On the last night, Percy returned to the Burrow unusually early. He looked tired, but extraordinarily sultry.
“It’s been an absolute uproar,” Percy told them. “I’ve been putting out fires for a week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if you don’t open a Howler straight away, it explodes. I have scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill is reduced to cinders.”
“Why are they all sending Howlers?” asked Ginny, who was mending her copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in front of the living room fire.
“Complaining about security at the World Cup, of course.” Percy said, “They want compensation for their ruined properties. Mundungus Fletcher’s filed a 500 Gold-Galleons medical expense claim list, and also said that his tent was destroyed and asked us to compensate him for a twelve-bedroomed tent with en-suite Jacuzzi. But I know all about him. He was not injured at all, and he was actually spending the night under a cloak propped on sticks.”
That night, while the vampires launched an attack in the stadium, the campsite was also attacked.
Many people suffered, especially the tents near Crouch’s, which was area hit the hardest.
The vampires probably thought that Barty Crouch Jr. was hiding in the tent, so they raided the area. Of course, they did not find anything, but they caused a lot of wizards to suffer heavy losses.
Indeed, in order to show up at the World Cup, the wizards put a lot of good things in their tents.
Mrs. Weasley brought everyone several drinks and glanced at his grandfather clock in the corner.
It was a magic clock. It was completely useless if you wanted to know the time, but otherwise very informative.
It had nine golden hands, and each of them was engraved with one of the Weasley family’s names.
There were no numerals around the face, but descriptions of where each family member might be. “Home”, “school” and “work” were there, as well as “traveling”, “lost”, “hospital”, “prison” and so on.
In the position where the number twelve would be on a normal clock, there was “mortal peril”
Although this clock did look too good, it was a very rare magic item of the highest caliber.
It was passed down by the Weasley family. No matter how depressed it was, the Pure Blood Wizard family had some treasures at the bottom of the box.
This magic timepiece was such a thing. It could be used as long as a pointer representing a family member was placed on it.
Like the Marauder’s Map, its principle of function involved the magic of names.
This was a very unpopular and profound branch of magic, and only powerful and knowledgeable wizards could dabble in it.
For example, Voldemort placed a Taboo Curse on his name which enabled his Death Eaters to instantly locate anyone who spoke it out loud in the open, and destroy the surrounding simple defensive magic. The Death Eaters would rush over immediately. Therefore everyone was very fearful, afraid to speak his name and he was referred to as You-Know-Who.
This was another extreme use of the magic of name science, and probably only a really powerful Dark wizard would pull it off.
All in all, this aspect was too rare, and there was not much that Evan could get on it from magic books.
Every time he saw this clock, he had an impulse to open it and have a look at its internal structure.
Eight of the hands on the clock were currently pointing to the “home” position, but Mr. Weasley’s, which was the longest, was still pointing to “work.”
Mrs. Weasley sighed and said sadly, “Your father hasn’t had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You-Know-Who. They’re working him far too hard. His dinner is going to be ruined if he doesn’t come home soon.”
“Well, father feels he’s got to make up for his mistake at the match; doesn’t he?” said Percy. “Truth be told, it was a tad unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of Department first…”
“Don’t you dare blame your father for what that wretched Skeeter woman wrote!” said Mrs. Weasley, flaring up at once.
“If Dad hadn’t said anything, old Rita would just have said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry had commented.” said Bill, who was playing chess with Ron. “Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look good. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts’ Charm Breakers once, and called me ‘a long-haired pillock’?”
“Well, it is a bit long, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley gently. “If you’d just let me…”
Rain lashed against the living room window, and Evan sat in front of the fire to study the ancient magic script.
Not far from him, Hermione was immersed in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4.
Charlie was darning a fireproof balaclava, Harry was polishing his Firebolt, and the broomstick servicing kit Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday was opened at his feet.
Fred and George were sitting in a far corner, quills out, talking in whispers; their heads bent over a piece of parchment.
“What are you two up to?” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, her eyes on the twins.
“Homework,” said Fred vaguely.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still on holiday,” said Mrs. Weasley.
“Yeah, we just want a head start!” said George.
“You wouldn’t be thinking of restarting Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, by any chance?” said Mrs. Weasley shrewdly.
“Now, Mum!” said Fred, looking up at her, a pained look on his face. “If the Hogwarts Express crashed tomorrow, and George and I died. How would you feel knowing that the last thing we ever heard from you was an unfounded accusation?!”
Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Weasley.
“Oh, your father’s coming!” She said suddenly, looking up at the clock again.
Mr. Weasley’s hand had suddenly spun from “work” to “traveling”.
A second later, it had shuddered to a halt on “home” with the others, and they heard him calling from the kitchen.
“Coming, Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out of the room.
A few moments later, Mr. Weasley came into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He looked completely exhausted.
“Well, the fat’s really in the fire now,” he told Mrs. Weasley as he sat down in an armchair near the hearth and toyed unenthusiastically with his somewhat shriveled cauliflower. “Rita Skeeter has been ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry mess-ups to report. And now she’s found out about poor old Bertha going missing, so that will be the headline in the Daily Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he should have sent someone to look for her ages ago.”
A few days ago, the editor-in-chief of The Daily Prophet sent a letter to Evan.
The letter said that Rita Skeeter wanted to interview him, but Evan did not give her a chance and refused directly.
He didn’t want her to describe him as a young monster with bad habits, or the youngest Dark wizard alive or something of that sort!
This woman had the habit of making rumors to attract the public’s attention. It was better for Evan to stay away from her.
Of course, if Rita Skeeter provoked him, Evan would not be polite. He knew what she was up to…