The Three Brothers - Chapter 33

29th November 1992

“Are you sure about this, Hermione?” Harry asked. He was absently playing with the grass on the ground, plucking out one blade at a time. The three of them were sitting in the shade of the big tree near the edge of the Black Lake, trying to figure out their next step with regards to the problem of Professor Lockhart.

“Absolutely. If we want to find answers, this is the best way to do it,” she answered. Harry was amazed at the change in her once he had explained the suspicious records of Professor Lockhart.

“What will we need?”

“Firstly, we’ll need to search the library for some advanced potions books,” said Hermione. “One of them will have the information we need.”

“Let me guess, these books will be in the restricted section of the library?” Ron turned to her with a sour look on his face. Hermione just nodded.

“We couldn’t get in there last year when we were searching for Nicolas Flamel, Hermione,” Ron said exasperated. “What makes you think we can get in there this time?”

“I don’t know. Did you guys have the invisibility cloak then?” she asked and Ron nodded in reply. “I’ve learnt the silencing charm from Professor Flitwick. Perhaps that will silence those shrieking books,” she pondered.

“What do you require to get in the restricted section? Normally?” Harry interrupted. A ghost of an idea was beginning to come to him.

“Since when have we done anything the normal way?” Ron scoffed.

“You’ll need a signed permission slip from a Professor,” Hermione answered, ignoring Ron. “They’re informed of whatever books we check out.”

“As if a professor would sign our permission slip in the first place,” said Ron.

Harry wasn’t listening to his friends anymore. His mind was running through the different scenarios that could take place. It could definitely work—if he could pull it off, that is.

“One professor might,” Harry said finally, breaking up whatever bickering the other two had gotten up to in the meanwhile. Ron looked at him with interest, while Hermione looked with momentary suspicion—before she realised what he was implying.

“No. No, no, no—That’s ridiculous Harry!” Hermione cried out. Ron, on the other hand, was still confused.

“What’s ridiculous?”

“He’s thinking of asking Professor Lockhart!” Hermione explained before turning towards him. “Tell him it’s ridiculous!”

“Harry,” Ron said, his voice finally finding itself, “how exactly will you get Lockhart to sign the slip? ‘Oh, Professor Lockhart, I was wondering if you’d sign this permission slip so that I can get the instructions for brewing an illegal potion—’”

“—technically it’s a grey area,” Hermione interrupted. Ron turned to look at her with an incredulous expression.

“Sorry,” he said, “‘—a potion-of-questionable-legality-to-brew, which’—wait for it—’we’re going to use on you to conduct an investigation into your suspicious school records.’ That’s brilliant Harry. I wonder what Lockhart will say to that.”

Harry waited patiently for Ron to finish, a bored expression on his face as he twirled a long blade of grass between his fingers

“Are you done?” he asked. “Look, all I’ll need to do is get in detention with him.”

Both Ron and Hermione just looked at him with further confusion. Confident about his plan, Harry was now just milking this for the most dramatic effect.

“How will that help?” Hermione finally asked.

“Because that’s an opportunity to bond with him—celebrity to celebrity. Tell him how problematic m life is here at Hogwarts. Tell him how the Slytherins try and tarnish my image at every turn,” “Tell him how Professor Snape takes every opportunity to try and pull me down,” “Tell him how brewing an advanced potion might improve my standing in the class,”

“Bloody hell, Harry,” Ron finally said, “you’re downright devious, aren’t you?”

“Anyway, you aren’t touching the potion at all. Only Hermione’s qualified to handle it”

“Of course,” Harry quickly replied. Hermione, however, had a furious look on her face.

“Of course not,” she snapped. “You both do not get to dump this on me. Besides, think of the learning opportunity!”

“Hermione,” Harry interrupted, “I think what Ron meant was that you’ll be the one taking the lead on the brewing. We will ȧssist you as required, of course.” Ron was nodding vigorously, trying to hold onto the rope Harry had thrown him. Seeing that Hermione still did not look satisfied, Harry quickly added, “And learn by observation.”

“What about the ingredients? Where can we get them from? I doubt OWL potion kits have them” Ron asked in an offhanded manner, trying to smoothly change the subject.

“No. We’ll need to get them from Professor Snape’s cupboards,” Hermione answered. She was met with two identical looks of horror.

