"I never wanted anyone to worship—" Harry began, growing agitated.
"We all know you don't," Hermione said, looking livid.
"But look what they're doing! They want to turn you into someone nobody will believe. I bet Fudge is orchestrating this. They want the entire wizarding world viewing you as some attention-seeking fool who fabricates ridiculous tales simply because he enjoys fame and wants to maintain it."
"And naturally, they haven't reported a single word about the Dementor attack," Hermione continued.
"Someone must have warned them to stay silent. That should have been massive news—Dementors going rogue. They didn't even report Harry's breach of the International Statute of Secrecy."
"Actually, Dementors visited my home as well," Orli sighed.
"Fortunately, magic use at my residence goes undetected by the Ministry. Otherwise I might have faced that hearing too."
Just then, footsteps echoed on the ancient staircase, and Fred and George immediately vanished with their Extendable Ears. Seconds later, Mrs. Weasley's voice rang from the doorway:
"Lunch, children!—Incidentally, who's been dropping Dungbombs throughout the corridor?"
"Must be Crookshanks, Mum. He adores playing with Dungbombs," Ginny said without missing a beat.
"Oh," Mrs. Weasley said.
"I suspected Kreacher—he's always hoarding peculiar items."
"You haven't encountered Kreacher yet, have you, Orli?" As they followed Mrs. Weasley downstairs, Harry whispered:
"He's absolutely ghastly—I've never met such a revolting house-elf."
"Complete nutter," Ron agreed.
"He's the Black family elf, whose sole ambition is having his head severed and mounted on the wall like his ancestors."
Hermione ahead pricked up her ears, and both boys immediately fell silent.
The entire ground floor seemed to spring to life at Mrs. Weasley's lunch summons—nobody could decline her meals (her culinary skills were legendary), but if you didn't appear, she possessed countless methods to escort you to the table.
Lupin emerged from the corridor's end, breaking into a warm smile upon seeing everyone descending.
"We're dining in the downstairs kitchen," Mrs. Weasley said quietly upon meeting them at the stairs' base.
"Tiptoe through this hall—the kitchen's beyond that door—"
CRASH.
"Tonks!" Mrs. Weasley whirled around irritably.
"Merlin's beard—" Ron was first to clap hands over his ears.
A young witch with shocking pink hair Orli had never seen lay sprawled on the floor, apologizing profusely:
"Sorry! That blasted umbrella stand—second time it's caught me—"
But her words drowned beneath a horrific, eardrum-shattering, blood-curdling shriek.
The moth-eaten curtains had been wrenched apart, revealing a life-sized portrait within. An elderly woman in a black bonnet screamed as though enduring torture—Orli had witnessed numerous moving portraits, but this was undoubtedly the most realistic and repulsive.
The crone drooled, eyes rolling wildly, waxy yellow skin stretching grotesquely as she shrieked. Other wall portraits awakened, adding their piercing wails to the cacophony. Orli pressed her palms desperately against her ears.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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