At the dining table, aside from Lupin, Sirius, and the Weasley family busy sorting through stacks of documents, Harry noticed two unfamiliar faces. One was a young witch with a pale, heart-shaped face, sparkling black eyes, and vibrant violet hair cropped short. The other, Harry initially mistook for a pile of tattered rags—until the heap let out a long, rumbling snore, revealing a person sprawled beneath.
"Hey, Harry!" The witch, who looked to be in her mid-twenties, stretched a hand across the table. "First time meeting! I'm Tonks!"
"Hello, Tonks." Curious why she hadn't shared her first name, Harry stood and shook the hand of the striking young witch.
Then, to Harry and Hermione's astonishment, Tonks's hair shifted to a bubblegum pink.
"I'm a born Metamorphmagus!" Tonks declared gleefully, tugging her ears into pointed, elf-like tips. She jerked her chin toward the snoring pile of rags. "That's Mundungus over there. Our… special intelligence source."
At the sound of his name, the rag heap jolted awake.
"I'm with Sirius on this—?"
Mundungus's bloodshot eyes blinked blearily as he raised a grimy hand, as if casting a vote.
"Meeting's over, Dung," Sirius said, tucking several rolls of parchment under his arm. He clapped a hand on the wizard's shoulder. "Weren't you after some of my family's old junk? Talk to Harry. He might convince Kreacher to part with that clutter in the storage room."
With surprising agility, Mundungus darted to the chair beside Harry, while Ron, a step too slow, happily plopped down next to Hermione.
Once the documents were sorted, everyone gradually settled around the table.
"Harry, mate, so good to see you!" Mundungus's eyes gleamed through his tangled ginger hair. "Been hoping you'd show up…"
As Mundungus rambled about that wretched house-elf's antics, he rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a filthy black pipe. He stuffed it in his mouth, lit it with his wand, and took a deep drag. Seconds later, thick plumes of greenish smoke enveloped him.
"As I was saying…" Mundungus's voice drifted from the foul-smelling cloud. Hermione, unaccustomed to the stench, coughed sharply. With a snap of his fingers, Harry cast a Bubble-Head Charm over her, just as Mrs. Weasley's roar filled the room.
"Mundungus, I'm warning you one last time!" Mrs. Weasley shouted. "Can you please stop smoking that thing in the kitchen? Especially when we're about to eat!"
"Right… sorry, Molly." Mundungus stuffed the pipe back into his pocket. The smoke dissipated, but the acrid smell of burnt socks lingered.
"Kreacher, grab the air conditioner remote," Sirius called toward the kitchen.
"Of course, Master." With a pop, Kreacher vanished, reappearing seconds later with another pop, clutching the remote.
"What's an air conditioner?" Everyone except Harry and Hermione stared blankly at the strange black device Kreacher handed Sirius.
Sirius took the remote and pressed a button, activating a floor unit in the corner. A cool breeze wafted out, swiftly banishing the lingering stench.
"So that's what you've been tinkering with, Sirius," Mr. Weasley said, circling the humming machine with fascination. Spotting the gray cord plugged into the wall, his face lit up. "It's electric, isn't it? I've seen something like this in Muggle homes—they put food in it!"
"Mr. Weasley, I think you're talking about something else," Harry sighed. "The food one's a fridge. This is an air conditioner."
"Huh? Aren't they the same? They both make things cold!"
Harry pressed a hand to his forehead, at a loss for words.
Mrs. Weasley fidgeted at the table, her eyes darting toward the kitchen.
"Dear, if you want to help, just go," Mr. Weasley said gently, noticing her unease.
"What's up with Mrs. Weasley?" Harry asked Sirius, watching her hurry toward the kitchen.
"Probably not used to house-elves," Sirius said, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at Mrs. Weasley, who was attempting to wrest control of the kitchen from two elves. "Arthur and Molly only moved here three days ago. I took Kreacher to your place that day. Asked if they wanted to visit you, but they were swamped, so just Lupin and I drove over."
As Harry and Sirius chatted across Mundungus, Tonks bounced up enthusiastically to help Mrs. Weasley with dinner.
"Anything I can do, Molly?" Tonks asked brightly, bounding over.
"No, no, it's fine, Tonks. You've done enough today," Mrs. Weasley replied, her polite refusal tinged with odd reluctance.
"Nonsense, I want to help!" Tonks chirped. Rushing toward the cupboard where Ginny was fetching dishes, she accidentally knocked over two chairs.
Harry understood why Mrs. Weasley had hesitated.