“Leave that to me. I have a plan for it,” she continued, “Once we get everything, we’ll set up the brewing in the abandoned second-floor bathroom.”

“Isn’t that the one near the Chamber message?” asked Ron.

“Yes. Mr Filch cleaned it already,” she answered. “Once we begin, it should take a complete lunar cycle to brew. The holidays will be an ideal time for that”

“Okay.”

“I still say we should use some on Malfoy. He’ll—”

“Will you stop with Malfoy already?” Hermione interrupted Ron. “Look, whoever wrote that Chamber stuff was just spreading panic. There hasn’t been a shred of activity since—”

“Doesn’t mean there won’t be,” Ron retorted. “The Heir wants to target muggle-borns. What if it attacks you?”

“Hey,” said Harry, “We can decide what to do with the potion after its brewed.” Both Ron and Hermione kept quiet at that. He turned to Hermione. “You sure it’s foolproof?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered. “It forces the drinker to tell the truth. Theoretically, you can build a slight immunity to it with over-exposure, but it’s only that—slight immunity. You can resist Veritaserum for a bit, but you can’t outright lie.”

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9th December 1992

Mark made his way to the kitchens, his stomach slowly growling.

“Ah, Master Smith. Another salad?” Corky asked.

“Yes please.” Mark sighed. Before the little elf could move away, he added, “Can you pack a few more? I’ll be up tonight, and I don’t want to come back down.”

“Very well, Master —” Before Corky could finish, they were interrupted by a loud argument from further inside the kitchen.

“—you have got to understand! This is important! Professor Dumbledore needs to be warned!” an unfamiliar squeaked. Now curious, Mark walked further inside towards wherever the voice was coming from.

“We will do no such thing! You is a bad elf, coming here against your master’s orders. We will not help you any further,” he saw one of the older Hogwarts elves say. The other one—a much more miserable-looking elf—seemed insistent on his point.

“But Dobby be telling you, the students are in danger!” The moment these words left its mouth, its large tennis-ball-sized eyes widened in fear and it hopped towards the nearest wall. Mark watched dumbstruck as this Dobby bashed its head on the solid stone wall, repeatedly muttering, “Bad Dobby, Bad dobby.” If that wasn’t enough, the older elf was completely unfazed by this behaviour, making no effort to stop Dobby. Instead, it got a smug expression on its face.

“See? You is being a bad elf, and elf magic be punishing you for it. You think we —” the elf stopped, just noticing Mark standing with a look of shock on his face. “Master Smith, sir. How can we be helping you, sir?”

“Just overheard you arguing. What’s it about? Any problem?”

“Nothing sir. Just a bad elf that’s need punishing,” the elf said with a toothy grin.

“I can see that.” Mark clenched his jaw, trying to control himself. “Maybe I can help him.”

“You don’t need to do that Master Smith —”

“I insist. Let me handle this” Mark interrupted, his tone tempered. The elf noticed, and promptly complied.

“Very well sir,” the elf said, before it gave a low bow. Giving Dobby a dirty look, it went away to join the other elves in the kitchen.

Mark took a deep breath. The magical world was a weird place; especially the customs of house-elves. He looked over to the miserable-looking Dobby—dressed in a ragged pillowcase, the long fingers on its hands bandaged in soiled, yellowed linen. Miserable was an understatement.

“So Dobby was it?” asked Mark, squatting down to meet Dobby’s eyes.

“Yes sir,” the elf nodded, fear still evident in his eyes. He was probably wondering if Mark would punish him further. Mark decided to reassure him.

“My name’s Mark. What was it that you want to tell Professor Dumbledore? Maybe I can help? Take a message, perhaps?”

“You will help poor Dobby sir?” the elf asked, surprise in its eyes.

“Yes. Should I not?” Mark asked hesitantly. He knew house-elf customs were weird, and he didn’t want to offend anyone.

“No one has sought to help Dobby before, good sir,” Dobby whispered softly, before remembering what he had come here for.

“You have to warn Professor Dumbledore, sir. There’s a plot, a most evil plot at Hogwarts sir. The students, they will all be in danger, sir. Please you must tell him soon. It has already begun sir,” said Dobby, before seizing up like he had done before. He hopped back to the wall.

“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” Dobby banged his head once before Mark pulled him back.

“Hey, stop!” He held Dobby firmly—the elf was surprisingly strong. “What the hell, mate? Why are bashing your head like that?”

