"We're what?" Ron says in disbelief, letting the piece of toast he was eating fall back onto his plate.
"I said that we're going to host a few American kids. Dumbledore asked us since school hasn't started yet and there's nowhere else to stay," Mr. Weasley explains again.
"But there's no room here. Where are they going to sleep? Not Fred and George's old room. Everything in there still explodes." Mrs. Weasley says.
"They say they'd be perfectly comfortable outside."
"Outside?" Mrs. Weasley exclaims, as if it were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. We all chuckled.
These kids sound interesting.
"How old are they?" I ask.
"Well, obviously, they're eleven. Otherwise they wouldn't just be starting school. I don't think America has a school of magic." Hermione points out.
"Actually, Hermione, two are seventeen, two are fifteen, and one is thirteen."
Hermione looked confused. "Then how are they just coming now? Witches and wizards start school ant eleven. Some of them are almost too old."
Mr. Weasley pauses for a moment,as if deciding what he could tell us.
"Well,..." he says. "They aren't witches or wizards."
"So, they're muggles?" Ron says (again) in disbelief.
"No, not muggles either."
What else is there?
"What are they, then?" I ask for all of us.
"Can't tell you that. Dumbledore's orders."
The three of us groan. Dumbledore's orders. That explained a lot. I sigh, knowing it's no use asking anymore.
"So when are they coming?"
"The day after tomorrow."
"I wonder what they'll be like," says Hermione.
We were in the airport lobby, waiting for our guest's plane to arrive. Hermione, Ron, and I were sitting in the red upholstered chairs. Mr Weasley was darting around the room asking "What's this?" or "How does this work?" to which Hermione and I explained the best we could. Ron just sat there looking bored.
Finally, the flight we were waiting for came in. We made a sign that said "To the Burrow" in big orange letters. I was hoping that our guests knew where they were going.
Apparently, they did. After a few moments, a group of five came toward us. One thing I noticed about all of them was that they all had an athlete's build, as if they work out. They were all individually, still very different.
The tallest one, a guy, had black, messy hair, a lot like mine. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a green T-shirt. His eyes were sea-green; a very interesting color.
Holding his hand was a girl with long, blond, curly hair. She was wearing jeans and an orange T-shirt that said 'Camp Half-blood.'
Camp Half-blood? What, pure bloods and muggle-borns couldn't go there? That's a little prejudice. Then again, Mr. Weasley said they weren't witches of wizards, so maybe half-blood meant something different to them.
The girl's eyes were a startling, stormy gray. They were filled with lover when she looked at the black-haired boy, who returned the gaze, so you could tell they were together.
"Well, I guess we should give them their own tent," Mr. Weasley half teases.
Walking a few paces behind the lovebirds were the other three.
The girl had black, spiky hair and electric blue eyes. She wore tan capris and a T-shirt that said 'Death to Barbie.' She had a sort of, silver light around her. She kept looking around her, as if she thought someone was going to jump out at her. There was a silver bracelet on her wrist.
One of the guys had dark, curly hair. He had on a red Rasta cap, a dark green hoodie, and baggy blue jeans. He had crutches and walked with a limp. He had brown eyes. For some odd reason, he reminded he of a goat.
The last one, a boy (I'm guessing was the thirteen-year-old) had shaggy, black hair. He wore black pants and an aviator's jacket over a black shirt. His skin was olive toned and his eyes were dark.
When they reached us, the black-haired boy says, "To the Burrow, huh? I guess you'd be Mr. Weasley, then." He sticks out his hand.
Mr. Weasley shakes his hand and says, "Please, call me Arthur. And you are?"
"Percy. Percy Jackson."