---

Ron leaned back against the lumpy couch that called the Weasley’s den its home. As he fiddled with one of the several loose threads in the sofa’s dated apolstry, an exasperated sigh escaped his lips. “Come on Hermione! If that things gets any longer, there won’t be an owl brave enough in this house to deliver it…” he whined, tugging at the painfully long letter that was currently occupying his friend’s attention.

Hermione looked up from the parchment with a scowl, pulling it back towards her. “Then we’ll just have to visit the post office in Hogsmeade this afternoon, won’t we?” she hissed before returning to her letter.

“Afternoon? At this rate, it’ll be sundown before you’ve finished. At least take a break, ‘Mione. It’s nearly noon, and that means its nearly time for lunch,” when the prospect of food didn’t seem to sway Hermione’s mind and the sound of quill on paper continued, Ron carried on his rant. “Isn’t your hand aching? Cramped from the monotonous motion of swirling the quill on that parchment for hours on end?” A smirk spread over his freckled face as Hermione lifted her head once more, this time scowl-free. “Aha! I knew it! Time for a break then…” he said with cheerful resolute, reaching towards the lengthy scroll.

Hermione clutched the parchment before her. “Don’t even think about it, Ron.” she huffed.

“Well, if your hand wasn’t dead, then why did you stop?”

“Because, ” she said simply, “I was surprised you knew the word monotonous. That’s all.” With a cocky smirk, Hermione returned to her letter, leaving Ron to pout on the couch rather moodily.

Who was the letter to, anyway? If it was to Harry, he’d understand the length. He himself had written Harry a letter longer than any paper he had written at school just last week, explaining why he, too, couldn’t come to the Burrow yet. The letter had been filled with sympathy and promises�”two and a half feet of them. And he had been rather proud of himself, too. That is, until he had brought the matter up at supper a day or so after the letter had been sent. He was promptly told off for sending such information so carelessly; when asked what sort of concealment charms he had placed on the seal, his response was ‘Concealment charms…?’ Apparently, it was not wise to state ‘Order Affairs’ in an unprotected letter…

But if the letter was to Harry, why didn’t Hermione just say so…? “Hermione!” he whined once more.

The words “Just a few more minutes…” spilled out of a mouth hidden somewhere under a mass of bushy brown hair, and Ron turned to pulling at the threads of the sofa again.

A face appeared in the doorway, laden with freckles and ginger hair. Out of the corner of his eye, Ron couldn’t tell this Weasley child apart from any other, since they all shared the same general traits. He raised his blue eyes from the coiling thread and stared into that of his sister’s. “Hullo, Ginny…” he greeted thickly.

Ginny cocked an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Ron?”

Ron nodded his chin towards the sound of a bustling quill and rolled his eyes, causing Ginny to smirk. “Hermione, ”she said with expert innocence, “Lunch is ready and the table’s set! Come and eat.”

Hermione looked up at the ginger haired girl and smiled. “Great, I’m starving.”

Ron’s eyes grew wide so that they resembled Luna Lovegood’s, protrubent and white all the way around. “Wha…? But-but I…” he stuttered as Hermione tucked the letter in her robe pocket and set the quill gently on the desk. He watched blankly as she followed Ginny’s pointing finger out to the kitchen. Flabbergasted, Ron turned to his sister. “How come she listened to you?”

Ginny smiled and cocked her head to one side. “Because she likes me best!” she said with a smirk, dodging into the kitchen before Ron had a chance to grab her.



“Oh dear, ” Mrs.Weasley tutted, “Your father’s late again…” she sighed and took her seat at the far side of the dinner table, staring solemnly at the Weasley’s Grandfather clock. The hand that portrayed Mr.Weasley’s smiling face was still pointed at work, as did Percy’s, Bill’s, and Charlie’s. Five other hands portraying a Weasley pointed towards home, along with one new face. Following the occurrences at Kings Cross a few weeks ago, Mrs.Weasley had taken it upon herself to add Harry and Hermione to the clock as well; an addition that had caused Hermione to beam. At that moment, Ron thought, her smile seemed contagious, because every Weasley in the room had followed suit. It was too bad that he was forbidden to share this information with Harry until could see it himself; Ron was positive that Harry would be more or less ecstatic if he knew.

“You can’t really blame him, mum.” George said, scooping some mashed potatoes onto his plate from a chipped ceramic bowl.

“Yeah. Now that everybody’s stopped being arrogant prats and have understood You-Know-Who’s back and worse than ever…” Fred continued, chewing on a chicken leg.

“All the nutters take out their anxiety on the muggles!” George finished, passing the bowl to Ginny.

Fred leaned to his left to talk to Hermione. “Last Monday he had to run off to Kilcarney. The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office got a message about a rogue bag-pipe….”

“Rogue bag-pipe…?” she asked, eyes wide, picking up her water glass.

Ron snorted, “Yeah. That’s what we said, too. It turns out that whenever someone tried to play the bugger, the mouthpiece would bite him or her on the nose while the rest of the pipes would…erm… Would find other places to chew…” he finished, throwing his hands up to shield his face from the water that spewed form Hermione’s mouth.

As Hermione’s face grew pink with embarrassment the Weasley children howled with laughter. Even Ron chuckled, despite the luke-warm water dripping down his face and onto his robes. He shook his head wildly, spraying water across the table in little droplets.

“And that’s what mum said!” the twins chuckled in unison.

“I’m so sorry, Ron!” Hermione said, picking up the napkin on her lap and dabbing at his chin.

Ron’s laughter paused for a second as the rough cloth touched his face. He smiled and playfully pushed her hand away, blushing ever so slightly. “It's alright, Hermione! It's okay…” assured Ron, picking up his own napkin.

“Aw, Ronnie! Why not let Hermione wipe your face?” Fred squawked through his fit laughter.

“Oh, don’t let our presence ruin your fun, Ron!” George chimed in dubiously.

Ginny swallowed her giggles, confused. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The twins said simultaneously..

Ron rubbed his face quite vigorously with the napkin to hide the blush rising on his freckled cheeks.

“Obvious?” Ginny question, chewing her lip. “Oh! You mean--”

“That’s enough!” Mrs.Weasley shouted over the ruckus, face red. “Fred, George! That is quite enough!” Fred and George quieted immediately, but the grins on their faces had not vanished under their mother’s harsh gaze.

Hermione, still pink, was mopping the tabletop. “Sorry, Mrs.Weasley.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you, dear. ” she cooed, turning to Hermione. Mrs.Weasley pulled her wand from her apron pocket. “Let me get that, Hermione…” With a flick of her wand and an uttered “Scourgify!” the water pooling on the battered wooden table vanished.

Patting his sodden head, Ron looked to his mother. “How about a little help over here, mum?”

Mrs.Weasley smiled at her youngest son and rapped her wand briskly on his head. His ginger hair instantly dried and stood unnaturally on-end.

“Much better!” Hermione laughed, patting down his hair, thus causing Ron to blush again.

The twins burst into laughter once more. This time, a piercing stare from their mum didn’t hush them up; it was the woosh and pop of their father exiting the fireplace that silenced their whoops and hollers.

“Hullo, Weasleys…and Hermione, of course…” he greeted with a sigh, collapsing into the battered chair next to the fireplace. Sweat was beading on his unusually pale face and the smile that curled on his lips was thin and rather forced.

Mrs.Weasley turned on her heel, her face softening into a loving smile. She swept towards her husband and bent to kiss his forehead. “How was work, honey?”

“Anymore biting musical instruments?” George asked fervently.

“No. No…” he answered, shaking his head. “Sorry I’m late, Molly dear. It’s just…”

“Hush.” Mrs.Weasley replied. “You look peaky dear. Take a drink of water…relax, dear. Have some supper, alright?”

Mr.Weasley smiled gratefully at his wife as Fred made gagging sounds. “Thank you, I think I will…” he sighed. Standing on shaky knees he made his way over to the largest chair at the head of the table, twelve eyes staring at him wearily, where he sipped from his cup and swallowed the cool water down in one swig. Smiling a little brighter now, Mr.Weasley sat up straight and looked at each child in turn. Mrs.Weasley began to pile potatoes onto his plate, and the silence in the room grew thick and uncomfortable.

“Alright dad?” Ron asked, eyeing his father.

“Yes. Fine…” Mr.Weasley nodded. “So. How was…How was your day? Anything interesting happen? Hmm?”

Fred and George exchanged glances, and Mrs.Weasley sat down in her chair rather moodily. “Well, you’ll be happy to know your sons have…erm, created a new product. Isn’t that right, dears?” she said, shooting them an evil glare.

“Oh, really? How’d it go, then?” Mr.Weasley questioned, chewing his chicken with gusto, painfully unaware of his wife’s tone.

“Not very well…” Fred said, pushing his potatoes around his plate with his fork.

George cleared his throat. “We haven’t really worked out all the bugs yet…”

“You see, the knickers were only supposed to light up so that they shown through your pants�”“

“They weren’t suppose to catch fire…”

Mr.Weasley’s eyes grew wide. “Oh. Oh dear…and, uh… What do you two have to say to yourselves, boys?”

The twins turned solemn faces towards their brother. “Sorry Ron…”

Ginny fell into a fit of giggles as Ron’s face turned a deep shade of pink. Mr.Weasley hacked cough that sounded all too much like he was trying to hide a fit of laughter.

Ron shot his father a reproachful look, having caught his chortle. “Oh, really? We’ll see if your still laughing when the twins catch your--”

“Ronald Weasley!”

“--on fire, then!” he finished haughtily, ignoring his mother’s protest. While the twins were giggling to themselves, his father was certainly not laughing at all anymore.

Ron heaved a sigh and sat back down in his chair. Any other time the twins would have caught his knickers on fire Ron would have laughed along with the rest of his family. But seeing as he currently had a guest in the Burrow… Ron cast an apologetic look towards Hermione, who merely smiled and shook her head as if to say “Nevermind…”

Mr.Weasley cleared his throat and, in a determinedly steady voice, asked. “Well? Has anybody else done something of interest? That doesn’t involve setting human body parts on fire?”

“Hermione is writing a book!” Fred piped up.

Mr.Weasley, surprised, looked towards Hermione. “Really? Splendid! What about, Hermione?”

Ron snickered and looked to his friend. “Yes. What about, Hermione?”

Hermione looked rather confused. “Story? I’m not writing a story…am I?” she asked, looking at Fred.

“Well, if that thing you’ve been slaving over isn’t a story, ” he inquired, “Then what the bloody hell is it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean…” she replied.

George put down his fork and turned his gaze to Hermione as well. “That three foot parchment you’ve been working on since this morning, Hermione!”

Ron smiled devilishly to himself; they must be talking about the letter. “Oh! Hermione, I think they mean that letter you were writing before lunch. I agree, it does look like the makings of a novel…”

Hermione’s face dawned comprehension. “Oh! You mean my letter. No, it’s only a letter to a friend. Sorry…” she said lamely, clearly unwilling to talk about it.

“Oh, come on Hermione! Who to?” Fred asked through a mouthful of chicken, much to his mother’s dismay.

Ron smiled and raised his eyebrows, fixing his gaze on Hermione. She gave him a look that might have been despair or humiliation�”he wasn’t good at figuring out emotions and what not. Now George had joined in the fray and he too was badgering Hermione about the letter. As a blush rose in Hermione’s cheeks Ginny spoke up for her friend.

“Shove off, guys. It’s Hermione’s letter and if she doesn’t want to tell us whom she’s writing to, that’s her decision.” the saucy redhead declared, crossing her arms and shooting daggers at the twins. As much as he wanted the secrets of the letter revealed, Ron had to agree with Ginny. He too stared at the twins until they receded under the steely gaze, however reluctantly.

For a while supper continued in silence, the clink of cutlery on plates and the steady dripping sound of the kitchen sink seemed to echo in the nearly silent room. When every person had emptied their plate and was lounging in their chairs, Mrs.Weasley stood and cleared the table with a flick of her wand. Ron ducked as the large ceramic bowl flew above his head and landed lightly on the counter.

“Wonderful, Molly.” Mr.Weasley said, patting his stomach. “Just what an old man needed after a hard day’s work…”

Ginny smiled sympathetically, “Was it really that bad, dad?”

“I suppose it would be hard, wouldn’t it? After all, the ministry has yet to find another Minister…it must be a mad house down there…” said Hermione in a tone that suggested she was thinking out loud.

“Oh, it is still a madhouse…” Ron’s father asserted, “But its mainly because we have found a new Minister.”

“Really, Arthur?” Mrs.Weasley said excitedly. “Who?

“Well, now…you have to understand that the position is underrated in some ways and overrated in most…” Mr.Weasley stuttered.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Ron asked.

Hermione sighed. “It means that the job position was hard to fill. After how badly Fudge messed up, not many people are willing to take that chance.”

“Oh…”

“Right you are, Hermione. But�”there are a few nutters willing to risk their reputation.” Arthur continued.

“Nutters? You don’t mean Dumbeldore’s the new Minister?” Ginny gasped, eyes wide.

Mrs.Weasley clucked he tongue, lifting a chocolate cake out of the oven. “No, no dear. Dumbeldore’s much to busy with other things to become Minister…Go on, Arthur.” she said, swirling her wand above the cake as icing spilled from the tip.

Ron’s father went on about the qualities needed to become Minister, the paper work one would have to fill out, and about the spotless record that was required. He heard none of this, however, as he was too preoccupied with the cake his mother was tending to. The scent of chocolate wafted from the kitchen and into his nostrils, awakening his hunger. It was several minutes before he felt Hermione kick him in the leg from under the table. “What was that for?” he hissed.

“Your drooling…” she replied, smiling knowingly and pointing at his chin.

Ron blushed and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his mud colored robes, watching as his mother levitated the cake over to the table.

“…an astoundingly clean record. Even if you have a simple ‘secrecy code’ violation of your post owl gone astray and getting hit by a car driven by muggles, your plum out of luck to become Minister.” Mr.Weasley finished.

“Yes, yes. We know, dad. Stop beating around the bush and tell us who the new Minister is!” George whined.

“Come now, Arthur. Don’t leave us in suspense. The sooner you stop delaying the news the sooner we’ll have cake.” Mrs.Weasley called, hovering the cake about a foot above the dinner table.

Mr.Weasley grimaced and took a deep breath. “It’s Percy.”

Awkward silence filled the room, only interrupted by the odd noise Mrs.Weasley’s chocolate cake made as it fell to its doom upon the dining room table.

Percy? As…Minister of Magic? That wasn’t possible…was it? Surely not. His father had to be kidding…he had to be… Ron fidgeted in his chair uncomfortably. Two awkward silences in one dinner; that had to be a Weasley family record. He caught Hermione’s eye and they shared looks of mingled surprise and anticipation.

“But…That can’t be right.” Hermione insisted as Mr.Weasley stood to help his stunned wife into her chair. A battle of unreadable emotions was playing out on her face and tears had started swelling in her eyes. “I mean…he’s only…he’s not even…”

“I know. That’s exactly what I said when I found out,” Mr.Weasley sighed, his face turning pale again. “But, like I said. It’s a very high profile job…and Percy was the only one who fit the criteria willing to accept office…Molly dear, please say something.”

Ron turned to his mother, who seemed pale and sat unsettlingly still�”almost as if she had been petrified. Slowly, the woman stood to her feet. Ron watched as his mum marched out of the kitchen and towards the stairs, stiff as a soldier, her husband close behind.

“Oh well!” George sighed, lifting himself up from his chair and stretching.

“Oh well? What do you mean, ‘oh well’?” Ron hissed, scowling at his brother.

“He means ‘oh well!’” Fred asserted, getting to his feet as well.

“But how can you say that? Our brother is Minister of Magic! And all you have to say is--”

“OH WELL!” the twins chimed together.

Ginny shook her head. “You two have lost it. Really, you have.”

Fred smiled. “Ginny dear, tell me; have we ever really had it?” he inquired, doing a little jig to mock his sister further.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Ron hissed, repulsed.

“Providing a distraction so that I can do this!” George howled, pointing his wand at Hermione. “Accio letter!”

Ron watched wide-eyed as the thick scroll flew from Hermione’s pocket into George’s outstretched hand. Hermione yelped, surprised for a moment, and lunged towards George. “Give that back! That’s not yours, hand it over!” she pleaded.

“C’mon guys. That was a dirty trick, hand over the letter.” Ron demanded.

“Oh, come on little Ronnie. We know you want to know who its to as well!” Fred pronounced, winking at his little brother.

“Let’s see here…”George muttered, making quite a big deal about unrolling the parchment. “Dear…oh dear…” His eyes grew wide, and he turned to Hermione. Fred, who had read the title over his shoulder, did the same.

“What?” Ron squeaked.

“Exactly.” Hermione said, barely above a whisper. A blush had risen in her cheeks as she stomped over to George and snatched the parchment out of his hands. Rolling it up tightly, she replaced it in her robe pocket, glaring at the twins.

Ron crossed his arms, looking from Hermione to the twins and back again. “What? What’s with all the unfinished sentences?”

Fred stretched and yawned in a very animated way. “Well, I’m beat. What say you to sleep, George?”

“I say…” he too yawned, and within seconds the twins had disappeared with a rather loud bang, leaving two freckled redheads and a blushing brunette in the kitchen.

Ginny smiled kindly at Hermione. She strode over to her friend and linked arms. “Hermione, dear. What say you to sleep?”

Hermione grinned appreciatively. “I’d say it sounds delightful.” She allowed Ginny to pull her out of the kitchen, leaving Ron alone in the kitchen, dumbfounded and feeling slightly put out.

Did I miss something?

As Ron climbed up the staircase to his bedroom, those words wafted through his tired mind endlessly. He was not the least bit sleepy, not in the physical sense, but there really wasn’t very much else to do now that everyone else had gone to bed. He climbed up the rickety stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible, his blue eyes glued to the wood, counting the stairs out of boredom.

“…Twenty eight…twenty nine…thir�”oy!” Ron grimaced as he collided with someone wearing a light purple nightgown and slippers; he guessed that it was not one of the twins he had run into. Rubbing his head and looking down, he saw Hermione grinning up at him. “Oh, hullo ‘Mione. Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to knock you over…”

“Its alright, Ron! Its okay…” she said from her spot on the floor.

Ron extended his hand to help her up, smiling dumbly. “There. Now we’re even! Spit in the face verses a hit in the face.”

“Okay, I guess that’s fair.” Hermione laughed and allowed Ron to pull her up.

Ron nodded and smiled. “Well, you should get off to bed then, before Ginny sends out a search party or something.”

“Right. Erm…Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“I need my hand back.”

“Oh! Oh, right, sorry…” Ron blushed and let go of Hermione’s hand, tucking his now free hand into his robe pocket. “Good night, then…”

“Good night!” Hermione called as she made her way down the stairs.

