, after reviewing all the iffy bits, the champions shared first place, and split the prize money between them. Dumbledore, in his usual fashion, congratulated the champions and declared that friendship had won. Though really, a different word might’ve been more fitting. The Durmstrang lot looked pretty put out, visibly annoyed. Our lot were mostly impressed — swept away by the romance and nobility of the whole thing. The French, however, were properly livid — even their headmistress got into it with Hagrid, and he ended up sitting at the celebratory feast in the Great Hall looking miserable, his face all puffy from drink.

Cedric’s dad, for his part, wasn’t thrilled either — he gave Fleur the side-eye and openly criticised Cedric’s “daft” decision to throw away victory for the sake of some lofty ideal and a girl. But no one expected what happened next.

The day before the visiting schools were set to leave, Fleur and Cedric vanished. Later, they turned up in Gretna Green — that goblin-smith village where underage witches and wizards run off to get magically married without parental consent.

What followed was an absolute scandal — not just at Hogwarts, but across magical Britain. The runaways were brought back. They hadn’t managed to get married, but Fleur had been compromised by spending the night alone with Cedric while they travelled — dodging pursuit and heading toward their destination. They hadn’t used magic, so they couldn’t be tracked — just brooms.

The Tournament organisers and staff from both schools were suddenly facing a potential international incident. The outcry practically eclipsed the Triwizard Tournament itself — even the World Cup seemed tame by comparison. British wizards can be awfully stiff when it comes to morality and proper behaviour — especially where old families and school-aged kids are involved, even if they’re technically of age. We left school still not knowing how it would all pan out.

By the time we were on the train home, the story had sprouted wings. Parvati claimed Cedric had begged his dad to let them marry, but he’d refused Fleur outright after learning she was part Veela — apparently, that was a dealbreaker for a proper old-blood English family. The Delacours, on the other hand, were all for it. They even hinted that Cedric would be welcome in France, with Fleur’s dad offering to sort him a cushy job at the French Ministry. There was even talk of Cedric finishing his final year at Beauxbatons — to stay close to his bride-to-be.

In early July, the Prophet published a notice of Fleur Delacour and Cedric Diggory’s engagement. The wedding was set, as it should be, for the following autumn. As Ginny said, eyes all dreamy, “true love conquers all.” Mum agreed, dabbing her eyes like she was at a wedding already. She’s always been the sentimental sort — loves a happy ending, especially the romantic kind.

As for me — I couldn’t stop thinking how such a small change, like Harry not entering the Tournament, had completely twisted the fates of so many people. He’d asked Cho to the Yule Ball before Cedric got the chance. Cedric asked Fleur. Bill didn’t turn up to support Harry, so he never met Fleur… and everything turned out completely different.

Honestly, these were the dullest, most miserable hols of my life — turned my comfy little world upside down. To top it off, Bill was staying at the Burrow. Thank Merlin Charlie came along later, even if it was only for a week.

For starters, Dad wouldn’t let me go with the Lovegoods. So Luna and her dad went to Africa without me. Her farewell look was all cheerful, but a bit too forced — made it sting worse, if I’m honest. She’d really enjoyed our time together last year, and so had I. Saying I was angry with my dad doesn’t even begin to cover it. We had another proper row, and I nearly legged it. But then Snape asked me to stay — face-to-face, that is. Said he was worried we’d miss the Horcrux. So I stayed.

Dad, all serious, told me something terrible had happened and that Dumbledore had called the Order back together. Arthur was in the first wave. Said they needed every trusted person they had. I hadn’t joined the Order — not that I was planning to — but I already hated the whole idea.

Unlike me, my brothers were absolutely thrilled to “help out.” They dropped their voices like they were about to be handed some top-secret mission — had no clue they’d end up scrubbing mould and chasing doxy infestations out of the curtains. I didn’t say a word. Wanted to see their faces when reality hit.

Meanwhile, Harry was stuck at the Dursleys’ — Dumbledore’s orders. He was so bored he kept scribbling endless notes to me and Hermione. Then Snape got in touch using enchanted parchment, and we met by the ruins of that old castle near our village.

