"Can I call you Tori? You know Tori, I'm a great friend."
"I don't get it, why are you being nice to me?"
"Maybe I don't want to see you friendless."
When Victoria Silvers, who comes from a long line of Slytherins, is sorted into Gryffindor her life...
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Arthur woke them up early in the morning to get ready. Tori sat up, rubbing her eyes. She glanced down by the base of the couch to see Fred leaned against it, sleeping. She chuckled, hitting him in the face with a pillow.
"Wha—" He jerked awake. Tori laughed, clutching her chest as if that was going to stop the pain. "How're you feeling?" Fred asked her groggily.
"A little sore. But better." Arthur had given her a few potions the previous night to help with the pain. He used magic to pack up the tents, and they left the campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts had a strange, dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a vague "Merry Christmas."
"He'll be all right," Arthur quietly as they marched off onto the moor. "Sometimes, when a person's memory's modified, it makes him a bit disorientated for a while... and that was a big thing they had to make him forget."
Tori was using a large stick to help her stand upright. Hermione told her she looked like Gandalf. Tori didn't know who Gandalf so she just looked at her confused. They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot where the Portkeys lay, and when they reached it, they found a great number of witches and wizards gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all clamoring to get away from the campsite as quickly as possible.
Arthur had a hurried discussion with Basil; they joined the queue, and were able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had really risen. They walked back through Ottery St. Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because they were so exhausted, and thinking longingly of their breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane.
"Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!"
Molly, who had evidently been waiting for them in the front yard, came running toward them, still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand.
"Arthur — I've been so worried — so worried —"
She flung her arms around Arthur's neck, and the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the ground. Looking down, Tori saw the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops.
"You're all right," Molly muttered distractedly, releasing Arthur and staring around at them all with red eyes, "you're alive... Oh, boys..."
And to everybody's surprise, she seized Fred and George and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads banged together.
"Ouch! Mum — you're strangling us —"
Tori covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing. "I shouted at you before you left!" Molly said, starting to sob. "It's all I've been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn't get enough O.W.L.S.? Oh, Fred... George..."