Ron watched as Hermione disappeared into Ginny’s bedroom door, chewing the inside of his cheek. With a sigh, he continued his trek up the stairs. Thoughts of the letter were still surging through his mind. It wasn’t like Hermione to keep secrets…or at least he didn’t think it was. What sort of letter would cause such a reaction from Fred and George? Surely she wasn’t doing anything illegal…No. He had to draw the line there. Maybe he was just making a big deal out of nothing. The letter was probably a personal one…that’s it. It was probably to her parents or something. It wasn’t any of his business, anyway.

“Hey, Ron!” Fred called from his bedroom door just as Ron passed it.

“Yeah?” Ron asked, walking back towards his brother.

George stuck his head out the door, beaming. “I need my hand back!” he squealed, and the twins burst out laughing.

Ron’s ears turned red as he stepped into their room. “Mind your own business,” he hissed.

“Oh I think you’d better be nicer to us, Ron!” barked Fred.

Ron sat carefully on one of their beds. “Why should I? You two set my knickers on fire.”

“Because we know who the letter’s to,” the twins declared in gleeful unison.

Ron’s face fell. “Well…its none of my business, so why should give a hippogriff's hide?”

“I think if you knew, you’d care a lot, Ron. More so than even our dear Hermione knows…” proclaimed Fred in a knowing tone.

“And why is that?” asked Ron, becoming rather annoyed.

“Because of how you acted at the Yule Ball…” George said with a sigh.

“Yule Ball? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything, our dear little brother,” Fred cooed. He stood and waved his fingers in a mock mysterious fashion in front of Ron’s face. “Think…. Remember…think…”

Ron bit his lip and thought back a year and a half. The Yule Ball was part of the Tri-wizard Tournament tradition, he remembered. But what was the significance of that…? “I’m drawing a blank….”

George rolled his eyes, “Do we have to spell it out for you? Do you remember who Hermione went with?” Ron’s eyes narrowed and he nodded. “And how did that make you feel…?”

“Outrageously angry and jeal--” he eyed his brother suspiciously. “What are you getting at?”

Fred sat down on the bed beside Ron and put an arm around his shoulders. “Ron, please tell me you really aren’t this thick! The letter is to Krum! K-R-U-M!”

Ron shrugged off his brother’s arm. It took him a moment to comprehend his Fred’s words, but as soon as he did, Ron froze. He was stone still, staring at a pair of ‘Neon Knickers’ strewn upon a work desk in the corner, his face turning scarlet. Krum? The letter was to…Krum? “Then why doesn’t she just say so?” he said at last.

“You truly are a hopeless case,” said George, shaking his head mournfully. “Do you remember what happened at the ball, young sir?”

“Do the words ‘fraternizing with the enemy’ and ‘hasn’t he asked you to call him Vicky yet’ mean anything to you?” continued Fred.

“And didn’t you two get into a row about a letter to Vicky before, anyway?’”

Ron’s ears blended perfectly with his hair now. He could not believe he had been so dumb. Of course, the letter was to Krum…why shouldn’t it have been? She was probably arranging for him to whisk her away off to Durmstrang palace for the summer holidays…

“So you see, dear brother,” Fred said, standing up to lean against a garbage covered dresser. “Your dear Hermione didn’t want you to find out it was to Krum, so as to avoid another row with you, understand? She hates it when you are mad at her, you know…”

Ron nodded, having stopped truly listening several words ago. “But…why would I start another row with her over a letter?” he exclaimed, laughing nervously. “And to think…I thought she was committing a crime or something…” Ron stood and strode steadily out the door and up the stairs to his bedroom. But now that he knew the truth…why did he still feel like she was commiting a crime?

Fred leaned towards his twin with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “It’s killing him, isn’t it…?”

“Oh yeah…” George replied with a smirk, staring after his brother.


Ron closed his bedroom door and sat down on his bed with a silent sigh, the creaking bedsprings the only noise in the dark room. Chudely Cannon players zoomed across the walls through their posters, tossing the Quaffle this way and that, dodging Bludgers and smiling at Ron. He stripped off his robes and changed into his green pajamas. The new fabric felt rough against his skin, but the sensation was a welcome change to the tattered hand-me-downs he was used to. A recent growth spurt had more or less forced his mother to get him a new set of robes and a pair of pajamas from Hogsmade. True, they weren’t top of the line�”but new was new either way.

As he looked out the window, past the frog in the tank and above the spreading branches of the tree at the ebony sky, Ron’s mind raced. The letter was to Krum. Heh, that’s not a big deal. So what? Hermione had made it clear that they were just pen pals--nothing more to it. Why did she�”and Fred and George, for that matter�”worry so much about his reaction? Why did they think it would bother him?

Because it did.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, hands trembling for some unknown reason. What if she was arranging to visit him? Well…it was her choice, wasn’t it? Ron crept to his door and peeked around the corner, checking if the coast was clear. Satisfied, he shut it quietly, and turned the lock. Ron padded to the chair on the other side of the room and got to his stomach so that he was flat on the floor, head under the rickety stool. He had peeled back a floorboard with great care, when the sound of footsteps echoed outside the door. Ron lifted his head, successfully banging it against the wooden chair. He cursed and froze, listening. The footsteps stopped outside his door, and all was silent for a moment until whoever it was seemed satisfied and made their way back down the steps.


Relief sweeping over him despite the locked door, Ron proceeded to peel the loose floorboard from its resting-place. In the crevice where the board no longer lay was exactly what he was looking for. Ron lifted the tin box from its hiding spot and crawled out from under the chair. He stepped carefully back to his bed and sat down. Opening the lid with trembling hands to expose his few cherished possessions: a picture of Harry, Hermione, and himself taken by Collin Creevey during their third year; his omnioculars; a piece of paper with a twelve digit number on it; and several galleons. He stared at the contents for a moment, letting his temper cool. With a newly steady hand he lifted the picture from the box and placed it on his bedspread, followed by the enchanted binoculars, so that all that was left was the paper and the money. He lifted the little scrap from the box and examined it; shriveled with age and stained from something or another, it appeared merely a useless piece of paper. But he knew better. He knew that the twelve-digit number was a product code from a shop in Diagon Alley. He had torn it out of his mother’s issue of Witch Weekly summer before fourth year, two breakfasts before the World Cup, and he’d been saving up ever since. Ron counted the galleons carefully, wondering if this would be the year he’d be able to get it…

“Bloody Hell…” he said in an undertone. “Thirteen galleons…” Lifting the ticket to eye level and squinting in the dim moonlight, he examined the last two digits of the number. A smile seethed across his face uncontrollably. He had done it; it took nearly two years, but he had done it�”and with some gold to spare.

With a light head, Ron returned his belongings to the tin box, closed the lid with a satisfying snap, and placed the little box back beneath the floorboard. He tiptoed back to his bed, crawled beneath the Quaffle laden bedclothes, and drifted into a land that only the mind of a redheaded teenage boy could create.



Ron awoke eleven hours later to the sound of his mother rapping on the door. “Ronald Weasey! It’s noon! GET. UP.” The doorknob jiggled dangerously while the door stayed tightly shut. “Open this door, Ronald Weasley! Before I�”oh, what am I saying? ALOHOMORA!” The lock turned to the right in a flash of blue light, and the door swung open. Ron lifted his groggy head to stare at his mother.

“Wha…? Why are you smiling like that?” he said, sitting up.

Mrs.Weasley shook her head. “You know, a pillow is for your head, dear, not your feet…”

Confused, Ron blinked in the sunlight streaming through his window. It took him a moment, but when he came to, Ron realised that he was laying in his bed backwards�”his feet at the head of the bed, and his head at the foot. “Urgh…Sorry mum. I didn’t sleep well last night…”

Mrs.Weasley’s smile turned from that of amusement to understanding. “Oh, I see…” she took a seat at the foot of his bed, “You have nothing to worry about, Ron. It’s perfectly normal, you know?”

Ron cocked an eyebrow, “Really?”

“Oh yes. I admit, I had a little trouble sleeping over the exact same matter.”

“You…did?”

Mrs.Weasley nodded and hugged her son tight. “Yes. It is perfectly understandable. That sort of news would come as a shock to anyone. To be honest, I am a little releived that I’m not the only one who took the news a bit hard. Your father found to it hard to swallow as well, of course. Nevertheless,” Ron lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder, confused. “It’s a dilema we’ll just have to face with the ol’ Weasley spirit, you know?”

“Y-yeah…”

“I mean, sure. It is a bit intimidating to have your brother ruling Britain’s magical community, but--”

“Oh! Percy. You’re talking about Percy…”

“Of course, dear. What did you think I was talking about?” Mrs.Weasley asked with a thin smile.

“O-oh. I thought you meant�”nevermind. I’m just very confused at the moment.” Ron stuttered, trying to untangle himself from his comforter.

“Aw…” his mother cooed. Mrs.Weasley stood and straightened her robes, kissing her son on the top of his head. Before she turned and disappeared out the door she said over her shoulder, “And get dressed. It’s time for lunch…”

Ron shook his head in confusion and kicked his leg out from the tangle of bedclothes. Eyes dazzled by the mid-day sunlight, he shut the door and made his way to the dresser, pulling out a pair of dark gray robes.

After he had changed and put on a pair of socks, Ron trudged lazily down the long staircase, passing empty bedroom after empty bedroom. Now that the dazzling sunlight was out of his eyes, his mind had unclogged and visions of his early morning nightmares swam before his mind. He leaned against the splintered walls as Viktor Krum showed up at the front door of the Burrow, as Ginny moved into his room and Krum into Ginny’s where Hermione still slept. Ron banged his head against a closed door as Hermione climbed upon the back of that Bulgarian butthead’s Firebolt, suitcases trailing in the tailwind, and flew through the air to some castle in the sky.

“Umm…Ron?” came a feminine voice from around the corner.

Ron lifted his head and took a stumbling step forward, craning his neck around the corner. Several Ginny’s were spinning at the bottom of the stairs; heads cocked to the side and amused smiles on her many faces. “Oh, hello, Ginny…”Ron said in a slur.

“What was all that banging?” she asked, climbing the stairs to steady her brother.

“Oh, I…I tripped and fell down the stairs….”

Ginny nodded. “Right. Come on down for lunch, Ron. Everybody’s waiting for you. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Fine. Oy…Is that…?”

“Chocolate cake? Yeah. Mum just finished icing it before she went upstairs.”

Ron’s vision cleared instantly and a smile crossed his face. “What’re we waiting for, it’s time for lunch! I’m starving…” he bounded down the remaining stairs and skidded into the kitchen, Ginny laughing at his heels.

“Finally!” George cried. “It took you long enough. Can we eat now?”

Mrs.Weasley nodded, forcing a smile, and pointed to an empty chair. “It’s about time. Sit.”

“Gladly!” Ron said as he took his seat at the table across from Hermione. He reached to his right, snatching a plate of ham and lettuce sandwhiches from his little sister, and slapped three onto his plate. Setting the platter back on the table and ignoring the amused protests from his siblings, Ron piled cauliflower and pudding onto his plate as well. Satisfied, he picked up his fork and began to eat his lunch like he had been stranded on a desert island with nothing but coconuts and saltwater for several weeks.


“Slow down!” Hermione said, watching him gobble his food like a pig, disgusted and amused. “It’s supposed to go in your mouth, not on your robes…”

Ron looked down at his gray robes to find an assortment of crumbs and mustard on his chest. He looked at Hermione, smiled carelessly and shrugged, returning to his sandwhiches.

“Just be grateful you’re out of spit range of these two...” Ginny moaned, pretending to wipe bits of food off her face.

“Schug ub!” George growled, mouth full of pudding and scrunching his face up to resemble a short-tempered pug.

Fred nodded, smirking. “Yeah, what he said.”

Ron looked up at George to see why his sister was laughing so much. He caught glimpse of the angry pug look on his brother’s face and started to laugh as well.

Hermione gently placed her fork on the table, looking from Ron to Ginny in confusion. “What’s so funny?”

“Look at him! He looks like that Slytherin girl!” squealed Ginny, pointing at George, who made the face again for Hermione’s benefit.

“What was her name?” Ron croaked, “Daisy…? Violet…? It was some kid of flower that doesn’t suit the broad at all…”

Hermione covered her mouth to hide her laughter, eyes wide. “You mean Pansy? Oh my gosh…” she examined George’s face more closely.

Ron nodded. “Only you have to look a bit more simple minded George, like you think two plus two is five. There we go!”

Ginny stared at her brother. “You look positivley revolting…”

“Then it’s a perfect match!”

“Ron!” Hermione and Mrs.Weasley said together, both giving him eerily similar looks of revulsion. Mrs.Weasley sent a spatula from the kitchen to smack him on the back of his head.

Swatting at the murderous cooking utensile, Ron kept a look of confused innocence on his face. “What? What did I say?” He cast a hopeful, pleading look at Hermione. “Can you help me over here?”

“Sorry, ”she said with her hands raised in front of her, “I’m not of age, therefore I cannot do anything of use to the spatula. Besides; I think you rather deserve it.”

“For�”ow�”for what? What did I say? Ginny was comparing George’s ugly mug to Pansy as well! Why isn’t she�”hey! That hurt!�”why isn’t she getting beaten up by a ruddy spatula?”

“I already told you!” Ginny exclaimed through her giggles. “It’s because they like me best!”

“Ginny…” Mrs.Weasley said warningly.

“Sorry.”

“Oy, mum, ” said Fred, “I think you ought to let up before you cause the poor bloke some serious brain trauma.”

“Oh, that’s not possible!” George asserted, taking a final bite of his sandwhich and standing up.

“How so, brother dearest?”

“Because he doesn’t have a brain to damdage!” George howled, soon followed by his brother, but by the time Mrs.Weasley’s army of attacking kitchen utensils had caught up to them, the twins had apparated to their shop.

Releived of the antagonizing spatula, Ron devoured the rest of his lunch with gusto, pausing only to suggest that Hermione finish up so that they could floo to Hogsmade and send her letter.

“Oh, I’ve already sent it,” she said with a smile. “But thanks for considering!”

“You’ve already sent the letter to Krum?” Ron sputtered through his cauliflower.

“Yes. While you were still sl�”how did you know it was to Viktor?” Hermione asked, her eyebrows raised and a blush rising in her cheeks.

How could he have been so thick as to let it slip? He couldn’t rat out the twins, that wouldn’t be fair to them. Ron’s mind raced, trying to think of an excuse. At last, he shrugged. “Guess it’s just my womans’ intuition.” Heaving an internal sigh of relief as the questions stopped and Hermione shook her head the way she always did when he said something out of the ordinary�”rolling her eyes but smiling that smile�”Ron offered to clear the table.

“And that’s…” Ron watched as his queen gracefully made her way across the chessboard to demolish Hermione’s knight. A smile twitched in the corners of his mouth as she lifted her chair and smashed the white horse on the head, “a Checkmate.”

Hermione shook her head in defeat as her mangled chess pieces repaired themselves. Ron began to set the chessboard for the fourth time that afternoon, giving a pep talk to his pieces.

“Ron!” Hermione whined, laughing. “Why must you insist on playing this game nonstop? You know I can’t play it for the life of me�”ask Ginny or someone who’d be challenging to play. I won’t mind watching,” she assured him.

“Because, ”said Ron simply, grinning, “I like to win. And when I play against you, it’s a given!” The truth was he liked spending the time with her alone, but there was no way he was about to say that.

“Well, you can’t blame me for not wanting to smash your pieces to bits. This game is utterly barbaric!”

Ron rolled his eyes. “The pieces repair themselves, Hermione. Think of their mindset�”its similar to house elves; they like to do what they were born to do!” That comment earned him a steely look from the brown haired girl sitting across from him. “They want to get smashed to bits. Don’t you, guys?” One of Hermione’s knights, looking the worse for wear, looked up at Ron, or would have if his body were a bit more flexible.

“Sure. Although its nice to obliterate the other guys once in a while,” he growled sarcastically.

Hermione was taken aback. “Well, maybe you could obliterate the other guys if you pieces would stop yelling at me to make one move, and then boo and tell me I should have done another!” she growled, crossing her arms. “I’m not going to get into a row with a little piece of wood. This game will just have to go on the list of things I do not understand the point of. Right next to Quidditch.”

“I’ll ignore that, since I know youwouldn’t remember my spectacular game last season, because you were busy babysitting Hagrid’s little brother…”

“Hagrid has a little brother?” Fred asked, plopping down on the sofa.

“Yeah, you remember him, don’t you, Fred?” George asked, sitting on the floor.

Fred thought for a moment, and then revelation dawned on his face. “Oh! Yeah, I remember now…” A grin formed on his lips and he turned to face Ron and Hermione, snorting at their perplexed expressions. “When we ditched school, we flew over the Forbidden Forest for a final goodbye, see?”

“And while we were circling, this one tree caught our eye. It was swishing side to side as if someone had pulled on it. Like…this.” George stood and went over to a particularly sickly looking, stalk-like plant. He pulled the tip of it back so that it bent in an arch towards him and let go, watching as it wavered back and forth like a spring. Hermione and Ron shared grins as the twins described to them something they knew all too well.

“And when we looked a little bit closer,” continued Fred, “the ugly little bugger�”well, I guess he wasn’t exactly little--he tried to grab our brooms, screaming ‘HAGGER!’”

Hermione smiled, uncrossing her arms. “So you two knew about Grawp? Why haven’t you said anything?”

George shrugged, returning to his spot on the floor. “We didn’t know anyone else knew. And we didn’t want to get Hagrid in a spot. I mean, we figured it had something to do with the Order…”

“But, you know Hagrid. His reasons for doing things are as complex and unpredictable as…as…”

“Girls…” Ron murmured before he could stop himself, turning red as soon as he realized what he said,

Fred and George smiled knowingly at their brother as Hermione shot him a derogatory look. “Very funny. I would hardly call not understanding Wizard’s chess complicated.”

George stood and poked Hermione in the shoulder. “He’s right, you know. In all my years on the Quidditch team, I never got Katie to go out to Hogsmeade with me…”

“Or Angelina,” Fred added with a smirk. “Or that Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang…Or the Ravenclaw Keeper, or that one Hufflepuff Beater, or the�”“

George’s ears turned a little red. “Alright already! But you didn’t have any luck with that Hufflepuff broad either.”

“No. But at least I got a date with Angelina!”

“The Yule Ball doesn’t count!”

“Who said it was at the Yule Ball?” Fred said in a whimsical tone.

George strode over to Ron and put an arm around his shoulders. “Hmm. What do you say you and me form a club, little brother? We can call it…. ”

“Blokes too Overly Git-like to Infer the Emotions of the opposite Sex?” Fred offered with a smile.

Hermione thought for a moment. “B.O.G.I.E.S? Bogies? That’s a bit… eccentric, don’t you think?”

“Yeah!” Ron and George said together, dissolving into a fit of laughter.