“Tis punishment sir, punishment.” Dobby slouched, defeated expression on his face. Mark loosened his grip but kept his hand on the elf in case he decided to go bonkers again. “Dobby cannot go against his master’s wishes, for he then has to punish himself.”

“What? Why?” Mark was confused. He’d never seen any of the Hogwarts elves punishing themselves.

“It is the house-elf law, sir. Dobby’s master orders Dobby to punish himself if he disobeys, and so Dobby has to,” the elf cried.

It was too confusing. Following an order to punish yourself, because you broke an order? It made no sense.

“Well, what order have you broken?” asked Mark.

“Master told Dobby not to tell Professor Dumbledore or his friends sir. Dobby tries to go around it, but —”

Mark looked at Dobby with newfound respect as he understood the elf’s actions. Dobby couldn’t go against his master’s explicit wishes, so he was trying to find potential loopholes. He was risking punishment and harm to ensure the safety of the students at Hogwarts—students who he had no affiliation with.

“Professor Dumbledore isn’t my friend,” said Mark, deciding to help this little elf. “In fact, I hate that guy,” he lied. Thinking of more things to say about the Headmaster, Mark continued the charade.

“Stupid—white beard. Speaks in riddles. I hate riddles,” said Mark, looking at Dobby, who widened his eyes at the last word. Suddenly everything clicked.

“Dobby, does the danger you speak of concern the Chamber of Secrets?” Mark asked in a low voice. He must have hit the mark, because Dobby widened his eyes in fear and tried moving towards the wall again.

“Wait!” Mark caught the elf, not loosening his grip. “No friend of Dumbledore, remember? Just nod or shake your head, alright?”

Mark saw Dobby think for a moment before nodding once.

“The Chamber?” asked Mark. Gulping, Dobby nodded once.

“How did you know sir?” he asked.

“Riddle. This has something to do with a certain Tom Riddle, hasn’t it? And his Diary?”

“How?”

“Who’s your master Dobby? A certain Lucius Malfoy, perhaps?” Marked asked, ŀɨċkɨnġ his lips in anticipation. Dobby began shaking his head wildly, trying to free himself from Mark’s grasp.

“Bad Dobby! Bad —”

“Stop! You don’t even have to confirm that.”

Dobby now looked at Mark with a pleading expression.

“If you know of the danger sir, you must tell it to Professor Dumble—”

“Professor Dumbledore already knows Dobby,” Mark said, “Because the danger has passed. Tom Riddle is gone. The Diary has been destroyed. The Basilisk is dead.”

Dobby looked at him dumbstruck. Clearly, the elf had not expected that response.

“How? Are you sure sir?” asked Dobby.

“Pretty sure. Saw it with my own eyes.”

“Professor Dumbledore killed the monster?”

Mark’s face must have betrayed him, for Dobby immediately realised the truth.

“You did,” Dobby whispered, eyes wide in awe. He took a few moments to digest this information before looking at Mark with admiration.

“Dobby is honoured to meet a great wizard like you Mark Smith! Never had he imagined the danger had already been thwarted. You is a great wizard! Dobby will sing songs of your greatness sir!”

Mark cursed inwardly. This was not good. Songs of greatness were the exact opposite of what they were trying to achieve.

“Yeah, listen,” he said, trying to draw the attention of the exhilarated elf. “You can’t tell anyone. It’s being kept a secret,” he explained in a serious tone.

“But sir —” Dobby tried to protest. Mark kept a hand on Dobby’s shoulder and tried summing it up as shortly as he could.

“There are more important things than greatness, Dobby.”

His words had an immediate effect, and frankly, Mark was surprised by it. Dobby tensed up, his face immediately losing any expression of protest. Instead, the small elf looked at Mark with a peculiar expression. If he didn’t know better, Mark would have thought Dobby was looking into his mind. Finally, after a minute, the elf spoke.

“Dobby understands sir. Dobby understands perfectly.”

Mark watched Dobby walk away slowly, his pace slow and reserved; it was as if he was seeing an entirely different elf.

“It is over. The darkness has passed,” said Dobby, his voice calm. There was no sign of the earlier frenzy or panic—this Dobby was an elegant being, all too out of place dressed in a dirty pillowcase.