Meanwhile, Hermione's ginger, bow-legged cat, Crookshanks, sauntered over to greet her and Harry with a polite meow. Ron kept trying to strike up a conversation with Hermione, but Quidditch and wizard chess didn't hold her interest. Her talk of Muggle subjects and advanced magic, in turn, left Ron grasping. When Hermione mentioned advanced Transfiguration, Sirius perked up and joined in.
Soon, Hermione swapped seats with Mundungus to sit between Harry and Sirius for easier discussion.
Thanks to the house-elves' efforts (Mrs. Weasley, clueless about appliances, was little help), the table was soon laden with steaming dishes.
Hermione tried convincing Dobby to join them for dinner, as he did at Harry's house—though Dobby insisted eating after them was kindness enough. Ron, however, seemed deeply uncomfortable with the idea of dining with a house-elf.
Predictably, this sparked a heated argument between them, with Harry caught in the middle.
Still, the dinner was lively. Lupin, Bill, and Mr. Weasley discussed goblin matters, Tonks and Ginny were having a blast, and George, Fred, and Ron roared with laughter at Mundungus's jokes. Hermione dragged Harry and Sirius into a debate about a recent Transfiguration Today article on permanent transformation theories, while Mrs. Weasley evenly scolded each of her sons.
By eight o'clock, stuffed and sprawled in their chairs, the group's chatter faded as drowsiness set in.
"Sirius, any news on Voldemort?" Harry asked through a yawn.
His words were like a chilling gust. The warm, relaxed atmosphere vanished, replaced by tense alertness.
"That's not for someone your age to worry about," Mrs. Weasley said sharply. "Voldemort is for adults to handle. It's late—off to bed."
But no one, not even Ginny, moved to obey.
"We're of age!" George and Fred protested. "We've been trying to get answers, but you keep shutting us out!"
"That's because you're not in the Order of the Phoenix," Mrs. Weasley said, rubbing her temples.
"When did we need to join the Order to ask questions?" Sirius countered. "Harry's faced Voldemort himself. He deserves to know what's happening."
"See!" George and Fred glared at Mrs. Weasley. "Why does Harry get to know? He's not even in the Order—or of age!"
"It's not my fault you're kept in the dark," Sirius said with a shrug. "That's your parents' call. Harry's different."
Mrs. Weasley took a deep breath, then turned to Ron and the others, who were eagerly awaiting Sirius's news. "Fine. Harry stays. Ron, George, Fred, Ginny—bed, now!"
The room erupted.
"We're of age!" Fred and George shouted in unison.
"If Harry gets to know, why not me?" Ron bellowed.
"Mum, I want to hear too!" Ginny shrieked.
"No!" Mrs. Weasley roared, leaping to her feet, eyes blazing. "I won't allow—"
"Molly, you can't stop Fred and George," Mr. Weasley said wearily. "They're adults."
"They're still in school!"
"Legally, they're adults," he repeated, voice heavy. Mrs. Weasley's face flushed with fury.
"Fine… Fred and George can stay. But Ron—"
"Harry'll just tell me and Hermione everything!" Ron snapped. Catching Harry's gaze, he faltered. "You… will, right?"
Harry met Ron's eyes, then grinned. Ignoring Hermione's squirming, he pulled her into a hug. "Of course, Hermione and I'll fill you in."
For a split second, Harry caught Ron's expression shift.
"Enough!" Mrs. Weasley barked. "Ginny—bed, now!"
Ginny didn't go quietly, her shouts and stomping echoing as she stormed upstairs.
The Order's intelligence on Voldemort wasn't as detailed as Harry hoped, but it was enough to reveal the undercurrents stirring in the wizarding world.
After bidding Hermione goodnight, Harry returned to the room he shared with Ron, sinking contentedly into soft bedding.
In the days that followed, Order members came and went, often staying for meals. Despite Mrs. Weasley's ban on eavesdropping, Harry and Hermione openly got updates from Sirius each evening—under her furious glares—while Ron and the others waited resentfully in their rooms for secondhand news.
On the last day of the holidays, Professor McGonagall visited Grimmauld Place, delivering envelopes with their new term booklists.
"Only two new books," Harry said, scanning the list. "Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5 and Defensive Magical Theory. Looks like Dumbledore's found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
Gilderoy Lockhart, traumatized by last year's ordeal, was at St. Mungo's and couldn't return to the post.
"Hopefully this one's competent," Hermione said, slicing open her envelope. "Not another—"
She froze. In her palm gleamed a prefect badge.
"Congrats, Hermione! You're a prefect!" Harry said, smiling.
Hermione gave a small smile. Then, from upstairs, Ron's ecstatic shout rang out: "Prefect badge! I got a prefect badge!"
Hermione's face went blank as she slipped the badge into her pocket.
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