Ginerva Weasley—Ginny, to anyone who knew her—stood completely frozen for several seconds even after the Knight Bus whooshed away into nothingness. Her heart was thudding like a snitch trapped in a chest. Her arms still held the stolen broomstick, but her mind wasn't registering anything around her.
"Did—did that just happen?" she finally whispered, half to herself, half to the crisp morning air.
Fred and George stood on either side of her, both holding their newly gifted owls in enchanted cages. George nudged Fred with his elbow. "Tell me you saw what I saw, Freddie."
Fred let out a sigh that was both overwhelmed and awestruck. "I saw him. Bloody glasses, wild hair, scar on the forehead. The Harry Potter."
Ginny finally blinked and turned toward them, her voice rising. "Did you two know it was him when he gave you the deal?"
"Not really," George admitted, running a hand through his red hair. "Last time he had a hood on. Just looked like some cool older kid."
"I wanted to ask for his autograph," Fred said miserably, his shoulders slumping. "We had him right there, in front of us! What were we thinking?"
"We weren't!" George agreed. "We were too focused on owls."
Ginny groaned dramatically. "I can't believe I was holding my broom and gawking like a scarecrow."
"Oi, don't feel too bad, sis," Fred said with a smirk. "At least you didn't trip over yourself."
George grinned. "And hey, you saw your celebrity crush in real life. Who else can say that?"
"Shut it!" Ginny snapped, her face flushing red, but the joy behind her eyes gave her away. "He was right there… The real Harry Potter."
Together, they began walking back toward the Burrow, owls hooting softly in their cages, the excitement still bubbling under their skin.
The kitchen was warm and full of clinking breakfast sounds. Molly Weasley was at the stove, humming as she flipped sausages into a pan. Arthur sat at the table, reading the Daily Prophet. Bill and Charlie were arguing over Quidditch plays, and Percy sat sulking, a plate of untouched eggs in front of him.
Then the door opened.
Three Weasleys stepped in, windswept and glowing with excitement. Three owls flapped their wings in their cages—two smaller, adorable barn owls and one large, magnificent creature with silver-tipped feathers.
Everyone turned.
Molly raised an eyebrow immediately. "What in Merlin's name… where did you get those owls?"
Fred answered too quickly, "Harry Potter gave them to us."
The room went dead silent.
"Excuse me?" Molly put her spatula down slowly.
"You can ask Ginny," George added, voice proud but careful.
All heads swiveled to Ginny, who was still holding the broomstick and looking a little dazed.
"I—yes," she stammered. "We met him this morning. He was waiting for the Knight Bus. He had black hair and green eyes. Really green. Glasses too. And—and the scar. On his forehead. Like the books said. Like everyone says."
Arthur put down the paper.
Bill blinked. "Wait. You're saying you actually met Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?"
Charlie frowned. "He just gave you owls?"
"Actually, it was part of a trade," George said before Fred could interrupt. "He asked us for something. We gave it to him. He gave us these."
Fred nudged Percy with the large owl's cage. "And this one's for you, brother of mine. Consider it a peace offering. So you stop accusing us of stealing your rat."
Percy stared at the owl, stunned. It flapped its wings regally, eyes sharp and intelligent. "This is… this is a fine owl…"
Fred smirked. "Better than a common rat, yeah?"
"And no need to yell at us anymore," George added. "We made up for it, didn't we?"
Percy, after a long pause, gave a stiff nod. "Thank you. I… I'll call her Rowena."
Ginny's face lit up. "That's such a good name!"
The twins were meanwhile bickering about names.
"I'm calling mine Loki," Fred said proudly. "He's a trickster just like me."
"Oi, you always get the best names," George grumbled. "Fine, then I'll call mine Odin."
Bill raised a brow. "You're naming your owls after norse gods?"
George grinned. "Yep. Feels fitting. He looks wise."
Molly finally sighed and put her hands on her hips. "I don't know whether to scold you or be impressed."
Arthur was grinning. "It's not every day our kids come home with owls from Harry Potter himself."
Bill leaned forward. "Did he say anything else? What's he like?"
