Heading to the Ministry of Magic

Mr. Weasley returned at dawn. At eight in the morning, he shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and took the sandwich Bill handed him.

"Dad, didn't you just work all night yesterday? Why do you have to go to the Ministry of Magic so early again today?"

"Can't be helped. The Ministry is desperately short-handed these days." Mr. Weasley yawned. "It's not just me—Chris, Lupin, who only just got married, even Cedric, who's been on the job for less than two years. There's work every day that never seems to end."

"But this is way too much." Fred poured him a glass of pumpkin juice. "Does the Ministry pay you overtime?"

"The Ministry's money is all being used to buy potion ingredients needed to treat the wounded." Mr. Weasley took a sip of pumpkin juice.

"So you're working for nothing?"

"You can't put it that way." Mr. Weasley shook his head. "It's work, not a business deal."

George curled his lip.

Of course he understood what Mr. Weasley meant, but understanding and accepting were two different things.

And of course, he wasn't really upset over that pitiful bit of overtime pay.

Hadn't the Ministry of Magic been claiming in the Daily Prophet that they had the Death Eaters' movements under control?

Then where had the Aurors and Hit Wizards been during yesterday's attack...? They had waited until half an hour later, when everything was already over, before rushing over.

If Kyle hadn't used a phoenix to get them out, no one could say how many people would have made it back alive.

They were nowhere to be seen when they were actually needed, yet so eager when there was work to be done. How could they have it that easy?

The more George thought about it, the angrier he became.

Though