Fred poked his younger brother. “We can make it some sort of support group! You know, like the one some of the nutters formed after Lockhart was shut up in Mungo’s?”

George turned to Hermione, his eyes twinkling. “It was wicked. Some of the meetings were aired on Wizards’ Wireless network. We all got a laugh. Except for mum…”

Ron stood and made a mock solemnly serious face. Clearing his throat and wringing his hands, he looked at the living room in general, as though it was full of fellow B.O.G.I.E.S members. “Hello. My name is Ronald Billius Weasley and I have been a member of Blokes too Overly Git-like to Infer the Emotions of the opposite Sex for twenty seven and a half seconds.”

“Hi Ron,” The twins chorused morosely, Hermione watching with an expression of mingled disgust and amusement.

“Ronald Weasley!” Ginny said in a game show host-ish voice, holding up a hairbrush to her brother’s mouth. She had been watching from the kitchen doorway for quite a while and had finally joined the group. “Tell your fellow Bogiesmembers how long you have been in need of such a support group.”

Ron was trying, unsuccessfully, to keep a straight face as he took the hairbrush. “Two years…”

Ginny cocked her head to one side, grinning. “And just whose emotions have you failed to infer because you are ‘too overly git-like’?”

As Ron’s ears began to turn pink, George pushed him out of the way and said his introduction. As he went on woefully about all of his failings, shedding convincing tears and sobbing uncontrollably, Fred jumped up from his seat on the couch, slapping his brother on the shoulder. “You know what a group like this needs?”

George, cured of his sorrows, thought for a moment. “You don’t mean--”

“Indeed I do, dear brother!”

“Let’s get to it, then!” George shouted, bouncing with excitement. Two loud banging noises took the place of the Weasley twins as they Apparated to their room on floor above.

Ron turned to face his little sister. “What was all that about?”

“Probably another ‘Wheezes’ product they’re going to test on us…” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Alright. As long as it doesn’t catch fire or do anything like that…” he muttered, ignoring his sister’s giggles. Turning to Hermione, he asked her what she wanted to do now.

“Anything, really. Its been a pretty slow day, don’t you think?” Hermione replied with a smile. “Besides the spontaneous formation of a Bogies union, I mean.”

“If you three are so bored, you can go and de-gnome the garden, if you wish.” Mrs. Weasley offered, peeking her head out from behind the kitchen door.

Ron shook his head. “Tempting, mum. But…I’m sure we can find something else to do…”

“Let me put it this way,” Mrs. Weasley said in a stronger tone. “Go de-gnome the garden.” When Ron hesitated, she flicked her wand and a wooden spoon flew out of the kitchen door and hovered just above his head, twitching in a threatening way.

“Okay! Okay! Don’t shoot, we’re going…” he said, ducking his head as the spoon made a swipe at him. Ron motioned for the girls to follow him, and proceeded to the back door. He sidestepped out the door and into the garden, squinting in the bright afternoon light.

“At least its pleasant weather, hm?” Hermione said, brushing her hands against the trunk of a rather ghastly tree as she followed the towering branches with her eyes. “I wonder how tall this tree is…?”

Ron smiled and sat down in the dirt. “Don’t know its exact height, but it goes to just above my room in the attic.”

“Gnomes!” his mum shouted from the kitchen window, the wooden spoon dancing just above her head.

“We’re getting to it, don’t get your knickers in a twist!” Ron shouted to her, mumbling under his breath about how moody she has been lately. Absentmindedly grabbing a gnome, he turned to Hermione, the little bugger squealing and kicking. “You do know how to de-gnome, right?” he asked.

Hermione nodded. “Well, I’ve read about the techniques. Some of them are positively horrific. But the way we can do it here…some simple geometry should be the most work we’ll ha--”

“Slow down. De-gnoming is a simple process, Hermione. We do not need any jeomitree or however you say it. All you need to do," Ron walked over to the low stone wall surrounding the garden, “is hold onto them tight, ” he held out his arms to Hermione, showing her the grip he had on the gnome, “and spin…spin…spin…” Ron twirled on the spot several times, rocking back and forth like a broken sneak-o-scope. After several seconds of spinning manically, his grip on the gnome’s legs loosened and the pest flew from his hands and over the wall, landing a few yards on the other side. Ron fell to the ground in a heap, laughing as several Ginnys and Hermiones spun around him. “Then let them go! Got it…?”

Smiling, Hermione pulled Ron to his feet. “I think I see how it’s done. So I…” She strode over to a bush and plunged her arm into its branches, pulling it out seconds later with a gnome dangling from her grasp. “Hold it tight, right?”

“No. Well, yes. But not like that. Both hands, Hermione.” Ron corrected her.

Hermione placed both of her hands around the gnome’s waist. “Better?”

“A little. Here.” Ron moved behind her and placed his hands on top of hers. He lifted her left hand and placed it on the gnome’s leg, squeezing her hand so that it closed around the kicking limb. “What’s so funny?” he asked Ginny after repeating the process with Hermione’s right hand.

“Nothing. Nothing,” Ginny assured, hiding her giggles unsuccessfully behind her hand.

“Right. Well…” he lifted his hands from Hermione’s and stepped back towards his sister. “Now, you are ready to compete in the noble sport of GNOME CHUCKING!”

With a sigh Hermione walked over to the low wall and began to spin. Ron watched as her bushy hair turned into one large mass of brown swirling in the wind. He felt something jab him in the ribs and looked down to see his sister smiling at him. “What?” he hissed, keeping an eye on Hermione’s slowly spinning frame.


“You made Hermione blush, you know,” she said with a smile

Ron shook his head. “And? You know how Hermione gets when she doesn’t understand something the first time around.”

His sister shrugged. “A hopeless case. Truly a hopeless case…”

Ron furrowed his brow at his sister’s words; he was starting to get the sense that a couple of people in the house knew something he did not. He snapped out of his thoughtful daze as the telltale squeal of a flying gnome reached his ears, closely followed by a thump that meant Hermione had fallen. Blinking, Ron extended his hand to pull her up. “You know, falling isn’t necessary in the art of gnome chucking.”

“Really?” Hermione replied, brushing off her robes. “So I don’t get any bonus points?”

“No, afraid not. Those can only be found on a Charms exam.” He leaned forwards against the stone wall, scanning the plane before him. “Where’d the little bugger go, anyway?”

Ginny laughed and pointed at the tree Hermione had inquired about earlier. “There he is. See those two little legs kicking, just above your window, Ron?”

“Oh yeah!” he said, dissolving into laughter. “Well, Hermione, you get negative forty-seven points for distance, but I’ll give you fifty for height.”

Hermione shrugged. “I could have done better if you had let me use geometry.”

“I suppose jemtree is something you learn in a Muggle school, right?” Ron asked, butchering the word once more.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, but I find that some of the professors incorporate some simple geometry into their lessons, especially McGonagall. And Flitwick.”

Ginny smiled devilishly. “Ah, see. That’s the problem. Ron, how do you obtain the information from those classes?”

“He copies my notes…” Hermione answered for him, her smile suggesting she knew where Ginny was going with her query.

“My point exactly. Ron doesn’t pay attention, therefore he would not spot the geometry in the lessons, therefore he does not understand the word and its meaning or uses. But then, what else is new?”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!” George shouted as Ron caught Ginny in a headlock.

“There are too many witnesses, mate. Kill her later; when no one’s watching.” The twins strode out of the back door, arm in arm and looking quite pleased with themselves.

“What’s in the bag?” Hermione asked, drawing Ron’s attention to the small drawstring bag strewn over George’s shoulder. He allowed himself a moment’s time to dwell on how blissfully observant Hermione was, and then another to wonder why on earth he had used the word blissfully and whether it might have anything to do with his little tin box upstairs, before actually listening to George’s explanation.

“They’re for Bogies.”

Ron furrowed his brow. “What? Oh. You mean…”

“Yup!” Fred exclaimed, holding up a pin the size of a flattened Galleon. George pinned one to his shirt, and then tossed one to Ron. The pin looked transparent, and felt fairly smooth. The acronym B.O.G.I.E.S glittered in the sunlight.

“Go on, pin it to your robes then!” George encouraged, smiling.

Ron did as he was told, pinning it to his chest. The pin immediately changed color to match his robes, and the letters began to glow, blinking frantically between the ‘Blokes too Overly Git-like to Infer the Emotions of the opposite Sex’ and ‘Bogies Rock’. “Wicked…”

“And that’s not all they do. Sure, they’ll change color to match what you’re wearing at the time, but they’re also equipped with ownership memory,” asserted Fred.

“Ownership memory?”

“I’ll show you!” George removed his pin, dropped it on the ground, and walked a few steps away. A couple seconds later, the pin shuddered and, with a tiny popping noise, appeared on George’s chest again. “See?”

Ron put his chin in his hands. “Great. So, I’ll be stuck wearing this stupid thing for the rest of my life? I wish you would have told me this before I pinned it on…”

“Well, you might be stuck with it all your life,” Fred said with a smile. “But they’re…well, I guess programmed is the correct word…They’re programmed only to come off when the owner is no longer eligible to be a member of Bogies!”

“Which means that once we are no longer Blokes that are too Overly Git-like to Infer the Emotions of the opposite Sex, these things’ll come off and stay off!”

Hermione bit her lower lip. “Fred…George. Do you know what you’ve just done?”

The twins looked at each other, and then back at Hermione. “No.”

“You two have created some sort of transposing pigmentation spell merged with a hybrid analysis protean charm!” she said breathlessly.

“Oh. Yeah…right. Sure.” Fred said, rolling his eyes. “We’ve been working on a modifiable version for the shop, and thought we’d tinker with making a few for B.O.G.I.E.S…”

George shrugged. “So, you guys want help de-gnoming?”



“Lemonade, kids?” Mrs. Weasley called from outside the backdoor about an hour later, a tray of drinks floating before her.

Taking a glass, Ginny looked at her mother seriously. “You can’t really call the twins ‘kids’ anymore. They’re business men, now. Inventors,” she said, poking the pin on Ron’s chest.

Ron snorted, lemonade spewing from his nose. “Business men? Hardly.”

“You have to admit Ron, they are becoming flourishing entrepreneurs,” Hermione said, passing him a napkin.

“Why thank you, young Hermione!” Fred exclaimed with a bow.

George dabbed his eyes with the collar of his robes. “Oh, stop. You’re making me blush…”

“I don’t doubt they’re entrepreneurs, Hermione.” Ron said, watching the twins blow bubbles in their drinks. “But Men?”

“Ah. I see,” Hermione said with a smile.

Ginny laughed and pointed to the lemonade dripping down his chin. “You shouldn’t be one to talk, Ron.”

With a shake of her head, Mrs. Weasley pulled a scroll out of her apron. “Hermione, dear. This came for you a minute ago.” She thrust the letter into Hermione’s outstretched hand. “There you go. Well, supper is in an hour, dears. Are you finished with the garden?”

“Yes,” Ron said as he placed his glass back on the tray, eyeing the letter that Hermione was tucking into her robes. The letter that was from Krum. The letter that had to be from Krum. The letter setting the date and time he would come and whisk Hermione away from the Burrow to some Bulgarian castle in the sky…

“Ahem…Ron? Ron!”

“Huh? What? What’s wrong?” he blubbered, looking to his mother and turning red because he had just realized that he had been staring at Hermione’s pocket.

Mrs. Weasley looked at her son nervously, and caught his eye as if to warn him about something or another. “Okay. Well, come on back in, then. Ginny, can you hel--” She was interrupted by the telltale noise of her husband apparating into the kitchen. The tray fell to the ground with the sound of shattering glass and she practically ran into the kitchen, pausing only to shut the door.

Fred repaired the glasses with a flick of his wand while George levitated them back onto the tray, and then the twins turned to head back into the kitchen. “Hey. It won’t open,” said Fred, jiggling the handle.

“Mum!” George shouted through the door. “It’s locked! Argh. Alohomora! ALO! HO! MORA!”

Ginny peered over George’s shoulder through the window in the door. “ Hmm. The door’s locked and dad’s home before supper. Guess that means we have to go around the front and stay out of their way…”

Hermione turned to Ron. “Your father’s home early; I hope it’s nothing serious…”

“Nah. I bet its just something about Percy,” he muttered, not really believing what he said. “Well, let’s go around, then…”

“You can, little brother. We’re taking the short way. George?”

“Sure, sure! Later, kiddies!” Two more popping noises and the twins disappeared into thin air, leaving Ginny, Ron, and Hermione to their own accords.


They tramped around to the front of the house, dodging chickens and straying far away from the flesh-eating slugs that had taken over a small portion of a wild mandrake patch. Upon Hermione’s questioning, the three decided that, at one point or another this summer, the odd buzzing noise coming from the old outhouse would have to be investigated. When they walked through the front door, Mr. And Mrs. Weasley were still conversing frantically in the kitchen.

“I think I’ll go and…um,” Hermione pulled the letter from her pocket, “read this…” She walked into the den and sat down on the old couch, unrolled the scroll, and disappeared behind the crinkled, off white parchment.

Ginny patted her brother on the shoulder for reasons unbeknownst to him, and ran up the stairs to her room to do who knows what. Ron followed her upstairs with his eyes, and was about to go and try to read Hermione’s letter when his mother’s voice began to rise.

“…strang? They’re only children, Arthur!”

“But�”you have to understand, Molly!” His voice was shaking, whether from fear of whatever they were talking about, or fear of his wife, Ron didn’t know. “Their old Headmaster, Kark--”

Mrs. Wealsey’s voice had dropped, so Ron had crept to the edge of the door to hear his parents. “I understand perfectly well�”But the children of Dur--”

“You need to calm down. It cannot be goo--”

“I don’t care!” Mrs. Weasley huffed, her face turning an odd shade between blue and green.

Mr.Weasley tried to take his wife’s hand. “You really must keep quiet, dear…They were being taught Dark Arts. It’s only expected that He-Who-Mu-”

“I refuse to believe that children from Durmstrang are being recruited to become Death Eaters, Arthur!”

“You’re bloody joking!” Ron gasped before he could stop himself, shooting up from his crouching position, only to slam his head on the doorknob and fall down again.

Mr.Weasley paused midway through his next sentence and turned to face the kitchen door. “What…? Molly, did you hear…?”

“No,” she said furiously. “But I saw something. Ronald!”

Still crouching behind the kitchen door, he turned the knob and crawled in, trying and failing to look innocent. “Yes, mum?”

“What were you doing outside the door?” she asked with the air that suggested she knew exactlywhat he had been doing.

Ron stood and willed his ears not to turn red. “I wasn’t outside the, erm…I lost my…I wasn’t listening!” A voice inside his head that sounded eerily like Hermione hissed, tactless!

Mr.Weasley lifted himself from his chair to tower over his son. “This is not the time for funny business! What you may or may not have heard is strictly confidential Order business, Ronald. If word gets out, chaos will ensue. You are not to repeat ANYTHING. Do you understand?”

“But, I--”

“Do you understand me? You are not to repeat anything. To anyone. Got it?”

“Yes, sir…”

“Word. Give me your word, Ronald.”

“W-word?”

“I have no clue how much you’ve heard, Ron. And I’m not about to risk revealing Order affairs. Give me your word that what you heard outside that door will never leave your lips. Promise me, Ron.”

“I, erm…I promise; not a…not a word!” Ron could not remember ever being so terrified of his father. He could not remember his father ever being so angry, or looking so furious; he had always been the soft parent, the one that would ask if your trip to Surrey in his flying car went well. It might have been more tolerable if his mother was yelling at him, rather than his father.


“Go,” he hissed, sitting back down in his chair and putting his head in his hands.

Ron nodded dumbly and stumbled out of the kitchen without looking back. The hem of his robes got caught in the door after his mother slammed it, but rather than risking another horrific row with his father, Ron ripped his robes free of the door and continued to the den at top speed.

Tears in her eyes now, Molly turned to face her exasperated husband. A thin frown formed on Mr. Weasley’s lips as his wife wrapped her arms around him. “Its times like this, Molly. Times when the boys complicate things so very much, that make me grateful to have a girl…” he mumbled into his wife’s shoulder as he watched a tray of empty glasses floating outside the backdoor.

Ron collapsed into an old armchair, breathing heavily. Durmstrang? Death Eaters? His father was right; it was to be expected for a school who’s old Headmaster taught his pupils Dark Arts to be a prime recruiting spot for Voldemort and his Death Eaters. But then, his mother was right; Children? He did not think Voldemort would stoop so low as to hire kids to be his bodyguards. But then, what if it wasn’t the students he was recruiting, but the graduates…

“Ron?” Hermione asked, her chocolate eyes peering from behind the letter in her hands.

He looked up from his knees. “Yeah?”

“Are you alright?” She set the letter down on her lap and looked at him wearily.

“Oh. Yes, fine.” Ron replied with a thin smile, sitting up straighter.

Hermione nodded. “Are you sure? You look a little….”

“Yup. Just spiffy.” Ron said. He stood up and walked over to Hermione, sitting next to her on the couch. The urge to explain to her what he had heard was overwhelming, but he had promised his father; the prospect of facing his father again because he had broken his promise… “So. How’s Vicky?” he asked in a determinedly casual tone.

Hermione looked as if she was trying to contain a scowl. “I don’t know. This,” she held up the letter, “isn’t from Viktor. It’s from my mother.” Ron’s mood lightened considerably at those words. “However…” she pointed to a thick scroll on the end table next to her. “That one is from Viktor.”

“I should have known,” Ron said with a weak smile, looking at the scroll. His eyes widened as he recounted their fourth year at Hogwarts. Viktor had come from Durmstrang to compete. Durmstrang. He had even used foul play to get his way. But…didn’t someone say he was under the Imperius curse…? He had gone to Durmstrang. He had been taught the Dark Arts. He could just have easily used the Arts on his own accord. There was no getting rid of something you knew, was there?

Why was he worrying? What was there to be worried about; Hermione and Krum were just pen pals, nothing more. No physical presence involved. Hermione was not in any danger conversing with a Durmstrang graduate that may or my not be a Death Eater anyway. “Go on, then! Read it, what’re you waiting for…?”

“What makes you think I was waiting at all?” Hermione said with false indignation. “The owl just came a few minutes ago. I had to finish reading the one from my mum�”I have my priorities, you know.” With a smile she set her mother’s letter aside, picked up the letter from Viktor, and disappeared behind it.

Ron watched as her eyes sped from left to right and back again, all down the length of the parchment, the sunlight light danced in her chocolate colored irises, causing them to sparkle in a way he had never noticed before. Captivated by their brilliance, he jerked back to reality at Hermione’s brisk gasp. “What? What is the matter?”

Hermione looked up from the letter, beaming. “Viktor’s going to be in Hogsmeade this Saturday, and he’s asked to meet me at the Three Broomsticks!”

Something hot boiled inside his stomach so that his fists clenched and his ears turned red. Ron chewed the inside of his cheek as some sort of something clawed at the lining of his stomach. They’re going on a…date…?

