Rachel led the way to a small, crimson-red door set right in the middle of the crooked house. The paint was deep and vibrant, almost like freshly spilled blood. Above it, a handmade sign swung dangerously in the breeze, creaking on rusty hooks. It read The Burrow, in faded, lopsided letters.
She approached the door like she was stepping into a sacred temple, lifting her hand and giving the weathered wood a solid knock.
I shifted anxiously, my chest tight. My brain had already started doing its thing—you know, spinning into a cyclone of What-Ifs and Oh-Gods-Please-Not-A-Murder-House scenarios.
The doorknob turned with a soft squeak, and a plump, warm-looking woman appeared, her bright red hair practically announcing her relation with Rachel before she even spoke.
Her whole face lit up when she saw Rachel. "Oh, Rachel, dear, it's you! Come in, come in! And you must be her friends?"
Annabeth and I both nodded, trying to look normal and not like we'd just crash-landed from another planet.
"Rachel's told me so much about you two!" the woman continued warmly. "I'm Molly Weasley. But just call me Molly." She ushered us inside, fussing like a mother hen over our travel-worn clothes and windblown hair.
"Told you all that worry was for nothing, Seaweed Brain," Annabeth whispered under her breath, dragging out the nickname just to make my ears burn hotter.
I could feel my cheeks turning pink. As much as I wanted to argue, she was right—and that was the most annoying thing about Annabeth Chase. She was always right.
Inside, Rachel had already collapsed onto a saggy but super-comfy-looking couch, whipping out her sketchbook like it was an Olympic event. Her pencil raced across the paper, capturing the chaotic charm of the Burrow's living room: the crowded shelves, the weird trinkets, the gnome waddling across the fireplace mantel like it owned the place.
"It's been a while since I was here," Rachel muttered, brow furrowed as she sketched. "Things have definitely changed."
Molly sighed, a shadow crossing her face. "Well, there's been a lot that's happened. Especially since Fred—" She stopped herself, realizing she was about to overshare.
She led Annabeth and me up a narrow staircase that creaked and groaned with every step, like the house itself was mumbling about our visit.
"Ginny! Rachel's here!" Molly called out as we passed a door on the second floor.
Moments later, a girl about our age popped out—red hair a few shades lighter than Rachel's, freckles dusted across her nose, and sharp brown eyes that sized us up in one glance.
I stared a little too long.
"You're staring," Annabeth muttered, elbowing me in the ribs.
I gave her an awkward grin and hurried up the next flight of stairs.
On the third floor, Molly stopped and pointed to a door in the middle. "Hope you two don't mind sharing a room—it's the only spare one we've got!"
Annabeth smiled politely and grabbed my hand, yanking me inside without hesitation.
Oh gods, I thought. I'm rooming with Wise Girl. Send help.
Before we could even unpack, there was a knock at the door. I swung it open and found two more Weasleys standing there—both taller, both grinning like they knew every prank ever pulled in the history of the world.
"Welcome to the madhouse," said the younger-looking one. "I'm Ron."
"And I'm George," said the other, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble a step.
"Just follow our lead and you'll survive," Ron added with a wink.
Despite myself, I grinned back. These two had the kind of chaotic energy that reminded me of Connor and Travis Stoll. "Thanks," I said, shaking Ron's hand.
Annabeth, standing next to me with her arms crossed, gave George a firm handshake. "Nice to meet you," she said politely, though I could see her brain already running battle strategies: Assess risk. Find exits. Trust no one.
George smirked. "Any friend of Rachel's is a friend of ours."
Rachel appeared behind them, tucking her sketchpad under her arm. "Hey, Ron, George," she said lightly, though her voice had this weird distracted edge, like she was thinking about something else.
"Good to see you," Ron said. "How's the art?"
"Great," Rachel muttered, glancing around like she'd lost something important.
George ruffled her hair. "Dinner's in an hour. Molly's making a feast, hope you're hungry."
With that, they vanished back down the stairs, leaving the three of us alone. Annabeth immediately started unpacking—books, notebooks, and, of course, her knife—like it was totally normal to sleep with all three.
I sat on the bed, staring out the window at the setting sun, feeling... not bad, but definitely still wired from all the traveling.
Rachel stood frozen in the center of the room, her face suddenly pale.
"Rachel, you okay?" Annabeth asked, instantly on alert.
Rachel opened her mouth to answer—and then everything went sideways.
A thick, sickly green smoke poured out of her mouth. Her body locked up like she'd been hit by a freeze spell, eyes rolling back until only the whites showed.
I jumped to my feet, heart thudding like a war drum.
"Oh gods," I muttered, dread sinking in like a stone. "Please tell me it's not a prophecy."
But of course, with our luck... it was always a prophecy.