“The Malfoys don’t treat you well, do they?” asked Mark. Dobby turned to look at him, a despondent look in his large eyes.

“Dobby does not wish to speak ill of his master, sir”

Mark wasn’t ready to accept that answer. He wanted to know more—understand what exactly Dobby’s life was like. Deciding to make the elf more comfortable, he sat down cross-legged on the floor.

“Tell me your side of it, Dobby. Why are you wearing that dirty rag? I thought the Malfoys were rich. The elves here are dressed well.”

“Tis a mark of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir. Dobby can only be free is his masters present him with clothes, sir.”

“Clothes? But don’t you have to do their laundry and stuff?” Mark asked confused.

“Yes sir. But the Masters never hand Dobby the clothes. They’re put in the basket from where Dobby needs to take it.” Dobby paused and looked directly into Mark’s eyes, beckoning him to understand. “The Masters take special care that not even a sock is passed to Dobby sir. He will stay in their service till he dies.”

“So, you’re saying that if they pass you a sock, intentionally or not, you would be free?” Mark asked, trying to understand the implications of Dobby’s statement.

“Yes. Dobby can claim they gave Dobby clothes, and thus he would be free.”

“Do you want to be free?”

“Dobby doesn’t understand the question, sir.”

“Freedom is having a choice, Dobby,” said Mark. “Do you want to leave the service of the Malfoys?”

Dobby thought for a moment, considering Mark’s statement. After a few moments, he gave a firm nod. Mark took a deep breath, nodding to himself. An idea was swirling in his mind—something with potential.

“Okay. I might have an idea to help you with it. But it’ll take time.” He didn’t want to give Dobby high hopes yet. Dobby, however, seemed content with even the idea of hope.

“Mark Smith will help Dobby gain his freedom? Mark Smith truly is a great wizard,” he whispered. “Dobby is willing to wait as long as it takes, sir.”

“Okay then. How do I contact you?”

“Just call for Dobby’s name, sir. Dobby will appear as soon as he can.”

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20th December 1992

As Harry piled in some more mashed potatoes onto his plate his mind turned towards the grand plan to interrogate Lockhart. They were successful through all the parts of the first phase; they had everything they required to make the Veritaserum. Everything had gone just according to plan, and Harry wondered whether that implied that something would go wrong now.

As decided, Harry had gotten himself in detention with Professor Lockhart by not submitting a piece of homework. To his surprise, Professor Lockhart had offered to let the detention slide—a favour from one celebrity to another, he had called it. Harry, panicked at losing the chance, ȧsserted that he be punished for the infraction—after all, no one should claim that he was using his fame like this right? Thankfully Lockhart had ŀȧpped up the explanation and Harry found himself with him in detention that night. The conversation that Harry had planned went along exactly as he intended—actually a bit better since Lockhart even offered to personally tutor Harry in potions. Regardless, Harry managed to get the permission slip without a hitch. Once they had the slip, a quick search provided them with the book they required—Moste Potente Potions by Phineas Bourne.

Now that they had the information, it was time for the ingredients. Hermione’s plan had been brilliant—she had him and Ron create a well-timed distraction during a potions class, while she quietly made her way to raid Snape’s cupboards for all that they required. The Hellebore that Ron aimed directly into Goyle’s cauldron created enough smoke to fill that classroom twice in less than a minute and kept Snape occupied long enough for their potions heist. Perfectly planned and perfectly executed.

Now that they had everything they required, they were ready to commence the next phase of the plan; actually brewing the potion. Hermione had chosen the abandoned bathroom as the site for their illegal brewing activities. The only thing they were waiting for was the correct moon phase to begin the process. It would take a full lunar cycle—the first half included timely additions of all the correctly prepared ingredients, while the next half required for a prolonged distillation of the potion. The finished Veritaserum was supposed to be a crystal-clear liquid—colourless, odourless, and essentially indistinguishable from water. Once they had it, all their questions could be answered.

Any further musings of Harry were interrupted when Professor Dumbledore stood up to address the students, raising the silver goblet in his hand and tapping it with a spoon

“clink, clink, clink.”

The sound made by the goblet somehow managed to draw the attention of everyone in the Great Hall despite being bȧrėly audible. The loud chattering and multitude of conversations came to a halt, and a pin drop silence gripped the room within moments.