“Ron…?”

He became aware that Hermione’s hand was on his shoulder and the clawing slowed a bit. “Hm? Oh! Viktor’s in town? Well, tomorrow’s Saturday, so….I guess you ought to go and uh, plan your day. What you’re going to wear, what you’re going to do …” Ron smiled weakly at her and stood, stretching lazily.

Hermione furrowed her brow. “What is that suppose to mean? We’re just meeting as old friends, you know. See?” She shoved the letter under Ron’s nose, pointing to one of the last sentences.

His scowl beginning to diminish, Ron read the thick, chunky letters Hermione was indicating aloud. “‘Oh, and I ‘ave some news that I hope vill be making you smile. This Saturday I vill be in ze town of ‘Ogsmade--”

“Stop with the accent!” Hermione said, slapping him on the arm.

Ron shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t help it… ‘ze town of ‘Ogsmade. I vas hopink that you could meet me at ze Three Broomsticks; I zink it is important for friends to be seeink each ozer time and again, yes? I await your reply excitedly. Now, back to ze matter of R--’”

“Okay, you can stop reading! I’ve proved my point!” Hermione said hastily, tugging the parchment out of his hands as Ron began another sentence.

For a moment, she just looked at him. The expression on her face was unreadable, the silence awkward. “What?” he said at last, waving his hand in front of Hermione’s face.

Hermione hesitated, then rolled up the letter. “I just…expected you to…Nevermind.”

“Expected me to be angry you’re meeting Krum? Expected me to start a row with you?” Ron suggested, a smile twitching in the corners of his mouth.

Hermione nodded guiltily. “Actually, yes… Don’t’ get me wrong, I mean…you two didn’t exactly get along the last time you met. Autograph or not…” She cocked her head and smiled in a slightly confused fashion. “How did you…?”

“There’s the ol’ womens’ intuition again…” Ron replied, dodging the moth-eaten pillow Hermione had thrown at his head.

“Hey! Who chucked the pillow?” Ginny asked, catching the cushion before it hit her face.

Hermione gave a feeble little wave. “Sorry, Gin. I was aiming at Ron, but I guess his women’s intuition told him to duck…”

Ginny cocked an eyebrow. “Okay…” Shaking her head, Ginny walked around to the back of the sofa, smacked her brother on the head with the pillow, and read the letter over Hermione’s shoulder. “Wow. So, are you going to meet him tomorrow, then?” she asked after a while.

Ron had been gawking at his sister all the while she was reading the letter over Hermione’s shoulder. “W-wait a minute. Let me get this straight--”

“Yes. We were just discussing the matter.” Hermione replied, ignoring Ron’s blabbering.

“Ginny can read the letter, but--”he stuttered before he was interrupted again. Ginny pushed him towards the other end of the couch and sat in his former spot.

“Is that where Ron’s womens’ intuition comes in?” she asked with a smirk.

Hermione laughed, nodding. “Yes, I guess it is.”

Ron stared in confusion as his sister turned to face him. “Hey, you’ve got womens’ intuition? Guess that means you’re not a bogies member anymore, eh?” she said, reaching over to peel the pendant off her brother’s chest. Ron watched as the pin quivered in his sister’s hands; he felt it reappear on his robes before he even realized Ginny’s hand was empty.

“No. Guess not…” he said with a frown, touching the pin on his chest.

Ginny put her head on Ron’s shoulder. “Aw, don’t worry Ronnickens. I’m sure you’ll get over your git-ness one day….”

“Hmm. Thanks, Gin. I can feel my self-esteem returning already…” Ron scoffed, pushing her off his shoulder. “But back to other matters; how come Ginny can read your letter, but I can’t?”

“Because, I like her best!” Hermione exclaimed with a smirk.

“Ha ha, very funny. Lemme see it,” he replied, snatching at the letter.

“Come off it, Ron!” Ginny shouted, pushing his hand away and slamming him on the head with a pillow.

“Oy,” he whined, rubbing his head. As he made another grab at the letter, Ginny released the pillow and instead smacked him in the face with the palm of her hand. “I’ve had enough abuse for today. I’ll just leave you two to talk about girly things. I’m going to….” Ron smirked and cocked his head, twirling a lock of ginger hair around his finger. “Figure out what I’m going to do with my hair for my date with Vicky tomorrow!” With a final high-pitched squeal, Ron dodged out of the den and ran up the stairs, far away from the flying pillows and couch cushions.

On the outside, he was climbing up the stairs one at a time, smiling as he listened to Ginny and Hermione laughing a few walls away. But inside, Ron was far from laughing; he didn’t know what was worse; Hermione being alone with a former Durmstrang student, or Hermione being alone with Viktor Krum.

And then it hit him:

“What if Hermione doesn’t have to be alone with either of them?”

“And just how do you plan on being there with her, Ronnickens?” Fred asked, peeking out of the bathroom door.

George nodded vigorously over his twin’s shoulder. “Oh yes! Do tell!”

A smile formed on his freckled face as the plan formulated within in mind’s eye, and Ron walked straight past his brothers, ignoring the antagonistic shrieks emitting from their mouths. It was perfect timing to do it, and the setup could not have been better; it would be a day of progress…. Closing his bedroom door behind him, Ron made a mental note to thank Viktor at one point or another.


The next morning, Ron awoke, not to the sound of his mother banging on his bedroom door, but to the echoing screams of a dream world Hermione being cursed by a hooded Quidditch player. He sat pin-straight in his bed, wide-awake. A glance out his window at the red-orange sky told him just how early it was; the sun was barely above the horizon. Ron kicked his legs over the side of his bed and stood, stretching lazily. Yawning widely, he changed into his robes, sighing with contempt as the pin appeared on his chest; the background matching his robes seamlessly, and the letters contrasting perfectly.

He carefully crept down the stairs, visions of the day’s coming events playing in his mind’s eye. Ron kept his hand in his robe pocket, partly to keep the rattling of coins from waking his family, but mostly to feel the surface of the cool metal on the tips of his fingers. He had never been awake before everybody before, and the feeling was ominous. The house was quiet; he could not remember a time in his life where everything was still and peaceful within the Weasley household...

Correction, the entire house was not quiet. As Ron passed the bathroom, he distinctly heard somebody behind the door; and the noises were not pleasant. Furrowing his brow, Ron pressed his ear against the door and knocked lightly. “Hello?”

“Bill?” The door swung open with such swiftness that Ron had nearly stumbled forward. “Ron! What are you doing up?” Mrs. Weasley asked, looking harassed; the curlers in her hair were lying pell-mell atop her head and her bathrobe was on backwards.

Ron studied his mother scrupulously. “What the bloody hell happened to you?”

A blush rising in her cheeks, Mrs. Weasley turned and rummaged around the bathroom sink. When she turned back to Ron, she held a lavender shower cap in her trembling hand. “Fred and George…”

Ron smiled knowingly. “Ah. Well, at least it didn’t catch fire this time, eh?”

“Yes, yes. Well, head on downstairs to the kitchen. I will meet you in a moment. Just let me change, and then I’ll get to work on breakfast.”

Twenty minutes and eleven muffins later, Mrs. Weasley skittered into the kitchen with a thin smile on her face. “You never answered my question,” she said, placing a skillet on the stove and pouring pancake batter onto it from the tip of her wand.

Ron took a moment to answer, allowing the aroma of the sweet batter to fill him up. “Why I’m up so early?”

“Yes. For all the sixteen years I’ve known you, Ron, not once have you been awake before your father or myself.” She paused for a moment with glassy look in her eyes, breaking out of her dream-like trance with a sigh. “Even as a baby you’d sleep from dusk until dawn….” his mother replied airily.

Ron snorted at his mother’s tone and shrugged. “Dunno. Bad dream, I guess. Nothing really.”

“Morning, Molly!” Mr.Weasley said brightly, striding into kitchen. He kissed his wife on the forehead. “How’re you feeling? Any better?”

Mrs. Weasley smiled pointedly and cocked her head, summoning a platter from the cupboard. “What do you mean, Arthur? I’m fine! Did you say good morning to your son?”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Bill’s here?”

“G’morning, dad!” Ron said cheerfully. His brows furrowed in amused confusion; surely his voice hadn’t deepened so much over the summer that his own family would mistake it for that of his much older brother.

“Ron? Well, you’re up curiously early!” he replied, turning on his heel and smiling at his son. Taking a cup of tea from his wife and downing it in one swig, Mr.Weasley bid goodbye to his wife and son, and apparated to the Ministry.

After secretly stuffing another muffin into his mouth, Ron turned to his mother. “What did dad mean ‘How’re you feeling?’ I didn’t know you were feeling bad at all.”

Mrs. Weasley smiled and shook her head, placing the platter of pancakes on the table. “Nevermind, dear. Don’t worry. I’m perfectly fine…No!” she finished, slapping Ron’s hand away from the pancakes.

“Oy…! Fine. If I can’t eat yet, what can I do?” he asked, taking another bite of muffin while his mother’s back was turned.

“Go to the fridge, and pull out the milk, orange juice, and marmalade.”

With a longing sigh towards the platter, Ron stood and strode lazily to the battered refrigerator. Retrieving the items his mother had instructed, along with a few other, pocket-sized things she hadn’t, he stumbled back to the table and placed the pitchers and the marmalade on the table. “There! Is that it?”

“I suppose…” Mrs. Weasley replied as she levitated several sausage links onto the large plate next to the pancakes.

“So…when do we eat?” he asked, stuffing a jellyroll into his mouth.

Molly tapped the skillet with her wand and the bacon began to sizzle. “As soon as everybody gets up. But, today’s breakfast will be considerably soon, seeing as you are already awake and dressed.”

“Who’s awake and dressed already, Mrs. Weasley?” Hermione asked as she stepped through the kitchen door, brushing her hair.

“My son,” Mrs. Weasley said with a smile.

“Really? So, Bill’s here?”

“Why does everybody think I’m Bill?” Ron cried in mock despair.

Hermione turned on her heel to face the kitchen table, catching Ron’s eye. “Oh! I’m sorry, Ron. I just…didn’t expect you to be up so early…” she said, tucking a loose strand of bushy hair behind her ear.

“Apparently neither did anyone else…” he mumbled. “Why are you up so early, then? Excited about your date with Vicky?”

Hermione shook her head and, unless Ron was mistaken, looked a little hurt. “No. I’m always awake about now….And it’s not a date, Ron. We’re just meeting as friends.”

Mrs. Weasley shot her Ron a warning look, having apparently caught Hermione’s tone and knowing, since Ron was his father’s son, that he probably hadn’t. She turned her gaze back to the bacon. “You’re meeting an old friend, Hermione? Who, if you don’t mind my asking? I’m afraid the name Vicky doesn’t ring a bell…”

Hermione sat next to Ron. “It shouldn’t, seeing as nobody but Ronald calls him that. I’m just going to meet Viktor at the Three Broomsticks a bit later.”

Ron scowled at the platter of pancakes, imagining he saw Viktor staring out at him from the doughy depths. As he felt his ears grow red, Ron slipped his hand into his robe pocket to touch the little slip of paper; Vicky didn’t stand a chance.

“Oh. ThatVicky. Well, have fun with that, dear. What time is it, I wonder…?” Mrs. Weasley replied, carrying the plate of bacon to the table.

Ron looked at his watch, using the moment to hastily swallow the biscuit he had placed into his mouth seconds before. “Half past eight…”

“The twins should be down any min--”

“Already here, mum!” George said, taking his seat at the table.

“On time, as usual!” Fred exclaimed, sitting next to George.

“Unlike someone we know…”

Mrs. Weasley smiled. “Good morning, boys. Hermione? Is Ginny up yet?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. She--”

“Is right here!” Ginny said, bounding through the door and practically sliding into her chair.

“Alright! Everybody’s here; tuck in!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed before turning to rummage in the fridge.

“Everybody?” the twins said together.

Ginny looked at her mother, confused. “Is Charlie here?”

“Well, at least it wasn’t Bill…” Hermione said out of the corner of her mouth, smiling at Ron.

Ron laughed despite himself. “Enough talk; I’ve been staring at this food for nearly an hour, let’s just eat already!” Ron grabbed his fork and piled several Vicky shaped pancakes onto his plate. Stabbing and cutting them murderously with his knife, he found a certain pleasure in mutilating the breakfast cakes, and then suffocating them under an ocean of maple syrup. As he scooped some of the sausages onto his plate, Ron caught sight of his mother searching in the pantry. “What’re you looking for, mum?”

“Pickles…” she replied distractedly.

“Huh?” he asked through a mouthful of bacon.

Mrs. Weasley straightened up. “Hmm? Nothing. I was looking for some pickles, that’s all. I saw this delicious looking recipe in Witch Weekly last night, and I wanted to try it. But…we’re out of pickles, so…” she trailed off and took her seat at the table.



“Well, thanks for breakfast, mum!” Fred said thirty minutes later, standing up.

George stood as well. “Off to the office.”

“It’s a bit early, isn’t it” Ron asked.

Ginny shook her head. “No. They usually leave around nine on Saturdays.”

“It’s our busiest day of the week!” the twins exclaimed in unison before apparating to their joke shop.

Ron stuffed one last piece of bacon into his mouth and stood as well, stretching lazily. “If Hogsmeade is busiest on Saturdays, then I better get going. You, too, Hermione.”

Hermione picked up her plate, and then Ron’s. “Why…?” she asked, circling around the other side of the table to clear the twins’ plates.

“You have to meet Viktor, don’t you?”

Mrs. Weasley took the plates from Hermione. “I think she’s asking why you have to run off to Hogsmeade, Ron.”

“Precisely.” Hermione added, nodding.

Ron shrugged. “It’s not a crime to do a little window shopping, is it?”

“Quite a coincidence you would choose today to do it. You aren’t going to make a complete prat of yourself in front of Viktor, are you?” Hermione asked in a pleading tone.

“No. Who said I was going to be anywhere near the toerag, anyway?” Ron said, raising his voice a bit more than he meant to.

“He is not a toerag!” Hermione heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’m not going to get into a row with you over this, Ron. It’s ridiculous!”

“Run along Hermione, I’ll take care of him,” Mrs. Weasley said, shooing her towards the fireplace. With a smiled ‘thank you’, Hermione disappeared in a whirlwind of green flame. Mrs. Weasley rounded on her son. “You are not going there to make a fool of yourself, are you?” she questioned in a tone that suggested it was more of a demand.

Ron shook his head. “No, I was just going to Hogsmeade to window shop, I’ve said that.”

“And you are not going to make a fool out of anyone else?” his mother asked pointedly. “No matter what you think of them?”

Ron’s eyes flashed. “No. I am not planning to make a fool out of Krum,” he scratched his left arm and caught his mother’s eye. “No matter what I think of him,” he finished, giving his arm a final, merciless itch.

Mrs. Weasley nodded slowly. “Alright. Good boy. Off you go, then.”

Ron padded over to the fireplace, took and handful of Floo powder, and stepped under the mantle. “Hogsmeade!” he shouted, and disappeared in a gust of emerald fire.

“We ought to pick up something at the Apothecary for his itch, mum. Could be a rash from something he touched in the garden yesterday…” Ginny said, taking a sip of her orange juice.

Mrs. Weasley shook her head in a distracted sort of way. “No, no…I think he’ll be fine…”

Ron stumbled out of a fireplace in a back room of the Three Broomsticks. Brushing soot off his olive green robes and sneezing a few times, he checked his pockets for his wand, his money, and the little scrap of paper. Satisfied, he opened the beat up door and stepped into the bright, cozy atmosphere of the pub. Nobody seemed to notice his arrival; the people of the pub were too engrossed in their conversations and early morning butter beers. Striding casually between the tables, Ron pretended not to notice Hermione sitting at a table in the corner, reading the front page of the Daily Prophet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her glance towards him, but Ron kept his gaze planted on the door and his hands in his pockets.

He stepped out of the pub and into the morning sunlight, blinking in the daze. Ron took a few steps to the side and pulled the shred of paper out of his pocket. As he strolled down the cobbled street, he examined the paper closely, trying to determine the address of the store he was looking for. “Hmm. I’ve never heard of that place bef�”Oy! Sorry. Sorry!” he stuttered from his spot on the ground.

“It is alright,” said the man who Ron had run into. He reached down to help Ron up. “It is being my fault. I vas not paying attention.”

Ron grasped the man’s hand and pulled himself up. “Don’t worry about it, mate.” Vas…? Bleeding hell. “Viktor?”

“Ronald?” Viktor replied. “Oh, forgive me. I did not recognize you; you must have grown since we were last meeting, yes? And your robes…zey look less offensive, less… peasant-like. Are zey new…?”

“Yes. They are….” Ron said awkwardly, resisting the urge to stomp on the Bulgarian’s duck-like foot.

Viktor paused to examine the pin on Ron’s chest. A crooked grin formed on his face. “I like your pin. I think it is suiting you very well; I ‘ave always been thinking of you as a booger.”

Ron’s fists clenched. “And I have always been thinking of you as a pile of homely, putrid slime,” he muttered under his breath.

“Sorry?” Krum replied, his smile fading.

“Oh, I said…Hermione hasn’t seen you in a while so, uh…show her a good time.” Ron smiled, and punched Krum lightly on his upper arm.

Viktor nodded moodily, rubbing the spot Ron had hit him. “Yes, I vill. But, one more thing I must be asking you is if Hermy-own-ninny is ze reason for ze pin on you robes?”

Ron scowled, his temper running short. “That isn’t your business, Viktor,” he hissed.

“I vas just asking, do not take a simple question for something more than what it is, although from what I am hearing the opposite is seeming to be your failing….” Viktor replied, smoothing his robes.

“What the bloody hell is that suppose to mean?” Ron asked, his tone a bit more challenging than he had meant it to be.

The Bulgarian seemed troubled and awkward as he pulled back the sleeve of his robes to check his watch. “I must be going now, Hermy-own-ninny must be worried; I should have been in ze pub several minutes ago…” With that, Viktor turned on his heel less than gracefully and hobbled into the pub.

Ron waited a few seconds and then turned back to the door of the Three Broomsticks, peering through the window. He saw the back of Krum’s robes disappear towards the corner where Hermione’s table was hidden. He felt that clawing start in his guts again, felt that something rip and tear at the butterflies fluttering within his stomach. A panicked blush rose in his cheeks as Hermione caught his eye over Viktor’s shoulder, the glare that twinkled in her eyes more than enough warning even for an empathetically inept B.O.G.I.E.S member such as himself. With a sigh, he turned back down the cobbled road in a random direction. “Phht. Some friend; can’t even pronounce her name,” he muttered, staring in the shop windows as he passed them. “Bloke was late to his own appointment… ‘I must be going now, Hermy-own-ninny must be worried.’ How thick can you get…?”

