Harry, stunned, never had a chance to get a word in. Fortunately, Mr. Weasley was there, sitting in a comfortable chair and reading The Daily Prophet. “Molly, let the boy breathe! He’s here for Ginny, not for us. Besides, he’s not permitted to speak about Ministry business.”
“Oh, pooh. Harry doesn’t mind, do you dear?"
Harry shook his head numbly and Mrs. Weasley seated him — strategically, he thought, on the sofa beside her own chair. She continued to grill him about anything and everything, pausing only to let him answer very briefly or to sing his praises to Arthur. Once, Mr. Weasley looked up from his paper, caught Harry’s eye and nodded once, smiling slightly. Harry smiled to himself in response: Mr. Weasley had seen others subjected to this, and they had survived.
Suddenly, as if by magic, Ginny appeared on the stairway. She looked radiant, and she was smiling. She was wearing a pale blue dress that flowed down her like a fountain of cool water. It was several moments before Harry realized that he was still seated, his mouth hanging open stupidly. He rose swiftly, stumbling on a pouf, cleared his throat and said, “Hi.” He felt like a dope.
“Hi, Harry,” she replied sweetly. “Are those for me?”
He stopped staring at her long enough to look down and see what it was she was talking about. Flowers! Right! “Er, yeah, I hope you like them.” He held them out to her.
Vaguely, as if from a great distance, he heard Mr. Weasley in the background saying, “Now, come on, Molly. Let’s give them a moment.”
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