分卷阅读12（1 / 2）

“I told you he was going to come on a Tuesday! Give me five sickles!” George is howling, and Ron, grumbling, grudgingly shoves a hand down the pocket of his pants.

There is a flurry of red hair and he finds his arms filled with Ginny and his back roughly patted by Arthur.

At the back of the crowd, Molly wipes at her eyes surreptitiously using her apron, and Harry flashes her a shy grin.

Molly huffs, wipes at her eyes again, before waving a ladle in his direction. “Well, come on, then, Harry, you’re just in time for lunch.”

Over the table, after George tells him through a mouthful of food at how bad Ron is at gambling, Harry tells Molly that Draco liked her blueberry pie, enough to eat it at dinner and request it for breakfast again the next day.

Molly dabs at her eyes with her apron again. And again. And again. Until Arthur just laughs, pulls her in for a hug, and lets her cry on his shoulder.

August comes to a close, and the upcoming school year has everyone busy, so much that the invitations for whatever functions have stopped. He thinks that that’s why Narcissa has stopped asking him to come to the Manor, though she has told him that he’s welcome anytime he wants to.

Harry doesn’t manage to anymore, though, because Hermione’s back and he’s been spending a lot of his time in the Burrow again, doing last minute house repairs and last minute shopping in Diagon Alley. They do it under Glamours, of course, and Harry wonders if Draco’s well enough to walk around Diagon Alley, too.

He knows that Molly and Narcissa keep in constant correspondence, however, and Molly doesn’t mention anything out of the ordinary, and so Harry doesn’t ask.

September 1 is just around the corner.

Platform 9 ? is full and close to bursting by the time Harry pushes his cart through the wall. It is as Kingsley warned him: Common folk and paparazzi alike are going to be fighting tooth and nail to get a glimpse of him.

He pulls his hat down further to cover his eyes, even though he’s confident his dirty blond hair and pudgy cheeks won’t attract any camera shutter. He’s not even wearing his glasses, and only Hermione’s small hand on his back is keeping him from pushing his cart down the train track.

Ron, also under a Glamour, had already boarded ahead of them, as planned. People will be expecting them to come together in a group of three, Hermione had explained. Any group of three students will automatically be a target of scrutiny, no matter how good their Glamours were.

There were reporters shouting “There!” and pointing to various directions, but never the correct one. Harry resolutely ignores the vendors selling pins and balloons with his face plastered on them. It isn’t even a flattering picture of him.

“Look, it’s Draco Malfoy!”

Harry immediately looks up, searching, even though everything’s blurred. He looks for where one person is pointing and where other people are looking, and he squints, willing his vision to focus, and realizes that they’re looking at him.

And then, another person says, “Naw, that’s not Malfoy. Malfoy’s a thin lad. Do yer job properly, why don’t ya?”

From behind him, Harry hears someone mutter. “Good. I don’t really want to see Death Eater scum today.”