“Dumbledore’s reviving the Order of the Phoenix,” Snape said, scowling like the idea personally offended him. “ Says the old members need warning, and we’ve got to start recruiting new blood in the Ministry. Your job, Weasley, is to find the locket. But we’ll destroy the Horcrux together — you promised, remember?”

“What about the other Horcruxes?” I asked.

“I’m dealing with them,” he said, giving me a weary look. In the daylight, he looked younger — but worse for wear. Like someone chronically ill. Way too pale and thin for a sunny summer day. “I’ve got a plan. But I’ll need your explicit consent,” he added, with a sarcastic twist of his mouth, clearly mocking the formality of it all. “So — do I have your permission, Weasley, to act at my own discretion?”

“You do, sir,” I said seriously. “But only if it’s in my family’s best interest. No one else gets hurt. One Percy was enough.”

“I give you my word,” Snape sneered, twisting his lips into something that might’ve been called a smile. “Rest assured — not a single one of your relatives will be anywhere near it. Care to hear the details?”

“No need. Glad to know, sir, I can finally leave the problem-solving to a professional,” I said, laying it on a bit thick with a cheerful grin. “Can I help?”

“No,” he replied flatly, flicking a quick glance my way, like even the idea of me being helpful irritated him. “Just stay out of the way. That’ll be more than enough. Remember — the locket’s your responsibility. Don’t lose track of it — I won’t be getting to the Order’s HQ anytime soon.” And with that, he vanished in a swirl of Apparition.

On the 20th of July, Dad called me and the twins into the sitting room.

“We’re about to head off to a secure location,” he said seriously, before launching into a little lecture about the wrongly convicted Black and his new place of residence. “Your job will be to get the place ready for Order meetings. Toss anything that’s falling apart or dangerous.”

“So it’s just cleaning?” Fred groaned.

“What’d you expect, a raid on Knockturn Alley?” George snorted.

“Boys, this is serious business — important and potentially dangerous,” Dad said, frowning. “It’s the home of dark wizards. You’ll need to work without magic at first, so you don’t accidentally trigger anything nasty.”

“Ooh, brilliant,” the twins said, exchanging gleeful looks — clearly already thinking of ways to benefit. But Dad noticed. And what really got me was the chill in his voice. I couldn’t ever remember him sounding like that — not even when he was furious.

“I’m warning you,” he added evenly, but with clear menace. “Especially you two, Fred and George. Don’t take a single thing from that house. Not so much as a scrap of cloth. Do you understand me?”

“But why not? If it’s getting binned anyway—” George tried to protest.

“I said what I said,” Dad snapped, and his voice was like ice. It was properly unsettling, coming from someone usually so kind. “I’ll disown anyone who nicks even a pin. You’ll have to decide what matters more — your experiments or your family.”

“All right, Dad. We get it,” the twins replied, subdued but clearly annoyed. “But we can still collect potion ingredients, yeah? If the place is old, there’s bound to be loads of useful stuff. It’s expensive to buy anything magical that comes from creatures.”

“That’s fine,” Dad said, softening a little. “Just don’t let your mum catch you. Right, let’s go.”

We got to Grimmauld Place… via Floo.

“Er… Dad? Isn’t it risky, using the Floo Network?” I asked as we stepped into the dark, empty drawing room. “Can’t it be tracked?”

“Not yet,” he replied in a low voice. “There are enough enchantments on the place for now — only our family can access it. But once the Order starts meeting here, the house will be hidden under a Fidelius Charm. Too many people coming and going otherwise. For now — keep quiet, follow me, and don’t touch anything.”

We followed behind him, noses wrinkling — the place stank of damp, mildew, and something sweet and rotting. We emerged into the hallway, just as a man began descending from the upper floor.

Black had changed a lot since we’d last seen him. He wasn’t twitchy anymore, and his gaze had steadied. He’d put on some weight and cleaned up a bit, though the aura around him still reeked of prison — or no, not prison. Punishment. Hard time. He looked like a man worn down to the bone, hollowed out and strung tight. There was aggression simmering under the surface, and something in his eyes that reminded me of a half-wild dog — abused and mistrustful, ready to bite before it got kicked again.