He had wasted most of his morning wandering the alleys and paths of Hogsmeade, muttering insults under his breath. There had been a few instances where he spotted Hermione and Viktor coming around a corner. At those times, he had improvised his path so as not to run into them, but he always kept an eye on the couple when he had the chance. Even so, the chances were few, and when opportunity arrived, he was unwilling to linger in the couple’s presence very long, for fear of that blasphemous glare. No matter how hard he tried, that was the only way Ron could describe to two of them: a couple. Hermione’s voice kept yelling at him, “We’re just friends!”, but every time he saw them round a corner, Ron could not help but wonder. By now he had forgotten the second reason he had followed Hermione here, and was focusing on the fact that Hermione was alone with a rich scumbag, rather than his suspicion that the bloke might have been a Death Eater.

After a while, he found the little shop he had been looking for. It was a quaint little store he had never seen before, or if he had, the immense amount of pink had driven him away, but it looked promising enough. When he opened the door, bells chimed and a plump little witch scurried out from behind the counter. She was so short that Ron might not have seen her had she not been wearing bright pink robes that clashed horribly with the lemon-colored earrings she was wearing.

“Hello, deary. How may I help you? My name is Elma,” she squeaked, craning her neck to look Ron in the eye.

Ron smiled. He made to bend his knees to speak to the woman better. “Hullo. I was wondering…do you, er…here,” he stuttered, pulling the little slip from his pocket and handing it to the woman. “Do you still have this…? If you don’t that’s fine, I’m sure I could find something else…. But I really hope you do, but if not that’s fine, too…” Ron trailed off, his ears growing red.

Elma reached up and snatched the slip from Ron’s hand cheerfully, seemingly unaware of the boy’s painfully awkward blathering. She lifted the pair of zebra print glasses that were hanging around her neck to eye level. Her beady blue eyes scanned the paper and she smiled, handing it back to Ron. “Sure do, sonny! Shall I fetch one for you?”

Ron nodded, his eyes flashing for a moment of brief elation. “Yes, ma’am. But, uh …in the article it said you could--”

“Engrave something on it? Certainly. But that article aired years ago, I’m surprised you remember…” The woman squinted up at Ron, her eyes resting on the flashing B.O.G.I.E.S pin. She paused to read the words, causing the blush in Ron’s cheeks to darken. After a moment, comprehension dawned on her pudgy little face. “I bet she’s real special, isn’t she?” Elma said with a wink before waddling behind the counter and through a flowery curtain.

Ron nodded nervously. As the woman disappeared behind the curtain, he turned to examine the other wares in the store. Glass cases lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and Ron couldn’t help but assume that Elma had had some help, whether manual or magical, in setting up some of the higher spectacles. Crystal unicorns pranced and bucked joyfully in one of the displays, while diamond dragons blew frost against their glass cases. In one of the particularly high exhibits, opalescent merpeople moved through the air as if in an ocean crystal. He was examining a silver, jewel encrusted hand mirror that greatly distorted his features when Elma appeared at his sleeve.

“This is what you wanted, I believe?” she asked, holding a small, dark box out to him. Ron took the box and opened it, revealing a small, heart-shaped pendant. The locket’s clouded silver color shone bright against the dark background of the box. “Hmm. I’ll take that grin as a yes!” Elma said with a chortle.

Ron laughed awkwardly. “Yes. So, I owe you eleven galleons, right?” he asked, handing the box back to the woman. He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out his money.

“Oh, no sir. Not for that silver little trinket,” the squat woman replied.

His pulse quickening, Ron looked down at the woman. “What do you mean?” he asked hastily, his ears turning a deep crimson.

Elma furrowed her heavily plucked brow. “I’m sorry, dear. It has been a long time since these first came out… And the article that snippet you have was a sale advertisement from two years ago….”

“Oh…” Ron said, his spirits falling considerably. “Well…er, thanks anyway,” he said solemnly, dumping the coins back into his pockets. An odd lump had formed in his throat. Why? Why can’t once�”just once!�”everything go right for me. Two and a half years of saving, and what do I get? Hermione on the arm of a prat with a broken nose, that’s what.

The woman tottered over to Ron and patted his elbow. “Buck up, sonny. I’m sure you’ll save up in no time…” she said, smiling sweetly.

“No time? By that time, he’ll have her…” he muttered under his breath. A frown formed on his freckled face as he pondered how long it would take to accumulate a few more galleons, coming to the conclusion it would take too long. Much too long.

Elma’s smile flickered. “Pardon?”

“Oh, sorry. Nothing. Just…well, thanks anyway. Er, have a nice day…” Ron grumbled woefully, stepping towards the door.

The spicy little woman sidestepped in front of him and put her hands on her hips. “Wait a minute, sonny. I know your type…”

Ron stopped dead to avoid stepping on the woman. “My…type?”

“Yes,” Elma said, her eyes flashing behind the zebra print glasses. “ I see it all the time. You’re the type of person who gives up when something stops you from getting what you want, aren’t you? The type of man who’s always ‘one upped’, and who is so used to being let down, he practically trips himself. Let me take a wild guess; she’s out with some other bloke she swears is--”

“Just a friend--”

“--but you swear he thinks otherwise. Correct?” The pause the Elma took was barely long enough for Ron to open his mouth. “Right. And you think he has a better chance than you? Typical. But let me ask you this; is hestanding here, listening to an old woman lecture him about giving up? Is heoffering his life’s savings? I think not. Buck up, sonny, I’ll say it again. Because if you’re so thick as to give her up over a ruddy silver necklace, maybe the bugger is better for her,” she finished, smoothing her robes and turning up her nose.

Ron stared at the woman, at loss for words; he was no stranger to lectures, you couldn’t be when you lived with a mother like his, but to be told off by a stranger who was less than half your size who was wearing bright pink lipstick and a matching boa? “Maybe… maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t let Krum get the best of me�”the best of her. I’ll have Hermione if there’s any chance she’ll have me; it doesn’t matter what I get her�”right…?”

“Right!”

“It’s the reason I got it that she’ll think of…? Hopefully," he added, a fraction of a grin forming on his face. Ron took the coins out of his pocket and held him out to the woman.

Elma smiled, but wiggled her finger in Ron’s face. “You know, if she’s as special as you seem to think she is, the girl won’t care whether you give her a shiny rock you found in your garden or a silver bit of jewelry you bought at a store.”

“I know she wouldn’t. Its just…I have been meaning to get her something worthwhile… and a shiny rock just wouldn’t cut it…” Ron replied, his eyes fogging over for a second or three. “Right, then. What’s the best I can get for thirteen galleons?”

The woman put her hands to her head, seemingly pleasantly shocked. Her fire engine red nails conflicted horribly with her strawberry-blonde curls. “My dear, dear boy! Why did you not say you had a few extra coins? I will tell you what you can get for thirteen galleons!” She smiled jubilantly, and started bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I’ll tell you indeed! Join me at the register.” Elma turned on her heel and scampered behind the counter. Ron followed, and tried not to laugh as the woman climbed a pile of boxes to see over the surface. He leaned against the counter and tried not to look too put out.

“Here it is!” Elma squealed, placing a small, dark box before him on the counter. She lifted the lid to show him the clouded silver locket resting on deep blue velvet. With scrawny fingers she lifted the necklace out of its case and pushed it towards Ron.

“You’re bloody joking?” Ron breathed, trying not to smile too brightly. If the woman was playing with him, it was a sick joke. “That’s the exact same necklace.”

Elma smiled brightly. “Oh, no it’s not. This one does not come with the case�”velvet isn’t cheap, these days. Thirteen galleons, if you please.”

Ron dumped the coins onto the scarlet counter, beaming. He gently picked up the pendant and held it up to the light, wincing as the silver mirrored the light back into his eyes. “Brilliant! ” he gasped, tucking it inside his robe pocket.

Elma clapped her stubby little hands joyfully. “You are ever so welcome, dear. Now, a simple pinpoint dissevering charm should do the trick. Make sure you tune it for fine metals!” She looked over her shoulder and turned hastily back at Ron. “Off you go, now boy. T’was a pleasure to meet a young man such as yourself!”

Ron smiled and turned towards the door, looking over his shoulder to bid her a very, very good day. He felt light as a feather. His luck had turned for once, and although he knew Hermione probably wouldn’t have minded if he had decorated a rock for her instead, it still felt grand to have something to show for himself, and for how he felt. As he opened the door and the bells chimed, Elma’s squeaky voice reached his ears.

“As a matter of interest, what is it that you are planning to carve on the trinket?” she called gleefully.

Ron smiled to himself in thought. “Dunno. Maybe a poem…”

“Really? Lovely idea!”

“Or a teaspoon!” he shouted over his shoulder as he stepped over the threshold.

Elma raised an eyebrow. “A teaspoon…? Such a sweet boy; odd, but perfectly darling.” She shook her head, still smiling.

“What about a teaspoon?” said a tall blonde witch as she stepped from behind the curtain. “We don’t carry any crystal spoons, do we?” she asked, smoothing her emerald robes. “I thought we sold out last Tuesday.”

“Hullo, Grizelda. No, no. We have not received a shipment of spoons…. A charming, redheaded lad just came in here. A teaspoon is what he’s going to carve on the silver necklace I gave him,” Elma answered.

“Gave him? Not again, Elma…?” Grizelda moaned, bringing an overly manicured hand to her forehead.

Elma shrugged. “He was in love! And I could tell the boy didn’t have a lot to his name.”

“And just how do you know what the boy was like? He could have been a heathen! A mooch! One of Mundungus’s cronies, for all you know!” the tall woman exclaimed, her eyes alight with fury.

Elma simply smiled. “The same way I always do. I’m a very good judge of character, you know that.”

Grizelda emitted a skeptical growl. “You do mean you’re an excellent legilmens, I’m sure.”

“If your going to whine over a couple of lost galleons, Grizelda, take it out of my paycheck.”

“A couple!” the woman shouted, looking to the empty velvet box, and then counting the coins in Elma’s hand. “Thirteen galleons. He’s short another four, Elma. If you’re going to give away solid silver merchandise to every love-struck, mediocre toerag that comes in here, you just might find yourself out of work! Maybe those two nincompoops over at that hideous joke store will hire you….”

Elma rolled her eyes and patted the woman on the forearm. “Grizelda, honey. You need a man.”




Once outside the shop, Ron had taken the necklace out of his pocket to examine it. He was now sitting on a bench outside of his brothers’ store, moving the trinket side to side in the sunlight, admiring the smooth, clouded surface. A tiny hinge protruded from the left side, while a groove was cut along a seam on the right. Ron dug his fingernails into the groove and pulled it apart so that the locket opened. Inside was space enough for a small picture to be inserted; in fact, there was a picture in there already. Of course, it was not a picture of anyone one he knew, just the standard example picture one finds inserted into new picture frames and, apparently, lockets. The couple waved at him gleefully, and Ron smiled, imagining that the happy twosome was Hermione and himself. He dug his fingernails under the picture and pried it out of the tiny frame, earning several hisses from its occupants. With a careless flick he had thrown the picture to the sun spotted soil. Sighing with content, Ron tucked the necklace into an inside pocket of his robes and stood.

When he opened the door to his brothers’ shop, bells did not chime. Instead, a rather obnoxious horn blared. Within seconds the twins were upon him.

“Hello, young sir!”

“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, at your service! I’m Forge!”

“And I’m Gred! Just a fair warning; we are not accountable for any injuries, abnormalities, or mental illnesses you may develop during your visit.”

“Enter at your own risk, and a good day to you, too!”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Don’t you think you’re smothering your customers by doing that?”

“Oh,” said Fred with a frown, “it’s only ickle Ronnie.”

“Oy. You here to spy on your love muffin?” George asked with a smirk.

“Love muffin? No…. I just wanted to ask you about shower caps.” Ron said indignantly. “Wait a tick, you mean Hermione and Krum are here?”

“Aha! So you are here to spy.” George shouted, smacking him on the shoulder.

“And she is your love muffin!” Fred exclaimed with a toothy grin.

Ron shook his head. “Actually, no. I couldn’t care less, really. Now, where are those shower caps?”

“We know you’re lying, little brother!” George warned, wagging his finger in Ron’s face.

“Because we don’t carry any shower caps here, of any sort! No singing caps, no biting caps…”

“No caps that catch fire when they get wet!” George exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

Fred turned towards his twin, beaming. “But that does sound like a marvelous idea…”

Ron shrugged. “So you’re still working on them, then?”

Fred shook his head, exasperated, and turned to go tell off a group of young boys for feeding someone’s frog a Canary Cream. George put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Ron, we are not working on any shower caps. At all…”

“YET!” Fred shouted, trying to restrain the squawking amphibian.

“But mum said she was mauled by one this morning in the loo…” Ron stuttered, shrugging off his brother’s arm.

George shook his head. “She lied, then. Unless Ginny’s working on stuff of her own, which I doubt.”

“What do you doubt about me?” Ginny asked, poking her head out from behind a pile of boxes.

“You aren’t making any products on your own, are you?” George asked, relieving his sister of the boxes in her hands.

Ginny shook her head. “No, I don’t even work here…Why?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Ron said with a shake of his head. “What’re you doing here, Ginny?” he asked, just realizing that his sister was here instead of home.

“Oh. Mum’s at Madame Malkins; she told me to come here and see if the twins needed help. So, here I am!” she replied with a smile. “Hermione’s here, you know.”

“You don’t say? She’s with the Hunchback of Notredame, right?” Ron asked, reminding himself of the silver necklace in his robe pocket, attempting to keep something he almost thought might have been jealousy at bay.

Ginny nodded. “I do say. And, yes. Unfortunately.”

“Does she look like she’s having a good time?” Ron asked, trying(and failing) to sound casual.

Ginny nodded again, only this time with a bit of sorrow. “Yeah. George gave him a bite of a Puking Pastille, though; Hermione told Krum not to eat it, but he ‘vas man enough to be taking anything zey threw’ at him. Spent ten minutes trying to convince him to take the antidote piece, we did…”

Ron snorted, his spirits lightened. “Wish I could’ve seen it. Ah well, I will have to thank George later, then. I better get going before Hermione sees me. She’ll think I actually am trying to spy on her…” He turned and opened the door, starting as the horn blared again.

“I think she’ll really like it!” Ginny said as he began to walk out the door. Ron looked over his shoulder, his brow furrowed in a questioning way. “The necklace. I think Hermione’ll really love it.” Ginny assured him, pushing him playfully out the door.


Ron spent the better part of three hours wandering the streets of Hogsmeade, peering in and out of shop windows, and emptying his pockets of the pastried he had knicked form breakfast. Running across a few of his classmates during his wanderings provided separate distractions, however.

Dean and Seamus had flagged him down to tell him that there was a famous Quidditch player walking around with Hermione, and that they had gotten the bloke’s autograph. Ron met the Creevey brothers outside of Zonko’s, where they promptly badgered him for news of Harry, and on his way back to the Three Broomsticks he had bumped into Katie Bell. During their conversation about the up coming Quidditch season, Ron had hinted to her that George had been wanting to talk to her. As he watched Katie disappear in the direction of the twins’ shop, he smiled to himself. “At least one of us should be able to get these ruddy pins off...”

He stepped into the pub, the scent of butter beer and firewhisky filling his nostrils. Ron bypassed the bar and Madame Rosemerta and headed straight for the back room. He closed the door behind him and checked his pockets, particularly the one housing the locket. Satisfied that he had not forgotten anything, Ron helped himself to a handful of Floo powder from a deep, pewter cauldron. He stooped and stepped under the mantle of the brick fireplace, threw the powder hard at the hearth, and shouted “The Burrow!” Soot and smoke blurred his vision as fireplace after fireplace zoomed in and out of view. Within seconds, the Weasley kitchen stood before him, and Ron fell forward onto the familiar wooden floor.

Ron sighed from somewhere under his bed. “Who would have thought I’d ever have to use my Charms book? And in the middle of summer holidays even…!” It had been two hours since he had come back from Hogsmeade, and Ron had been scouring his room for his Charms book for one hundred and fifty-six minutes of that time. The other four minutes he had spent with his head in the fridge.

“Socks… knickers…Oy! There’s my Prefect badge…. Urgh! I don’t even want to know what that is…” he moaned, wiping whatever it was on his hand onto his robes.

“It looks like an old corned beef sandwich, if you ask me.”

Ron jumped, slamming his head on his bed. “Bloody hell…Hermione?”

“Oh, Ron. I didn’t mean to scare you. Come out from under there, before that sandwich turns on you,” she said, reaching under the bed to grab his hand.

Ron crawled out from under his bed with Hermione’s help. “Thanks….”

“What were you looking for, anyway?” Hermione asked, grinning. “You have a bit of dirt on your nose. Did you know? Just there…”she said, wiping some imaginary dirt from her own nose.

Ron laughed. He was about to rub his nose when he noticed something that caused his to stomach flip and a grin to curl on his lips. “Right. Erm…Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“I need my hand back.”

“Hmm? Oh. Right, sorry…” As a rather noticeable blush rose in Hermione’s cheeks, she quickly released Ron’s hand. “So, what was it you were braving the unknown territories under your bed to look for, again?”

Ron scrubbed the dirt off his nose and shrugged. “My Charms book…”

“Really? There’s a surprise.” Hermione said, raising an eyebrow. “Did you look in your trunk?”

“No…” Ron jumped from his spot on the ground and pulled his trunk out from under his bed. After a few seconds of fiddling with the lock, he lifted the lid and was met with the stench of old, musty clothes. “Mum isn’t going to be happy about those…” he muttered, throwing a pair of moldy trousers across the room.

“No, no I don’t think she will…” Hermione said tentatively, eyeing the pants closely and edging away from them as casually as she possibly could.

“It’s not in here, either!” he sighed, pulling his head out of the trunk. Ron wiped his nose on his sleeve and moved to his dresser, pulling out robes and an assortment of other odds and ends. “So, how was your da--”

“It wasn’t a date!” Hermione hissed.

“Day! I was saying day. Give me some credit, here!” he shouted indignantly, waving a pair of Chuddley Cannon boxers in his hands--which he promptly dropped back into an open drawer. “How was your day with Vic…Viktor?” Even as he said the name, that hot something began to burn the lining of his stomach.

“Fine. He told me he met you outside of the Three Broomsticks,” Hermione said, leaning indifferently against the wall.

Ron stiffened, and turned slowly to face Hermione. “R-really?”

“Viktor said you’ve really matured since he last met you,” she said simply, smiling.

“Hmm. Imagine that…” Ron replied, turning so that Hermione couldn’t see the ‘yeah-right’ grin on his on face.

Hermione nodded. “And judging from what he told me, I think I have to agree.”

Ron turned to look at Hermione, his eyebrows raised. “What did he tell you?”

“There really wasn’t much to tell… Viktor said that you were considerably more amiable, a bit easier to talk to,” Hermione continued, a hint of hesitancy in her tone. “He said he felt a little guilty, because he realized that some of the things he said may have come out wrong….I think he said ‘in a way in which I probably would have been promptly stricken by the lad a few years ago’….”