Ginny answered before anyone else. "He's… polite. And kind. But also a little mysterious."
Fred added, "And rich. I mean, he offered to send us old broomsticks because ours were rubbish."
George nodded. "Didn't ask for anything in return either."
Percy, who was stroking Rovina's feathers, looked up thoughtfully. "Strange, isn't it? The Boy-Who-Lived, just wandering about like a regular wizard."
Molly shook her head. "There's nothing regular about that boy."
And while the Burrow slowly filled with the usual noise of breakfast, jokes, and chatter, there was a shared feeling in the air—like something incredible had happened. Something they would remember forever.
By noon, the clear blue sky above the Burrow was suddenly dotted with the flapping wings of six majestic barn owls. "Incoming!" shouted George, shielding his eyes from the sun as the birds descended in synchronized formation. Fred was already halfway out the door before the rest of the family even noticed.
"Package! That's for us! That's definitely for us!" Fred whooped, racing across the front lawn.
George was right behind him. "Look at the wrapping—only Harry could pack it like that, he's probably used half a roll of parchment!"
The owls released the parcel in unison, dropping a heavy, rectangular package that landed with a soft thump onto the floor. Fred and George practically pounced on it.
"Wait—don't tear it—what if it explodes?" Ginny said with wide eyes, only half-joking.
"Then we go out in style," George muttered, ripping at the knot of twine.
Fred was already peeling away the brown wrapping, and as more of the package was revealed, Bill and Charlie came out of the house, followed by Arthur and Molly with Percy and Ginny behind them.
The wrapping finally fell away—and gasps erupted from the assembled Weasleys.
A sleek broomstick rested inside a fitted wooden box, nestled in enchanted moss for protection. It gleamed in the winter sunlight, polished to a mirror finish, and not a single scratch could be seen on the shaft. The tail twigs were perfectly aligned, glimmering with fine enchantment threads.
"Is that a Comet?" Bill said, eyes wide.
"Comet 220," Charlie confirmed, crouching to read the engraved script on the handle. "Blimey, that's a serious broom. This is better than my Cleansweep Five."
Percy adjusted his glasses and leaned in. "Look at that balance... it's flawless."
Molly was speechless, for once, her hand over her heart. "This… this must've cost a fortune."
"Harry said it was his old broom," Fred explained quickly, his voice reverent. "But—look at it! It's almost brand new!"
"It's a gift," George added with a grin. "He said ours were rubbish."
Arthur chuckled, nudging his wife gently. "Well, he wasn't wrong."
"I told you he was generous," Ginny beamed, clearly still riding high from her earlier encounter. "And he said he'd send one, remember?"
One by one, the Weasleys took turns admiring it, and then—of course—flying it. Charlie was the first to mount it, kicking off smoothly and zipping into the air with a delighted laugh.
"Still got it!" he shouted as he made a loop over the house.
Fred and George could barely contain themselves as they wrestled over who got to try next. They alternated flights, swooping across the orchard behind the house, pulling off barrel rolls and laughing until their stomachs hurt.
Even Bill had a go, his longer frame making the broom look a little more regal as he glided gracefully in wide arcs.
Arthur took a cautious turn—more for the sake of nostalgia than skill—and even Molly mounted the broomstick briefly, giggling as she hovered a few feet off the ground, apron still on.
Percy, however, stood to the side, arms folded.
"Not going to try it, Perce?" Charlie teased as he landed.
"I don't need a broom to show off," Percy replied stiffly, but the twitch in his mouth betrayed a reluctant smile. He gave the handle one light pat before turning away, and Ginny saw it—he was tempted, just not willing to admit it.
But for the rest of the afternoon, laughter filled the air above and around the Burrow as each Weasley soared into the sky. They didn't talk about Voldemort, or politics, or war. They were just a family, bound by magic, love, and now—thanks to Harry Potter—one beautifully fast broomstick.
The heavy iron door creaked shut behind them, echoing ominously through the high-ceilinged chamber beneath Bones Manor. The walls were charmed with layer after layer of anti-apparition, anti-transformation, and anti-conjuration enchantments—an old war-room repurposed for today's interrogation.