“Arthur,” he drawled, slurring slightly as he swaggered down another step or two, the twins gawking at him with open awe. “Right on time.”

The men shook hands in a way that was more casual than warm, and Black’s unfocused eyes flicked over our faces.

“You’ve no idea how glad I am to have your help,” he said, voice thick with drink. “I’ve got no desire whatsoever to rummage through this ancient rubbish. Maybe if we chuck out the whole bloody lot, we’ll actually be able to breathe in here. You wouldn’t believe the way these walls press in on you. Anyway— sorry, I’ll leave you to it. Not really in the mood to play happy families.” He gave a shrill little laugh and stumbled off upstairs, not even looking at us, like we weren’t there at all.

But then a voice, sharp and cutting, floated down the hall:

“And that useless, disgraceful scoundrel is back — the shame of our house,” sneered a woman from a portrait on the wall. In the dim light of the gas lamps, you could’ve missed her until she spoke. She might’ve been beautiful once, but now her face was twisted with disgust, like something vile had crawled under her nose. Her eyes spat lightning.

“Shut your gob, you old bat!” Sirius shouted, spinning round and lurching toward the portrait. He started hammering at the frame with his fists. “Your time’s up! You’re dead, and now it’s my house! I’ll do whatever I damn well like, and sod your opinion, you nasty old cow!”

“Of course,” she said sweetly, venom dripping from her words. “Let in blood-traitors to defile this house — generations of purebloods disgraced by your filth.”

“I’ll destroy everything you ever cared about, you witch,” Sirius growled. “And then I’ll find a way to get rid of you too.”

He whipped out his wand, and the curtains snapped shut over her portrait with a puff of dust. Shoulders slumped, he turned and trudged back upstairs, muttering curses under his breath, fingers tearing through his hair. Didn’t even glance our way.

“Right, don’t dawdle,” Arthur said briskly, snapping us back to attention and leading us on.

We ended up in the kitchen — massive place, with a fireplace big enough to fit two of me, copper pots, blackened cauldrons, and a long wooden table.

“We need to get the kitchen in order and scrub everything clean,” Dad said, gesturing around at the mess. “We’ve already cleared out the dangerous stuff, so it’s safe to use magic in here now. In a week, Harry’s moving in, and the meetings will start. More people’ll be around, and your mum’ll need the space for cooking.”

“We’re moving in here too, then?” George muttered, clearly unimpressed, as he pulled out his wand and aimed it at a skillet black with soot. No one was thrilled at the thought of living in this dreadful old place.

“We’ll see,” Dad replied vaguely, already elbow-deep in soot as he started scrubbing out the hearth and chimney. “Oh, and if you see the house-elf — ignore him. He’s not quite all there.”

And sure enough, he turned up near the end of our clean-up. Muttered a few insults under his breath, snatched up the polished copper cauldron, dragged it off to his cupboard, and vanished.

“All right, home time. Get cleaned up,” Dad declared cheerfully three hours later, casting cleansing charms over all of us. “You lot head back to the Burrow. I’ve still got to speak with Black.”

He walked us to the stairs, then headed up while the others filed back to the fireplace in the drawing room. The twins vanished in a swirl of Floo powder, but I hung back. Thought I’d try to catch a glimpse of Kreacher — just to see how unhinged he actually was — and wandered back into the kitchen.

Should’ve left.

I poked about a bit, didn’t find him, and was about to head back when I heard voices in the hallway and froze. The staircase blocked me from view, especially in the dim light. I wasn’t exactly trying to eavesdrop… but one voice belonged to Walburga. The other — to my dad. Only, I’d never heard him speak like that before. Except maybe earlier that morning.

“Say what you came to say and get out of my house, you filthy traitor,” the old witch spat, every word laced with venom. I could picture the sneer on her painted face perfectly.

Dad, by contrast, was maddeningly calm — too calm. His tone was slow and deliberate, like he was enjoying this. And now I couldn’t just step out and interrupt them — it felt… wrong. So I stayed hidden.

“Oh, come now, dear aunt,” Arthur drawled, each word dripping sarcasm. He sounded painfully polite in a way that was clearly meant as an insult. “As your loyal nephew, I thought I’d come entertain you. You’ve been dead for quite some time now, and the magical world’s moved on. Who better to fill you in than family?”