Ron snorted. The bugger has Hermione wrapped around his thick, hairy finger, doesn’t he? What a bunch of rubbish; the bloke wouldn’t feel guilty if he stuck Dobby in a meat grinder.

Hermione stepped away from the wall to examine the frog on Ron’s windowsill. “But he was really impressed at how you took it, and he told me how you wished us a good time as well; which really impressed me.” Hermione added, looking over her shoulder to grin at Ron. “Thank you for not acting like a complete prat.”

Ron scratched the back of his head awkwardly and turned to open the door to his closet. “I told you I wouldn’t.” He crawled inside and began to half-heartedly search for his Charms book. “You should really learn to trust me.”

“I do trust you, its just….” Hermione brushed a strand of loose hair away from her face.

Ron threw a pair of shoes out of his way. “I mean, like Krum said, I’ve matured since fourth year.”

“Yes, I know…”

“I’m not the conceited, pig-headed, jealous twit I was two years ago when you went out with him, Hermione. Give me some credit…”

“You know, that’s just like you! I try to give you a compliment, and you throw it right back in my�” what did you say?” She paused in her scolding and her narrowed eyes softened.

Ron froze, his head going cold. Jealous. I said jealous. You dolt, you said jealous! “I said, uh…er…I said I’m not the…I’m not the conceited, pig-headed twit I was two years ago...?”

Hermione advanced towards him, her tone stern. “ I could have sworn you said something else, Ronald. If it’s worth saying once, its worth saying twice!” she added as he continued to hesitate.

Ron could feel his ears going red, and his nose was following close behind them. As he searched frantically for words other than those he most wanted to say, resisting the urge to slam his head against the floor, Hermione seemed to come to some kind of resolve.

“Never mind. I don’t have the energy …” Hermione said, her tone was a little strained and her expression solemnly thoughtful. “Haven’t you found it yet?”

Ron stood, relieved that Hermione had allowed a change of subject. “No…”

“Would you like to borrow mine?” she replied. Without waiting for an answer, she started towards the open door, stopping only to gesture for Ron to follow her.



“How do you two keep this place so clean?” Ron asked, stepping into Ginny and Hermione’s room. “I mean, there’s no clothes on either one of your beds…. Which are made, pointlessly I might add, as your only going to mess them up in a few hours anyway. And…you can see the floor! This is just unhealthy.” Ron shook his head in bemused amazement.

“That’s how a room is suppose to look, Ron,” Hermione replied with a smirk, opening the drawer to the end table next to her bed.

“Are you saying my room is a mess?” Ron challenged, looking at the disgustingly bare walls.

Hermione pulled a thick leather bound book out of the drawer and handed to him. “Well…yes.”

Ron accepted the book gratefully. “Right, then. Just checking. Thanks for this, by the way.” He added, gesturing with the textbook.

“Sure. Why were you looking for your Charms book anyway? Come to think of it, why were you looking for a book at all? I’m sure it’s not for a bit of light reading before bed.”

Ron shrugged, thumbing through the pages carefully. “I just wanted to check on something.”

“What?” Hermione asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Dissevering charms…”

“Dissevering charms? Chapter eight, page… two-hundred and seventeen, lesson three.” Hermione reached over his shoulder and turned to the proper page. “There.”

“How do you do that?” he asked, reading the heading of page two hundred and seventeen.

“It’s wicked, isn’t it?” Ginny asked, striding into the room. “Watch this; Hermione, how about Incessant Combustion charms?”

Hermione mumbled something under her breath, her cheeks turning pink.

“Pardon?” Ginny giggled, leaning closer to her friend. “What was that?”

“Nothing…”

“Oh, come on, Hermione! Please?”

“Do I have a choice?” Hermione asked, exasperated.

“No. Not really…” Ginny replied, winking at Ron.

“Chapters twelve and thirteen, pages three hundred and twelve through three hundred and thirty nine….” Hermione sighed, looking at her shoes.

“Brilliant! She’s right!” Ron exclaimed, checking the pages. “There has to be at least twenty separate charms on fire between the chapters.”

“Twenty-three, actually,” Hermione said with a smirk. “And a few to extinguish ever-lasting fires as well.”

“No wonder your Madame Pince’s sweet-heart, you’ve memorized the card catalog!” George said with a grin, leaning against the door.

“Let’s hope she uses her powers for good instead of evil, eh?” Fred added with a sarcastic smile.

Ginny threw her pillow at the twins. “What do you two want? I’ve already told you, I don’t have any shower caps.”

“Shower caps?” Hermione asked out of the corner of her mouth.

Ron shook his head. “Long story…”

“Mum told us to come and tell you supper was ready,” Fred replied.

Ginny shrugged and stood, following the twins out the door. “I hope we aren’t having that pickle thing she was talking about at breakfast….”

“Me, too…” Hermione said with a tone of revulsion.

Ron suddenly realized just how hungry he was. “I don’t care what we have, as long as it tastes okay. Shall we?” he bowed Hermione out of the door, catching the necklace as it fell from his robe pocket. He fumbled with the locket, trying to stuff it back into his robes before Hermione turned to see what all the fuss was about.

“What is that?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

“What is what?” Ron replied, pulling his hands out of robes and holding them up in a questioning way.

“The thing you just put…never mind. After what I saw under your bed, I don’t think I really want to know.” Hermione sighed, pretending to cringe.

Ron pretended to laugh as he pulled several small candies from his robe pocket. “It was only a few sweets I ‘borrowed’ from mum’s stash,” he muttered innocently. He waited for Hermione to turn around, shaking her head in an amused sort of way, before sighing with relief. As he followed her out of the unhealthily clean room and down the stairs into the kitchen, Ron was careful to button the inside pocket of his robes.





“Shouldn’t dad be home by now?” Ginny asked, checking the grandfather clock.

Mrs. Weasley sighed. “No, dear. Did I forget to tell you? He’s not coming home until fairly late this evening…”

Ron took a rather large bite of his slab of meatloaf, which was mercifully pickle free. “What happened?”

“Just some problems with the Minister,” she replied woefully. “It seems he’s having a bit of trouble handling things at the office, particularly things dealing with the muggle Prime Minister, and the Daily Prophet….”

Nobody seemed keen to answer the red-eyed woman, or to ask another question. They had learned early enough that to bring up the subject of the Minister, as they now referred to Percy, would bear an equivalent result to that of someone approaching a Hippogriff without proper mannerisms, or slipping a banshee a particularly strong Weeping Wafer.

Fred looked up from his plate to find tears welling in his mother’s eyes. “Great meatloaf, mum. It’s really, er…”

“Meaty! And…juicy. Your best yet!” George exclaimed, bits of the meat spraying from his mouth.

Ginny smiled and took a heaping forkful herself. “And let’s not forget pickle free!”

Mrs. Weasley shook her head, laughing lightly. “I only make the same thing every Saturday, why should this meatloaf be any different? George, wipe your mouth. That’s disgusting�”where is your napkin?”

George wiped his chin on the sleeve of his robes, earning himself a visit from the demonic wooden spoon his mother liked so much. With a flick of his wand, he charmed everyone’s spoons to orbit their heads in a very annoying fashion, Ginny’s spoon scooping gravy into her hair every other rotation.

“Wonderful. I’ll have to take a shower now. Thanks ever so much, George.”

“You’re very welcome, little sister! But a shower will do you good, since you dropped that box of dungbombs this morning. Now, mum; get this bugger off of me or you’ll be next!” George demanded, flinching as the wooden spoon dive-bombed his head.

“Fine, fine!” Mrs. Weasley croaked as her spoon quivered dangerously close to the gravy boat, and relieved her son of the mercenary utensil.

Ron rounded on his mother, his eyebrows raised. “Speaking of shower. Mum, this morning you told me that you were attacked by one of Fred and George’s shower caps.”

“Mmhm.” The woman stood and took her dish over to the sink, turning her back on the table.

“See, but we don’t make any shower caps, mum!” Fred said, levitating the plate out of his mother’s reach.

Mrs. Weasley sighed, not even bothering to reach for the platter hovering above her head. “Really, now? Hm. It must be your father’s, then. You know how he likes to, er, ‘confiscate’ things and take them home to study them.”

Hermione furrowed her brow, but nodded all the same. “That makes sense…I think.”

George nodded. “I think so, too. Very well, mum. On behalf of those at the dinner table, namely the ones with freckles, I apologize for the interrogation. Court is adjourned,” he banged his fork on the table. “Fred, lower the plate.”

Fred allowed the dish to drop safely into his mother’s outstretched hands. She nodded in an ‘its quite all right’ sort of fashion, and enchanted the sponge in the sink to get to work. “Did you have a good time with your friend, Hermione? Viktor, was it?” she asked in a tone that suggested she was eager to change the subject.

Ron rolled his eyes as the twins cast each other significant looks. Hermione, apparently oblivious, nodded and took a sip of her juice. “Yes, and yes.”

“Well, go on, then! Fill us in!” Ginny squealed, the twins following suit. “What did you two do?”

Her cheeks turned pink, and Ron considered sticking up for her, but Hermione shrugged. “Nothing, really. We met at the Three Broomsticks, had a few drinks while we talked, and walked around Hogsmeade for a couple hours. Viktor was swarmed by a bunch of people at the Quidditch Supply store--”

Ron snorted. “Dean and Seamus in the lead?”

“Naturally! So, we had to duck out the back way. That’s when we went to the twins’ shop. After that, we headed for Diagon Alley so Viktor could browse Madame Malkins' shop; he had sent her an owl for a new set of Quidditch robes, and he wanted to see if they were in yet." Hermione reached for her glass, but suddenly looked quite thoughtful and pulled her hand away. "Oh, that reminds me! We saw you there, Mrs. Weasley. At Madame Malkins, I mean.”

The dish and sponge fell into the sink just as the facet turned itself on. “Really? Imagine that. I’m afraid I didn’t see either of you, or else I would have…said hello….” Molly said lightly.

“I didn’t think you did…. But, may I ask you a question?” The tone of Hermione’s voice made Ron sit straighter in his chair, and look to his mother expectantly.

Mrs. Weasley shook her head and wiped her hands on dishtowel, eyeing Hermione wearily. “Maybe later, dear. I’m going to go check the clothesline.” She smiled kindly at Hermione before striding briskly out the back door.

Hermione stared after Mrs. Weasley, looking puzzled. “Hmm…”

“What?” Ron asked, biting into his roll.

“Its just… why would your mother be at Madame Malkin’s? She’s already done your clothes shopping for the year, hasn’t she?” It wasn’t really a question, which was made clear by the way she motioned her hand towards Ron’s new robes.

George shrugged. “She’s probably getting some for herself�”she’s put on a few extra pounds in the past few months. Stress, I think.” Ginny nodded reluctantly, but made it obvious she didn’t quite approve of her brother’s choice of words when her hand met the back of his head.

Hermione dismissed Ron’s inquisitive look with a wave of her hand. “It’s nothing, really. Never mind…”

Fred elbowed Hermione in the ribs playfully as he asked, “So. How did you’re friend like our shop?”

“Oh. He actually really liked it,” Hermione said, rounding on the twins and staring at them coldly over her cup. “Even after you slipped him a Puking Pastille. Can you believe that, Ron?” she asked, twisting her head to look expectantly at him.

Ron hesitated, remembering that Hermione did not know about his visit to the twin’s shop. He decided to keep it that way. “No…? They didn’t!” He, too, rounded on the twins and furrowed his brow. “I cannot believe you two! Mucking around with Hermione’s friend like that…”

At first Fred and George were thoroughly confused, but then they saw their little brother struggling with the smile threatening to overcome his scowl. Fred even had the courtesy to look mildly ashamed. “We’d like to say that we regret our decision greatly….”

“But, as you very well know, such a statement would drown us in guilt of having lied to those dearest to us!” George finished, and the twins dissolved into laughter.

Ron snorted in appreciation of the joke, even after he caught the disapproving twinkle in Hermione’s eye. He cleared his throat and, with a final smirk towards his brothers, changed the subject. “Is that all you two did? Walk around, drink, and puke?”

Hermione cringed at Ron’s choice of words. “No, but like I said, there really isn’t much to tell. We might have gotten an early supper, but Viktor had to leave because his arm was hurting him; a Bludger shattered his elbow about a year ago, but the Healer who tried to mend him was an apprentice.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Ginny, taking a sip of her water.

“He sneezed in the middle of the incantation,” Hermione said, causing everyone at the table to wince. “His arm has been bothering him from time to time ever since.”

“Why doesn’t he just get someone else to fix what the bugger messed up?” Fred asked through a mouthful of meatloaf.

Hermione shrugged. “I asked him the same thing. Viktor said it was complicated. He’s lucky its his left arm, though, because he’s right handed; and you can imagine what a faulty elbow could do to you in a Quidditch match.”

Ron made a mental note of Krum’s accident, for future reference. “I thought Quidditch was one of the things you didn’t understand?”

“The point of,” Hermione corrected him, wiggling her index finger. “I understand the strategy and concept quite well.”

“Oh. My mistake….” Ron scoffed.

Fred helped himself to some more meatloaf. “Somebody pass the catsup?”

Ron reached for the catsup, placing his hand on top of Hermione’s just as she grabbed the bottle. For some reason, a dumb grin formed on Ron’s freckled face, interrupted by a cold horror that seized him when the twins began to howl with laughter (“Look at their faces!” “This is too much!”). As his ears began to burn, Ron released the jar, and the catsup smashed upon the table, sending red sauce everywhere. “Bloody hell…” he hissed under his breath, thankful for the catsup on his face that hid his blush. He hastily handed Hermione his napkin, casting the twins a reprimanding glance. Maybe the whole thing wouldn’t have been such an embarrassment if he hadn’t seen the unreadable look Hermione’s face that might have been disgust.

It was too bad Ron was ‘too overly- git-like to infer the emotions of the opposite sex’, and therefore unable to realize that Hermione was just as embarrassed about the slip up in front of everybody as he was�”and equally thankful for the catsup on her face.


The grandfather clock began to chime, and Mr.Weasley’s hand started to spin towards ‘Home’. When Ron looked away from the clock, he found everyone else staring at it, the looks on their faces making Ginny’s next statement pointless. “We should probably clean up before dad gets here. We’ll probably just get kicked out anyway….” Just as the group stood, Mrs. Weasley came running through the backdoor.

“I’ll take care of it. Move along, children. Shoo, shoo.” She herded them out of the kitchen and into the living room without a single inquiry about the catsup soaking two of her charges. Ron shivered at the look his mother had given him before she closed the door, and moved to the head of the pack to get farther away from the kitchen.

“Kicked out of our own kitchen…” Fred muttered to his twin. “Its like we’re strangers in our own house.”

"You're definately the strangest in the house," Ginny muttered, though neither Twin showed signs of having heard her.

“Maybe we should try and listen in, I’ve still got some Extendable Ears under my bed…” George replied.

Hermione raised her eyebrows, creating more of a comical expression than that of warning. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Neither do I…!” Ron said, remembering the night before.

“Really?” Hermione said, smiling. “It’s a good thing you found your Prefect’s Badge, then. You’re starting living up to it.”

“Yeah, Ron. You’re a regular Head Boy!” Fred scoffed, batting his eyelashes.

Ron pushed his older brother in the chest. “Gerroff, mate.”

Fred smirked. “Huffy! Great, now I’ve got catsup on my shirt. C’mon, George. Let’s go…”

“To find the Extendable Ears?” Ron asked tentatively.

“No. To celebrate my liberation from B.O.G.I.E.S,” George said proudly.

Ron smiled. ”Really, now?”

Ginny nodded, and elbowed her brother in the ribs. “Katie came by the shop this afternoon, and George took the rest of the afternoon off. I thought it was a bit nauseating to watch the process, but who am I to talk?”

Hermione laughed. “I was wondering how you got your pin off, George. I assumed that you had turned it off for work….”

George shook his head, grinning. “Nope. I wore it all day. I was not about to disgrace the name if B.O.G.I.E.S! �”besides, you can’t turn them off, I’ve tried�”anyway, as soon as I asked Katie if she’d like a butter beer, it fell right off….”

“It didn’t fall off. It imploded,” Fred corrected in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Either way, I’m pin free!” George exclaimed, puffing out his chest.

“Well, I guess that means I’m the only member of bogies left…” Ron stared at his shoes. When he had hinted to Katie about George, he hadn’t realized it would mean his brother wouldn’t be a member of B.O.G.I.E.S anymore. The thought was more than a bit depressing.

“Not necessarily,” Ginny said as the twins made their way up the stairs, singing an Irish drinking song.

“What do you mean?”

Hermione wiped a bit of catsup off her nose. “The twins started selling the pins at their shop--didn’t they tell you? When Viktor and I stopped in, a surprising amount of people were gathered around the display. He thought it was fairly amusing.”

Ginny nodded, her eyes twinkling. “They even came out with a version of the pin for girls.”

“What?” Ron furrowed his brow in a comical way. “Broads too Overly Git-like to Infer the Emotions of the opposite Sex?” he asked jokingly.

“Well…yeah,” Ginny said frankly. “They’re really popular. I have no idea why…”

Ron shook his head as rather broad grin crept across his face. “Those two could sell piles of Hippogriff dung if they carved farm animals out of it and dyed them neon pink,” he said with amused disgust. Ron suddenly felt the over whelming urge to yawn widely. “I think I better turn in.”

“Its only eight!” Ginny said in an incredulous tone.

Ron shrugged lazily, picking the Charms book up off the sofa. “I’ve had a long day.”

“So has Hermione, but you don’t see her turning in before the birds!”

“Actually,” Hermione tried to conceal a yawn behind her catsup stained hand.

Ron smiled and turned to his little sister. “You were saying?”

“Hmph. You two are just like an old married couple, the way you fight non-stop, and then agree at the most peculiar of times…” Ginny huffed, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes.

“Hey!” shouted Ron and Hermione in unison.

Ginny smiled fiendishly. “See?”

“We are not old!” Ron said indignantly. He cut across his sister just as she opened her mouth to respond. “Nor are we married.”

Ginny laughed, her eyes widening as if to say ‘nice save’. She watched Ron yawn again, catsup dripping from his chin. Pushing her brother in the small of his back, she said, “Go on up stairs, old man. Get some beauty sleep�”Merlin knows you need it.”

“Ha, ha.” Ron called as he trudged up the stairs, pondering the red color that had risen in Hermione’s cheeks at his sister’s 'old married couple' joke.

Ron sighed with dismay as his B.O.G.I.E.S pin reappeared on his catsup-free pajamas. He sat down on his bed, the springs creaking under his weight, and lifted the Charms book from his bedside table. The necklace was lying safely next to his lamp, reflecting yellow light onto the ceiling. Ron piled his pillows up against the head of his bed, and pulled the covers up over his legs, placing the tin box on his lap. The whole process was rather uncomfortable, as Ron had never willingly read a schoolbook in bed before.