Peter Pettigrew sat shackled in the center, his limbs trembling, his eyes darting from Auror to Auror. Amelia Bones stood opposite him, her face grim, square-jawed with resolve, a small vial in her gloved hand.
"Veritaserum," she said plainly. "Three drops should do it."
Pettigrew flinched at the name of the potion, but he didn't speak. Auror Proudmoore stepped forward, holding his head steady while Amelia administered the potion.
Three silver drops slipped past his tongue.
Peter's breathing grew shallow. His eyes glazed slightly.
Amelia waited, then began.
"State your name."
"Peter Pettigrew."
"Are you a Death Eater?"
"Yes."
A ripple of stunned silence passed through the Aurors standing behind her.
"When did you join?"
"After Hogwarts. I… I was weak. I wanted power. I didn't want to be left behind."
"Are you a spy?"
"Yes. I passed information to the Dark Lord… about meetings… about safe houses."
Auror Dawlish clenched his fists. Proudmoore muttered, "Bastard…"
"Who was the Secret Keeper for James and Lily Potter?"
"I was," Peter whispered, shame and fear twisting in his expression. "They trusted me. Everyone thought it was Sirius Black—but they changed it at the last moment. No one else knew."
"And did you give their location to Voldemort?"
"Yes."
A sharp, collective intake of breath filled the room. One of the junior Aurors stumbled back and had to sit down. Amelia's jaw tightened.
"And after Voldemort's attack failed… what did you do?"
Peter's voice trembled. "I… I faked my own death. I went to a busy Muggle street. I cut off my finger… I… I blew up the street and ran. I knew Sirius would come after me."
"You killed those Muggles?"
"Yes… twelve. In the explosion."
Auror Proudmoore slammed a hand against the wall. "He had rotted in Azkaban for eight years for your crimes!"
Amelia raised her hand to silence him.
"Did Sirius Black ever betray the Potters?"
"No."
"Did he have any idea you were the real traitor?"
"Yes. He figured it out the night they died. He came for me. I… I escaped."
"Do you know where Voldemort is now?"
"No."
Amelia's voice, cold and sharp as steel, sliced through the room. "Do you still serve him?"
Peter's head lolled slightly. "If… if he returns. I must. He marked me."
And with that, he lifted his left arm. The faded Dark Mark, still visible like a phantom brand, lay there on the pale flesh.
Silence fell. Dense, heavy silence.
No one spoke for nearly a minute.
Finally, Amelia turned toward the Aurors.
"Well," she said darkly, "we have enough evidence to turn the entire damn Ministry upside down."
"Madam Bones," said Proudmoore, barely containing his outrage, "Sirius Black died without a trial. He was innocent."
Amelia's eyes burned behind her monocle. "He was not only innocent… he was a Heir of an ancient and noble house. The Ministry imprisoned him without trial. No questions. No verification."
She looked down at Peter Pettigrew, who now hung limp in his restraints, the Veritaserum still clouding his gaze.
"Send word to the Department of Magical Records. Have them bring me every file on Sirius Black's arrest and sentencing. I want to know who signed off on it."
"And Pettigrew?" asked Goldstein. "What do we do with him?"
Amelia exhaled slowly. "We're calling the Wizengamot."
"You think they'll go through with it?" asked Proudmoore. "This… this'll make Fudge look like a fool. Half the Ministry will want this hushed up."
Amelia Bones's gaze was unflinching. "Let them try. If they want to bury the truth, they'll have to bury me too. I won't stand by while innocent men die and murderers crawl into rat holes."
The Aurors stood straighter.
She turned and strode toward the exit. "Prepare Pettigrew for public interrogation. Notify the Wizengamot. I want a full, lawful session convened within twenty-four hours."
"And if they delay it?" asked Goldstein.
Amelia paused at the door, then looked over her shoulder.
"Then I will drag this rat to every press outlet in Diagon Alley and force them to publish his confession on the front page."
With that, she was gone.
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