“Spare me your nonsense,” she snapped, though there was a flicker of unease in her voice.

“Oh, but I must,” Dad said, and his smile was pure ice. I felt a chill race down my spine — it didn’t sound like him at all. That voice could’ve belonged to Malfoy, not my kind-hearted father.

“I’ve got news about your precious family. A string of tragedies, really. Your dear Pollux passed in ‘90 — couldn’t cope with your loss, I suppose. Tragic, isn’t it? Then Cygnus and Cassiopeia in ‘92. Druella followed not long after.”

“No… that can’t be true! Stop it!” she gasped, her voice cracking.

“Oh, but it is,” Arthur said with a twisted little laugh. “Sorry, Auntie.”

“You’re lying, you bastard,” she hissed. “Their portraits are empty!”

“Well now, that’s just rude,” Arthur replied smoothly. “You know full well I was born properly. As for the portraits… let’s just say someone made sure those scum didn’t leave a trace of memory behind.”

“You… it was you,” she choked.

“It was,” he said, calm as you like. “And that’s not all. A few months ago, I got to the Malfoys. Abraxas — what a loss,” he said mockingly, then chuckled. “Dragon pox at his age… and wasn’t it just last year that old Bulstrode died the same way? And the Flints lost Etienne? Funny how life works. The old ones always go first…”

“You—!” Walburga tried to scream, but the words caught — he must’ve silenced her.

“Shall I tell you how I did it?” he offered brightly. “You, more than anyone, would appreciate the brilliance of it. Patience, that’s the trick. Everyone has a weakness — a hunting injury, a goldenrod allergy… jealousy... Getting to Malfoy took time, but I found a way. A little tweak to the goblin gold in the vault, a bit of powder, and poof — worm food. I waited years, Auntie. And I would’ve loved to wring your neck myself — it was your idea, after all, to wipe out my family.”

His voice dropped, deadly and low. “But you died before I could get my hands on you. Lucky for me, fate stepped in. Your son — the last of the Blacks — will finish what I started. He’ll scrub every trace of you from this house. He’ll trample your precious legacy into the dirt. And, if I know him, I’ll live to see him marry a Muggle-born — watch your ‘pure blood’ disappear for good.”

He paused, then murmured something in a language I didn’t recognise — probably a charm to keep her from ever repeating a word of it — and then whistled cheerily as he walked off toward the drawing room.

I slid down the wall and hit the floor, legs gone to jelly.

I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. It was like something dark had taken hold of him — that wasn’t my dad speaking. That was someone else. Someone terrifying.

I didn’t know what to do, where to go, how to even look him in the eye after that. My head was spinning, the world felt off-kilter, and I was still staring blankly into the dark when I heard his voice above me.

“Ron? What are you doing down here?” he asked gently, like always, with a warm smile.

I jumped up, yanked out my wand, and pointed it straight at him.

“I thought you’d gone home,” he said calmly.

“Back off,” I rasped. Right then, I was sure — absolutely sure — this wasn’t him. Not really. He could’ve put the same spell on me as he did on her. Or wiped my memory clean. I didn’t trust him anymore.

“Ah,” he said softly, sighing. “So you heard.”

He looked at me, eyes full of something I couldn’t name. Regret, maybe.

“I’m sorry, Ron,” he said simply. “I didn’t want you to hear that.”

“Just let me through, Dad,” I said firmly, hand shaking with tension. I was strung tight as a bowstring, ready to fire at the slightest twitch. Didn’t even matter what spell — even if it was the Killing Curse. And Arthur knew it. He stepped aside, raising his hands in a silent surrender.

“Go on, Ron. I won’t stop you,” he said calmly. “We’ll talk at home — there’s a lot we need to discuss, son. But later. When you’ve cooled off.”

I bolted past him, not even watching where I was going. Knocked over a troll’s leg used for umbrellas, sent a couple of old walking sticks clattering, and brushed a shrivelled black skull clean off the bannister. Nearly missed the right room altogether. I grabbed a fistful of Floo powder and stepped into the emerald flames just as I was — back to the hearth, wand clenched in my sweaty hand.