“Page two-hundred and seventeen…. ah.” He flipped to the page and stared at the heading, Dissevering Charms. Ron ruffled through lesson three, counting four pages that were dedicated to numerous versions of the charm. It took him several minutes to find the passage he was looking for.

Precious Metal Dissevering/Engraving Charms

Among the numerous charms used for trimming hedges, cutting toenails, disemboweling Dragons, or severing an enemy’s head during a particularly gruesome duel, one of the more practical and opulent functions of Dissevering/Engraving charms lies in the romantic art of decorative adornment (see ‘Junky to Funky; Turning Trash to Treasure’, by Elma Georgina Flaherty). For centuries, wizards have cut luminous stones into appealing shapes, modeled solid stone into brilliant forms, and carved explicit detail into the walls of grottos and caverns alike, leaving Muggle scientists baffled at the intricacy. But some of wizard kind’s best examples of fine Dissevering and Engraving of precious metals has been crafted by the mages of Ancient Egypt. One needs only to look at the elaborate sarcophagus of King Tutankhamen to know the intricacy a proper Engraving charm is capable of. The less time consuming but certainly still intricate works of Dissevering and Engraving from Ancient Egypt include the fine scarabs that were often used for currency, divine copper and bronze sculptures of native deities, and the decorative bangles and trinkets grave robbers were so commonly raiding tombs for. Fortunately, Seers of the age were able to warn the proper authorities of potential thievery sites and the suitable precautions, such as Illusory charms (Chapter seventeen, lesson four), trigger Confunding hexes, and Memory Transposing spells, were placed at various strategic areas within the crypts (for more information, see ‘Wizards of the Ancient World; What the Muggles Think They Know’, by Cornelius Giramond IIX).


Today, modern wizards use Precious Metal Engraving and Dissevering charms for much the same reasons as our ancestors did; decorative adornment, and to create much of the wizarding world’s currency (see ‘Forget Diamonds; Gold is a Girl’s Best Friend’, by Grizelda Tabatha Kinsworth). Such Charms are usually used to make mundane items appealing to the eye. There are several concepts one must keep in mind if one does decide to embellish Precious Metals on one’s own:

-Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If you wish to make a profit out of Dissevering and Engraving trinkets of your own or another’s possessions, you must think about the general consumer-their likes and dislikes. One might even chose to create adornments according to the current fad, as Alicia Romania Morman did during the Medieval time period when she engraved the coat of arms on soldiers’ equipment at the rate of two lambs per square foot.

-For the best results, be as specific as possible when charming your precious metal. If you wish to engrave gold, modify the charm for gold. If it is bronze you mean to dissever, alter the charm to work on bronze, etc.

-It is also necessary to modify the charm according to how and what you want to engrave. If you wish to do the charm freehand, be sure to modify the charm to do so. When you want to engrave characters, symbols, or digits, change the spell to do so.


-Engraving and dissevering charms are permanent when used on fine metals. No questions asked. The only way to ‘un-engrave’ a Precious Metal is to melt it down. This is key. (For more information on why this is, see “What to do When You’ve Accidentally Carved a Cuss Word into Your Grandmother’s Favorite Gold Earrings; Beg Forgiveness and Prepare to be Stricken ”, by Aleksandr Grieves).


Now that you understand these charms a bit more, it is time to learn how to initiate such complex spells. The following diagram is for a basic Engraving charm. You will notice a blank district; after you study the diagram, please turn to the index on page one-thousand three-hundred seventy-two, and locate the proper segment for whichever metal you chose to engrave, then insert it into the diagram. Please look to figure 1.a.a6. As you can see…

Ron blinked at the page for a moment, his eyes screaming for sleep. Rubbing them vigorously and ignoring their crusty protest, he shifted his weary blue eyes to the large diagram in the corner of the page. His eyes widened at the complexity; it looked as if a toddler had taken a broken quill to a black and white picture of a crescent moon, and scribbled all over the page. He brought the book closer to his face and squinted at the footnote below the diagram.

At first glance, the above diagram seems complicated, almost unnervingly so. Nevertheless, upon closer inspection, you will see several right angles, obtuse crosspieces, and layered curvatures that will make much more sense if basic geometry is applied.

Ron sighed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. There’s that ruddy jeumetree again! For a moment he considered going to ask Hermione to decipher the diagram for him; but then he remembered that this was not a homework assignment he was working on; he could not simply copy her work, adding a few simple-minded mistakes so to try in vain to fool a professor into thinking the work was his own. Yawning widely, he turned to page one thousand three hundred and seventy-two, where he was met with several diagrams that looked as if they were meant to interlock with the one he had seen only seconds ago. His pulse rising, Ron skimmed through the headings, searching for the one marked ‘Silver’.

“That doesn’t look…too bad…” he muttered under his breath, staring at the design. Ron gently tapped the diagram with the tip of his wand and watched it glitter. Turning back to the lesson on Dissevering and Engraving charms, he found the first diagram complete, and doubled in size. He had to admit, the plan did not seem quite so intimidating when there was not quite so many line segments and dead ends. Not that it didn’t look intimidating.

Remembering the above line that stated just how permanent Engraving charms are, Ron pulled the tin box higher on his lap, raising his wand. With a final squint at the diagram and a deep breath, he set the Charms book on his bedside table. “Abrum Glorifiche!” The tip of his wand shone a brilliant red, as if it had caught fire. As he looked at the locket sitting beside his lamp, Ron chewed his cheek; the light itself was much larger than the locket�”there was no way he could engrave a teaspoon on the necklace without melting it.

”Now, a simple pinpoint dissevering charm should do the trick. Make sure you tune it for fine metals!”

Elma’s cheery little squeal echoed through his mind and a thin grin formed on his tired lips. “Mucris…uh, Abrum Glorifiche! Argentus….?” The light turned bright cobalt and shrunk considerably. Ignoring the pulsing pain behind his right eye, Ron blinked away sleep and pressed the tip of his wand against the tin box. Holding his wand like a quill, he tried to fashion a small stick figure on the lid of the box. After completing the figure’s lopsided grin, he lifted the box to eye level so he could examine his work.

At one-thirty in the morning, his eyes puffy and blood shot, a slender wooden stick with a ball of blue light glowing on the tip fell from Ron’s shaking hand. He stared haplessly at the tin box, engraved with countless rounded rods that might have resembled spoons and ragged blocks that may have been letters. Moaning and throwing the tin box across his room, Ron cursed loudly, demolished the tower of pillows behind him, pulled one over his aching head, and allowed the dull buzzing of silence to lull him to sleep.


“I don’t know, he just won’t wake up…!” Mrs. Weasley was sitting on the edge of Ron’s bed, stroking the pale boy’s hair and looking quite flustered.

“I think he was up late last night, mum. I could hear him talking until…I dunno, I gave up around midnight; he wouldn’t answer his door,” George said, leaning against the wall next to his twin.

“You don’t think it could be�”oh, what was it called? That broad from Yorkshire had it. She wouldn’t wake up for four days�”and look! He’s got spots on his hands, too! He should be due for ear hair any minute now…”

“Don’t be thick, Fred. They’re not spots. They’re burns.”

“Well, if you’re so smart, Ginny, what are the burns from?”

“How am I suppose to know?” the girl shouted back to her brother.

Mrs. Weasley stood and placed her hands on her hips. “Settle down! We want Ron to wake up, but not to you two in a row.”

“Burns? What on earth was he doing in here to burn his hands?” Hermione asked to no one in particular, looking over Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder.

Molly patted Hermione on the arm and managed a thin smile. “I’m sure its nothing to worry about, dear. You know Ron; he sleeps whenever and wherever he can… even in his classes.”

“True…but the latest I’ve seen him get up all summer was noon.” Hermione looked out the window at the sun, now far above the highest branches of the tree.

“And there isn’t some old geezer drawling on about who knows what…” Ron mumbled, his eyes crusty with sleep.

Mrs. Weasley started, and rounded on her son. “You might, if you stayed awake long enough. Are you feeling okay? You look a bit peaky, dear.”

Ron yawned and nodded his head. “What time is it?”

“Two. In the afternoon,” Hermione answered, leaning on the end table.

“Bloody hell. Two in the…OI!” Ron sat up and looked towards Hermione, his eyes wide. But he wasn’t looking at the girl; his focus was on the necklace that was mere inches from her fingers.

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes softened and she placed a steady hand on his forehead. “You never answered my question�”are you alright? Ron?”

George looked from his younger brother, to the table Hermione was leaning on, and then to his twin. “Fred…? What were you saying about that broad from Yorkshire? What where her symptoms again?”

Fred blinked. “Oh, erm…She didn’t wake up for four days…had spots on her hands and arms, hair growing out of her ears, a high fever…”

“But wasn’t there another case?” George pressed on; earning him skeptical looks from nearly everyone in the room, the pale boy casting anxious glances at a locket that was in danger of discovery the only exception. “In London?”

“Oh…yeah. I remember, now. The case in London!” Fred exclaimed with a grin, quickly glancing at his twin.

Hermione furrowed her brow, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and spreading her fingers so that they came dangerously close to the silver chain. “I never heard about that… ‘case in London’…”

George walked over to Hermione and took her by the forearm, tugging lightly. “Well, you wouldn’t have, would you?”

“You wouldn’t believe the news we get at the shop. Apparently…not many people know about the poor man.”

Fred walked over to lean against Ron’s bedpost. “His tongue swelled up so that he couldn’t talk--”

“So, naturally, he couldn’t tell many people about it�”lived alone, mind you. We only know about it because his sister stopped by our shop and saw the Tongue Toffees!” George added, nodding to Hermione and casting a subtle glance in his brother’s direction.

“It happened just out of the blue�”a while after the bloke woke up, his taste buds just swelled up. Sort of like what happens when you bite your tongue particularly hard, you know?” When Ron shot him a panicked, questioning look, Fred gave him a very subtle wink.

“Curious…” Hermione muttered, lifting her arm out of George’s grasp.

Mrs. Weasley cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, curious indeed…”

“He was rather dizzy, as well. Couldn’t walk without banging into something or other…” Ginny added with a grin.

Now Hermione had her arms crossed. “But, what does that have to do with Ron? Or even that poor woman from Yorkshire? It sounds as if they don’t even have the same illness…”

“Tut, tut, dear Hermione. You’ve heard of the flu, yes? It is a common Muggle disease. There are different versions of the virus, that show themselves in several different flavors.” George spread his hands in a gesture of mock wisdom. “So why can’t this one?”

Hermione shook her head. “Even so, it sounds like a load of rubbish, if you ask me.”

“It mapes perbect sench to bee,” Ron said with a shrug.

Mrs. Weasley stared hard at her youngest son. “Pardon…?”

“I bed, ‘it mapes�”boi!” He clutched his throat. “My fung!”

“This is not the time for games, Ron!” Molly shouted before she was pushed aside by her older son.

George peeled open Ron’s mouth as if he were about to stick his head into that of a lion. “Fred. You have to see this.”

As his twin stepped aside, Fred peered into his younger brother’s mouth, prodding Ron’s tongue with his wand, looking thoroughly disgusted. “Exactly how that lady told us�”swollen and yellow.”

“Yellow?” Molly and Hermione exclaimed. Mrs. Weasley looked into Ron’s mouth and yelped.

“Bawt? Bawt’s koind hon?” Ron stammered, standing up. He hobbled towards the door.

Hermione stepped away from the table. “Where are you…?”

“Gearer! Bear’s a gearer?” he stuttered before bouncing off the doorframe. “Guddy bell…” Ron stumbled backwards, tripping over something small and indistinguishable.

Fred caught his brother before he hit the ground as Ginny reached for the small tin box Ron had tripped over, catching it with the skills of a Chaser. “Gearer?” she asked, tucking the tin box behind her as George brought his finger across his throat.

“I think he wants a mirror,” Fred answered with a smirk. His expression suddenly turned solemn. “Bloody hell…Yellow tongue, banging off the walls…” He looked up at his mother, who seemed torn between tears and confusion. “There’s only one symptom left.”

Her eyes wide, Mrs. Weasley asked her son which symptom was left. “Well, rambling, mum…” George replied.

“This is… foolish. Absurd. Ron does not have…whatever the disease is�”neither of you even knows its name. How can he ramble if his tongue is swollen?” Hermione said firmly, though her tone revealed the girl was less than certain of her own words.

“It ig fuvely beather joutsyd, eh? Treat boos, libble furl. Chee lazes bar verri…looby…” Ron mumbled, fingering Hermione’s shoelaces while he gazed, cross-eyed, out the window.

Fred snorted. “Apparently like that.”

Mrs. Weasley knelt down next to Ron and looked into his eyes. Suddenly, she rounded on the twins. “This isn’t…deadly? Is…it? Boys?”

Fred raised his eyebrows to his twin, who bent to place his hand on Molly’s shoulder. “No, mum. This uh…strain of the virus isn’t deadly. It can be cured by… a few cups of lavender and pepper tea. With a sprig of something dissolved into it…what was it, Fred?”

“Urgh…I’m not sure. Whatever it was…it was green and…stalk-like…?” Fred stuttered as Ron continued to ramble on about something incomprehensible.

Mrs. Weasley leapt to her feet, the rim of her eyes growing pink as she began to pace tiny circles. “Lavender and pepper t-tea. Right…” She fidgeted with her robes, still looking at her ill son. “Hermione! Any c-clue as to which plant it…”

Hermione watched Mrs. Weasley’s pacing and stood from her crouching position next to Ron. “I…it might be down in the garden. I think I remember seeing a stalk-ish plant somewhere….”

“Well, come on, then!” Emotional, Mrs. Weasley took hold of Hermione’s wrist and dragged her out of the room; but not before the brown-eyed girl saw satisfied glances exchanged between the twins.

“Bar chey dawn?” Ron sputtered, drool dripping down his chin.

Ginny casually leaned out of the doorframe to watch her mother and Hermione disappear down the stairs. “Yes, they’re gone.”

“Brilliant. Open up now! Say ‘aahh’!” George cooed sarcastically, prodding Ron until he did as he was told. Fred poked Ron’s tongue with the tip of his wand, returning it to normal size and color.

Ron took a moment to let his tongue stop tingling. He could taste blood from where he bit it before the twins had examined his mouth, but at the moment, his real concern was atop a wooden table, unprotected by the lamp and Charms book that lay beside it.

“Now, if you don’t mind my asking, which I know you won’t, and if you do, I could care less; why were we trying to get mum and Hermione out of the room? Unless I’m mistaken and Ron really has…whatever it is. Which I highly doubt.” Ginny placed the tin box in Ron’s lap and crossed her arms over her chest.

George strode over to the bedside table and lifted the necklace into his hands, examining it in the sunlight. “This is why, dear sister.” He walked back over to the group and dangled the trinket in front of Ron’s face. “Right?”

Not comprehending the color rising in Ron’s cheeks, Ginny pressed on. “A necklace? All that… charade for a necklace?” But even as she asked the question, Ginny recognized it as the very same pendent she had seen Ron toying with outside her brothers’ shop the day before.

Fred took the locket from George and placed it in the palm of his hand, bringing it to eye level. “This isn’t any locket. This one is from a dainty little shop in Hogsmeade�”dainty, but pricey. The shop keeper there is a twit, her name’s Grizelda--”

“Elma’s a sweetie, though,” George cut across his brother. “We like her; she’s positively nutty--”

“My guess is this… is for Hermione. Unless there’s another damsel who’s stolen your heart, Ronnie,” he added with a significant glance to Ron.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Ron stood from his spot on the floor, his head aching as a result of banging it on the doorframe. “No…its not, erm…”

The twins grinned. “Its for her!” They said together, causing Ron to turn beat red. Fred threw the locket at Ron, who caught it clumsily with shaking hands.

“But…I�”how…?” Ron was, more or less, at lost for words. What the bloody hell just happened here?

“So…we didn’t need mum out of the room…” Ginny muttered in a tone that suggested the whole thing was beginning to make sense to her.

“Its all coming together now, isn’t it?” Fred said with a jubilant grin, watching as George examined the ruined tin box.

Ron gaped at his siblings, the necklace limp in his open palm.

George looked up from the box and turned to face Ron, prodding the locket. “You practically wet your bedclothes when Hermione was leaning on your table.”

Fred picked up the open Charms book. ”I thought maybe you had forgotten to give her back her Charms book….But then, I figured you’ve probably forgotten to return loads of things, and never gave a hippogriff’s hide about it.”

“And the only thing left on the table was that shiny little doodad right there. Besides; Fred and I have a strict policy with paying back our debts…and now you and I are even.”

Taken aback, Ron fumbled with the drawer he was trying to hide the necklace in. “Even…?”

“Even. I know what you told Katie…At the Three Broomsticks, she mentioned that she was glad she had bumped into you,” George said with an unusually meek grin.

Fred put his arm around his twin and ruffled George’s hair roughly. “So, George decided that since you helped him with his badge, he’d help you with yours.”

George pushed his brother away, his smile brighter. “But don’t get used to it, ickle Ronnickens. This does not mean you and I are going to get chummy or anything. Or that Fred and I are going to play cupid�”we look horrid in pink leotards. This here; it was strictly business.”

After piling his socks on top of Hermione’s locket, Ron turned to face his brother, a shadow of a grin in the corners of his mouth. “Of course not. The thought didn’t even cross my mind…”

“Good. Well, I suggest you get into bed. Fred?”

“Already on it, dear brother!” Fred pushed Ron back onto his bed and peeled his mouth open, prodding his tongue again.

Ginny looked as if she was trying not to laugh as Ron’s tongue turned yellow and began to swell. “Will the lavender and pepper tea actually counteract that hex?”

George shrugged carelessly as he and Fred made their way towards the door, walking backwards. “No. It is just a very disgusting and obscure blend�”so obscure that it sounds like a remedy…”

“The essence of that stalk-ish plant in the den should cure it, though,” Fred added. “We grow some of them in the back of our shop�”they’re good for curing accidents that involve inflammation, discoloration…”

“Head aches, mild whiplash, rashes, some mild infections…” As the twins continued their way out of Ron’s room, listing off all the moderate injuries they experience in the shop that the plant can mend, Ginny turned to Ron.

“Maybe I’ll reconsider working there for a while…”

“Bach’s ga tood ibeeuh,” Ron stammered, struggling with his swollen tongue.

Ron watched his sister examine the tin box, and his heart fell. He still hadn’t been able to engrave the locket; the book had made it clear just how permanent the dissevering charms were, so the most he had done was practice on the tin box. Looking at his work on the box, Ron was glad he hadn’t tried to draw on the locket the yet.