“Now that we all have been well fed, and our spirits high for the coming holiday, I have an important announcement to make,” said Professor Dumbledore. Confident that every eye in the room was upon him, he continued.

“As you may recall, after the great feast on Halloween this year, there was a rather unfortunate incident which took place. Mrs Norris, the beloved cat belonging to our caretaker Mr Argus Filch was attacked and petrified, while a certain message—a warning of sorts was painted on the wall outside the girl’s bathrooms on the second floor.”

Harry glanced around. Somehow the room had gotten quieter and sombre, even though no one had been making a sound before. It was as if the beating hearts of the students had quietened themselves as well. Professor Dumbledore, who had had a sombre expression on his face until now, suddenly smiled with his usual cheeriness.

“Well, I’m now pleased to inform you that you need not worry about the matter anymore, for it has been dealt with,” he said. “After another search, the long-lost Chamber of Secrets was finally found, and so was the monster inside. I can now confirm that it is indeed dead.” Whispers broke out in the room, and Professor Dumbledore continued his speech. “The entrance has now been sealed, for it now serves no other purpose than temptation for the curious soul.”

Harry reeled back in surprise. Dealt with? He looked around the table, trying to see what reactions the others were having. Hermione—as was usual for her when a teacher was speaking—was attentively listening to Professor Dumbledore’s every word. Ron, on the other hand, was staring gobsmacked—likely thinking about Malfoy and his connection to all this. The other students were in a state of mixed worry and relief. Ginny Weasley—Ron’s little sister—looked as if she was silently praying. Harry gathered that the poor girl must have been really worried about the danger from the Chamber. He remembered Fred mentioning something about her being disturbed by the attack on Mrs Norris.

“As for the attack on the poor feline,” said Professor Dumbledore, “the agent responsible—a former student of Hogwarts—has been administered with adequate punishment.” Audible whispers broke out in the hall, all wondering who this culprit was. “Professor Sprout informs me that the Mandrakes are maturing at a faster pace than expected, so I believe it will only be a matter of months before the Restorative Draught is ready and Mrs Norris makes a full recovery.”

Well, that ruled out Malfoy. Former student—that meant someone not currently at Hogwarts. Harry wondered how Ron was going to react to that, and more importantly, what Hermione would think of Ron’s reaction. Sometimes all they needed was a push to tumble into an argument.

Still, the question remained. Who was responsible? And why did they attack the school, if they weren’t a student? Was Voldemort involved? No, Dobby had said Voldemort had nothing to do with this. But wait—how exactly was Dobby involved?

All of these questions swirled inside Harry’s brain, their echoes mimicking the building whispers and nervous chatters in the room. Professor Dumbledore interrupted them all, taking charge of the situation.

“I wish to declare the matter of the Chamber of Secrets closed; it would not do well if a student is found inciting needless rumours and panic on the subject.”

Harry watched in amazement as the whispers died once more; Professor Dumbledore’s words had been more of a warning than a piece of advice. Grudgingly, Harry agreed with the sentiment. There was no need to keep propounding rumours about something that was no longer of concern. Once the hall was silent again, Professor Dumbledore gave a jovial smile, extending his arms out like a happy child.

“Now, I wish you all a Happy Christmas, and a joyous holiday. Thank you.”

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21st December 1992

“You think we’ll be reaching soon?”

Mark jerked back to attention on hearing Neville’s voice. His friend must have finished his nap.

“Yeah. We passed Cambridge a quarter-of-an-hour ago,” said Mark. Neville nodded thoughtfully at that, then closed his eyes and dozed off again. Mark snorted before turning his attention back out the window. As the varied landscape of suburban England zoomed past, Mark began thinking about his ongoing research.

He had reached a dead end. No one in the history of magical medicine had ever dealt with anything similar to leukaemia. He had found certain references to things which he figured out were tumours—in those cases, they had used specialized severing spells to cut the growths safely from the patient’s body. But that was of no use here. Blood cancer would require something else.

Mark wondered if he could pop by his old school while he was at home—the chemistry lab there had some useful equipment. Mr Trentham—the chemistry teacher—would most likely be still there. A few of the eclairs from his favourite bakery in Wimbledon and some buŧŧering up should get him a couple of hours at the equipment. Once he had the required information, he would send in a progress report to the Flamels. Before he set out onto his next step, Mark needed an opinion on his hypothesis. Safety was obviously the primary concern here, and Mark was not going to take it lightly.

As they pulled into London, Mark’s mind wandered to the incident with the Chamber. As much as he hated to admit it, it had left an imprint on him. On the positive side, his aversion to reptiles had reduced considerably—nothing to cure a little Herpetophobia like being pinned under the scaly carcass of a forty-foot snake. On the negative side—well, there were a lot of things to worry about. Were they doing the right thing, keeping all this a secret? Would the secret even stay hidden? What would happen if it didn’t? What should they do when spills out? After all, growing up with his dad had taught Mark to think of every eventuality in situations like this.

Mark had tried to gauge the students’ reactions when Professor Dumbledore gave the speech at the feast last night. To his slight surprise, all of them ŀȧpped it up quite easily. Technically, Professor Dumbledore hadn’t even lied to them—he just omitted a few key details that were of no concern to anyone.

Mark jerked forward a bit as the train came to a halt. He stood up and stretched himself, giving the sleeping form of Neville a kick on the leg.

“Wake up. We’re here.”

Neville nodded as he opened his eyes. Giving a good yawn, he stood up and gathered all his things. Once they had their things, they clambered out of the compartment. Mark scanned the platform, looking for any sign of Edwin; he was surprised to see someone else standing in wait for him, looking hale and hearty.

“Oi Nev, it’s my Dad. Come on, let me introduce you,” said Mark, a huge grin on his face. The two of them shuffled through the growing crowd on the platform as they made their way towards where Mark’s dad was standing.

“Hey there champ.” His dad gave him a tight one-armed hug.

“Hey Dad,” said Mark. Turning back towards his friend, he made the introductions. “Dad, this is my friend Neville Longbottom. Neville, this is my Dad.”

“Hello Mr Smith,” said Neville, a hint of nervousness in his tone.

“Pleased to meet you, Neville,” said Mark’s Dad. “I hear you’re a good drummer.”

Mark tuned out the conversation as he looked around the platform, his eyes darting in search of something, or rather, someone. When he found her, he gave an automatic sigh of relief. There she was—Ginny, with her brilliant red hair. Mark saw her search the platform, her eyes skimming over where he was standing. They too found what they were looking for—a pair of red-haired ȧduŀts. Her parents.

“I—uh, I’ve bȧrėly begun playing sir,” Mark heard Neville say. “I don’t think I play anywhere near good.”

Ginny’s parents walked towards her swiftly embracing her in a tight hug. Mark noticed that even after the welcome was over, Ginny’s mum was still holding on to her daughter’s arm rather tightly.

“Nonsense. Mark tells me you’re the best he’s ever seen.” Mark turned back to his Dad at the mention of his name. Processing the skipped conversation, he nodded enthusiastically. Neville got even shyer at this; something Mark noticed and his Dad noticed as well.

“Very well, tell me this. Do you know which part on the drums does what?” asked his Dad.

“Yes sir,” Neville answered.

“Do you like playing? Genuinely enjoy the struggle of learning a new piece?”

Mark realised where the conversation was headed and smiled. His dad had had a similar conversation with him a couple of years ago. He watched as Neville considered all the implications of the question before deciding to answer.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to improve?”

“Of course,” Neville said at once, his face fraught with confusion.

“Then you have it, son. You’re a good drummer,” said Mark’s Dad keeping a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Good drummers—good musicians—are those who enjoy the struggle and want to improve themselves.” He squeezed Neville’s shoulder a bit before he continued.

“Once upon a time, I enjoyed the struggle as well. Now not so much. Maybe that will happen to you. Maybe it won’t. As long as you’re enjoying and learning, it’s a win either way, isn’t it?”

Mark watched a new look bloom on Neville’s face; one of real confidence. He smiled at his Dad in pride.

“Yes. Yes, sir,” Neville finally spoke, his eyes glistening slightly.

“Good,” said Mark’s Dad, releasing Neville’s shoulder. He offered his hand for Neville to shake. “It was nice meeting you, Mr Longbottom.”

“Nice meeting you too, sir,” said Neville, giving a firm handshake in return.

Mark offered Neville a fist bump, which his friend promptly returned. As he turned back to follow his Dad, Mark glanced around the Platform one more time. There was no sign of the Weasleys—they had already left. He hoped that they had a happy Christmas this year; Ginny certainly needed it.

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