“What were you trying to do to this poor thing? It’s…mutilated.” Ginny held up the tin box and looked to her brother. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, she held up her other hand. “No. I wouldn’t understand you, anyway…” She handed Ron the box, which he pushed under his pillow, and stood from her place on the bed. Ginny was halfway out the door when she turned around, her expression thoughtful. “Does it�”that mutilated tin-- have anything to do with the Dissevering Charms you asked about last night, and those burns on your fingers?” Ron nodded solemnly. “And…that necklace in your sock drawer?” She smiled at another solemn nod.

“Gut by jon’t dhink I’ll he agle boo to annietink boo gee bloket… I’ll foo in git,” Ron muttered, his tone saying more than the nearly unfathomable words he spoke.

Suddenly, Ginny’s smile brightened. She bounded towards her brother, her eyes twinkling. “I think I know you’re problem, Ron. What you probably don’t know, is that you have to modify the spell to fit whatever metal you’re working on…”

Ron rolled his eyes; for one fleeting moment, he thought Ginny was going to tell him something useful. “By goe! Chits fondibied bor zilfer…”

Ginny took a moment to decipher her brother’s words. “Oh…No! Wait, but you’re working on t--”

“What’s Ron working on? Other than an utterly rubbish illness that has his mother nearly in tears?” Hermione appeared in the doorframe, holding a tray of tea in her hands and tapping her foot impatiently.

“Oh. Hullo, Hermione!” Ginny said with giddy innocence.

“Don’t be like that, Ginny. You are in on it, too.” The bushy haired girl stomped into the room and placed the tray on Ron’s bedside table, sloshing some of the tea onto the floor and neglecting to clean it up. “I don’t know what’s going on�”but heed my word, I will find out.”

“Fergione!” pleaded Ron.

“Please! This whole thing is rubbish, and you know it!” Hermione huffed, placing her hands on her hips in a very Mrs. Weasley sort of way. “I do have common sense. You’re lucky your mum is in a vulnerable state, or--urgh! I just can’t believe you…” She turned and stomped towards the door.

Ginny looked from Hermione, to Ron, and back. “Hermione, you don’t understand…”

“I know for a fact I don’t understand! But I intend to find out the meaning of this horrid charade�”and soon. For now, you’ll just have to live with the sobbing woman that’s in your kitchen, searching her books for remedies to an imaginary disease!” she shouted, not faltering in her slow stride.

“Fergione!” Ron leapt from his bed and reached for her shoulder. “Peefz, hon’b gee shad ab--”

Hermione rounded on Ron, shrugging away his hand. “Let’s see, swollen, discolored tongue�”but where is that dizziness? Oh, and you seem cured of those ramblings, as well,” she raged on. As Ron opened his mouth to retort, Hermione lifted her wand and stabbed his tongue, “Finite Icantatum!”

“Oy! What the bloody hell was tha--” Ron’s eyes grew wide as Hermione pocketed her wand, her expression revealing she was not at all surprised. He shot a glance at his sock drawer. “Hermione, you have to--”

“I don’t have to do anything, Ronald. I’m not going to tell your mother, so you need not worry about that. I rather think the job should be left to you on what to make of her. But I think you should know; what you four did hurt more than one person.” Hermione turned and stepped out the door. She stopped on the top most step and raised her wand again, so quickly that Ginny and Ron flinched. “Accio Textbook!” The Charms book leapt from its spot on the floor to hover for a moment in mid-air. It then flew out the door and into Hermione’s outstretched hand, but not before colliding with the side of Ron’s head.

Ginny winced slightly, her brown eyes round. Ron hadn’t moved when the book smacked him in the head, and nor did he budge as he watched Hermione stomp down the stairs. When the hem of her robes finally flicked out of sight, Ron closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe, sliding down to sit on the floor with his knees at his chest.

Dinner that night was simply unbearable. His mother insisted that Ron drain his goblets of lavender and pepper tea within minutes of her refilling his cup, and further refused his request for water instead. His eyes were watering from the tea�”not only was it particularly hot due to the pepper(Hermione seemed to have thought that the remedy would work best if Mrs. Weasley brewed it using the hottest pepper she had on hand; which was, of course, the deadly-hot recipe that Charlie brought home from Romania on occasion), but Ron had come to the conclusion that he never had, and never will, taste anything quite as revolting as lavender and pepper tea. To top it off, Hermione seemed completely and relentlessly furious with him, and the rest of the Weasley children for that matter. Even if he hadn’t caught the spiteful glances she was shooting him, or felt the contempt radiating from her like bad body odor, he still would have known just how disapproving she was when he requested a cube of sugar for his tea.

“Of course, dear!” Mrs. Weasley cooed, smiling lovingly and jumping instantly from her place at the table to tend to her sick child.

Hermione cleared her throat, her tone stiffly business-like. “Actually, I don’t think sugar is a good idea, Mrs. Weasley. The…properties of the lavender and pepper would be neutralized by the--chemical make up of the sugar. Such a reaction would make the tea positively useless in curing his…what was the name of it again, Ronald?”

“Erm… I don’t think they have a name for it yet…” he stuttered, his hands shaking with frustration.

“Hmm. Anyway, I’m sure we all want Ron cured of his…nameless disease, so letting him have sugar in his tea would be contradictory to our goal.” Hermione avoided Ron’s eyes as she took a sip of her juice, but Ron thought he saw her tip her glass to him slightly. Draining her goblet of lemonade, Hermione smiled in Ron’s general direction. “Cheers, to good health.”

Ron scowled and raised his goblet to her. “Cheers…” he muttered before downing the tea in one swig, grimacing unpleasantly.

“Right, right…!” Mrs. Weasley said brightly, pouring some more tea into Ron’s goblet. Ron sent a venomous glance towards George, who shrugged in an apologetic way.

He didn’t know what he would have rathered, if given the choice; George covering for him by making his mum think he had some sort of magical flu, therefore causing Hermione to figure it out and hate him; or Hermione discovering the locket before he knew what to say to her and finding out she fancied Krum over him, being embarrassed and ashamed beyond all comprehension, and possibly ruining their friendship for good.

The first one. Hands down…except for the Hermione hating me part…I could have done without that… Ron pushed his peas around his plate with his fork, not very hungry at the moment. “Can I be excused?” he asked after taking another swig of tea.

Mrs. Weasley’s face softened as she levitated Ron’s plate over to the counter. “Of course, dear. You’re probably very tired. Head on upstairs…”

Ron felt Hermione’s eyes on him as he stood from his chair; he could feel her gaze burning his skin like fire until at last he closed the door behind him. With a very unpleasant aftertaste lingering in his mouth, Ron made his way up the rickety staircase. Not once�”not once in his whole life had anything gone completely right for him. Whenever that timid damsel Hope peeked from behind her hiding place, someone or something had to ruin it, and scare her back into her secluded den.

Yesterday had been a wonderful day, yes. Everything had gone as planned�”possibly even better than he had planned. But less than 24 hours later it had all been ruined. He wasn’t even back at square one. What with Hermione hating him�”which he thought extremely peculiar, as he could not remember another time she had been so very cross with him over something as trivial as a, well, not a prank. A simple fib, perhaps�”nevertheless he was back in the negative numbers; square negative seven.

At long last he reached his bedroom door and he pushed it open, closing it behind him carelessly. His un-made bed called to him, saying ‘Sleep, Ron. Sleep will make everything better.’ Though he knew it was a cruel lie, he threw himself upon the mattress, not bothering to change out of his robes. Within moments sleep had taken him.


“I’ll get it!” He called to nobody in particular, throwing himself off the couch and bounding towards the door, the doorbell’s random notes chiming in an offbeat tune. It was unusual for people to use the front door, or even to ring the doorbell; usually they just walked in and announced their presence. Ron opened the door cautiously at first, but swung it open seconds later as his eyes looked into those of his best friend. “Harry!” he exclaimed, immediately relieving Harry of the birdcage he cradled in his arms. “What are you doing here so early, mate? I didn’t expect you for a while, now.” He stepped back and motioned for Harry to make himself comfortable.

“Didn’t she tell you?” Harry asked, dragging his trunk into the Weasley’s den. “Hermione wrote a letter to me a few days ago, inviting me. She said that everything was ready, and that Dumbledore said it would be okay if I came… I can’t believe she didn’t tell you…” He sat in a torn armchair next to the fireplace, using his trunk as a footstool.

Ron turned to close the door, having set Hedwig’s empty cage on the floor next to an unused coat rack. “No, she didn’t. She has't really said much of anyhting to me, really. We’ve had a row, you see…”

“Ah. What else is new?” Harry replied sarcastically.

Ron shook his head, unaware of the sarcasm, and returned to his place on the couch. “Nothing, really…” Well, something was new�”and it was lying safely hidden in his sock drawer. “Actually, there is something.”

Harry leaned forward, sensitive to his friend’s uncharacteristically solemn tone. “Is everything alr--”

“You made it!” Hermione called from the bottom of the staircase, beaming. She walked over to Harry and threw her arms around him, hugging him briefly. “Have a good trip?” the girl asked when she pulled away.

“Yes, excellent. Thanks,” Harry replied with a smile. But then his face hardened. “How come you didn’t tell Ron I was coming, Hermione? I mean, the others know I'm here, don't they? Mrs. Weasley and them?"

Hermione looked indignant. "Of course! I wouldn't have sent for you without proper permission--you know that!"

"So, it's just another lover's tiff, then, this thing between you and R--"

“Hungry, Harry?” Ron interrupted, leaping to his feet. “I’ll go fetch some biscuits from the kitchen, maybe? Mum's just baked a batch of pies, you know!” He cast Harry a meaningful look and dodged through the kitchen door, leaving it carefully ajar.

“So you made it here okay?” Hermione continued, apparently oblivious to the fact Ron had left. “You weren’t swarmed by a bunch of screaming fans, were you?” she joked.

Ron furrowed his brow in confusion as he opened and closed the cupboards in search of biscuits, curiously only able to find large jars of pickles; even his mother's pies smelled sickly sour. He pondered this for a moment, but pushed it to the back of his mind and continued to listen in.

“No, no. Not this time,” Harry replied, his voice deeper than Ron remembered it. Ron could hear the smile in his friend’s voice at his next statement, despite how deep puberty(as Ron reasoned) had changed his tone “There are being no Quidditch Supply stores near here, you see. Therefore, there are being no mobs of ‘screaming fans’ to hinder my traveling. This place--ze Burrow, you have called it, yes?--it is being far away from ze hubbub of cities such as Hogsmeade, eh?”

Ron dropped the jar of pickles he was holding, allowing it to crash noiselessly onto the hard wooden floor, upon which it shattered and sent the salty cucumbers scuttling freely upon the surface. “Bloody hell…” He turned on his heel and wrenched open the kitchen door. “Bloody…bleeding hell! What are you doing in my living room?!” Ron glared at the young man sitting where Harry sat only seconds earlier. Out of the corner or his eye, he noticed that his friend’s belongings were also missing.

Hermione laughed and leaned back against the sofa, crossing her legs neatly at the ankle. “It's part of the charm of this place, really.... And, how is your elbow doing?"

Changing his glare to face Hermione, Ron clenched his fists. “Hermione? What the bloody hell is Viktor Krum doing in my living room!?”

The Bulgarian stretched his left arm tentatively. “It is feeling much better, thank you… Are you ready to be leaving? I am sorry to be rushing you, but the gates do close at curfew, Herm-own-ninny…”

Hermione stood and smiled, ignoring Ron. “Oh, I understand perfectly. I would expect security is tight everywhere, these days.”

Letting out a bellow of fury, Ron stomped his foot like a young child throwing a temper tantrum. He turned on his heel and pointed sternly at the young Quidditch player. “You. Out. Get out of my house. NOW!”

“Good. Vell then. Shall we?” Viktor stood and made for the door, Hermione close behind him.

“No!” Ron shouted. “Hermione not you�”just that filthy toerag. You stay. Hermione!”

“Oh. I vas almost forgetting. ” Viktor stopped halfway through the door and plunged a gnarled hand into the pocket of his scarlet robes, seconds later pulling out something long and shiny. Ron’s eyes bulged as he spotted the clouded silver heart dangling from the ever so familiar sterling chain, and he let out another horrific shout.

Hermione gasped and put a dainty hand over her mouth. “No, Viktor… I couldn’t…”

The man smiled crookedly. “And why is that being? Please, Herm-own-ninny. Accept it as not a gift, but as a token of our love, yes?”

Ron slammed his fist against the wall as Hermione emitted a sound somewhere between a sob and a giggle. “Oh, but it must have cost a fortune, Viktor…!”

“No expense is to be spared for you, Herm-own-ninny. Turn around so that I may help you in putting it on.” Viktor motioned with his hand for Hermione to turn around. She did so, and lifted her hair away from her neck, smiling brightly. “Zis clasp, it is tricky…” he muttered in a strained tone. Ron took his eyes off of Hermione to look at Viktor, and was surprised not to see him struggling with the silver chain, but instead pocketing the necklace. Viktor reached inside his robes, fumbling to find his wand.

“ What…? Hermione!” Ron shouted as the Bulgarian rolled up his sleeves. “Move!”

“Do you need help with it, Viktor?” Hermione asked playfully, oblivious to Ron’s shouts.

“No, no. I think I am almost getting it…” Viktor muttered, taking a step back and extending his arm. The last thing Ron saw before he lunged at the man was the tip of the Bulgarian’s wand mere centimeters from Hermione’s back, aimed at her heart; the first thing he saw after attempting to attack Viktor was the brick fireplace he hit instead.

Ignoring the pulsing pain in his forehead, Ron reached for Hermione’s robes, trying to pull her away; but his hands passed right through her robes just as they did Viktor’s body. Frustrated, Ron stood, drawing out his own wand. Hand trembling with fury, he aimed it at the brawny Quidditch player. “Tarantangula! Petrificus�”ARGH!”

Viktor seemed to not have noticed Ron’s attempts at jinxing him. “Actually, Hermy-own-ninny. I am thinking I might be needing your help…”

Hermione laughed brightly and turned around.

“No! Hermione, move! He’s going to�”FLIPENDO! RICTUSEMPRA! No, don’t turn--” The pure terror Ron saw in her eyes broke his heart. Hermione seemed petrified with fear, unable to speak or move. Her chocolate eyes stayed planted on Viktor’s face, their expression saying more than words ever could.

Viktor’s mouth curled into a crooked grin. “Advada Kada--”

“HERMIONE!” Ron leaped in front of Hermione and spread his arms as Viktor completed the incantation. He felt the curse blow through him like an icy gust of wind, and closed his eyes tight against the emerald light. The sound of hoarse laughter reached his ears, and Ron opened his eyes tentatively, first one and then the other. Just as he had passed through Viktor as if he was made of air, the spell had passed through Ron and hit�”

“Hermione…” His face growing red with fury, Ron fell to his knees beside the girl’s limp body. Her face was frozen in a terrified expression; her mouth agape and her eyes wide open, yet somehow lifeless. He swallowed hard as a stray tear trickled down Hermione’s pale cheek.

Nostrils flaring, Ron stood to face Viktor. “You…!” But Viktor said nothing. A smile still on his face, Krum pocketed his wand, and stepped over Hermione’s limp body, the toe of his pointed leather boot grazing her cheek. “You killed her! You filthy, rotten, worthless pile of scum! She trusted you�”she might have even lo�”you KILLED HER!” Ron stalked after Viktor as he walked out the front door. “Did you see her face? One moment she was having the time of her life, Krum! And then, Hermione�”YOU KILLED HER!”

As the Bulgarian summoned a broom from the shed at the opposite side of the yard, Ron continued to shout insults at him, too furious to shed the tears that burned in the corners of his eyes. “Don’t ignore me, Viktor! Stand and fight like a man, you ruddy coward…!” Viktor mounted the broom and blew a kiss in the direction of the front door, where Hermione’s lifeless body was still visible.

Ron fell to his knees and slammed his fists on ground as Viktor Krum, star Quidditch player of Bulgaria and England’s newest deranged murderer, flew off into the distance. For a while Ron just sat there, unable to think or speak or breathe. His stillness was so complete that a handful of brave chickens had made their way over to him, and were pecking at his robes. Ron looked to the nearest chicken, blue eyes full of pain. “He killed her …I couldn’t help her, and he just…killed her…”

“Ron…” the chicken clucked in response, looking at him with its beady little eyes. “Ron…Ron!RON!”

“Poking him isn’t working. Slap him,” spoke a second chicken.

The chickens stopped pecking at him, and turned to face each other as if they were readying themselves for a cockfight. “But couldn’t that put him into shock, if he wakes up too quickly? I think I heard about that som--”

“Who cares?”

“…Good point. Would you like the honor, dear brother?”

Ron blinked, staring at the two birds. “Sure...The chickens can see me. If Hermione could have even just heard me, then…”

“Why thank you; you’re too kind. It would be my immense pleasure!”

“ Its all my fa--OY!” Ron opened his eyes, clutching the spot on his face where the chicken had stricken him.

He sat up, suddenly wide-awake; It was not the stinging sensation on his cheek, though, that helped to wake him up a bit, but the revelation that it had all been a dream. “What, what’s wrong?” he asked, looking from George to Fred and back.

“You are, mate…” Fred stuttered through a yawn. “You wouldn’t shut up.”

George nodded. “You were screeching and shouting in your sleep�”its amazing nobody else heard you…” he added, rubbing his eyes lazily.

“But you were shouting odd things about Krum being in our living room, and that he had killed someone,” Fred continued with a slight smirk, “So we figured we’d come up here and end your suffering…”

“And so here we are. Well, you’re awake now. You’ve stopped screaming; our job’s done.” George stood and yawned widely. “Unless you’d like us to fix you a cup of warm milk…?” he added sarcastically.

“No, no…” Ron stuttered awkwardly.

“Even sing you a lullaby?” Fred offered.

“I’d suggest a teddy bear, but somehow I don’t think it’s a stuffed animal you’d fancy cuddling up to…”

Ron shook his head, choosing to ignore his brothers’ snide comments. He thought of what might have happened if anyone but the twins had come up to wake him; what would they have heard, and what would they have made of it? What if it had been Hermione? “ Erm…sorry, mates. Thanks for…for waking me up…”

“Oh, no, don’t thank us. We should be thanking you; why should we waste a third of our lives sleeping, anyway?”

“Besides,” Fred added in a groggy slur, “Getting to smack you in the face was quite thanks enough.”

“Well, we’re off to bed then,” George muttered, staggering towards the open door.

Fred followed after him. “But if we have to come up here again, we won’t be as gentle, got it?” Ron nodded moodily as his brother closed the door behind him.

Echoes of the dream still lingered in his mind, making it impossible for Ron to fall back asleep. The fact that the tin box was hidden under his pillow didn’t help either. Checking his watch, Ron found the time to be three thirty in the morning. He sighed, knowing that there would be no way he would get back to sleep before the sun came up, and pulled the mutilated tin box from its resting place. He traced his finger along the scars he had left upon the box the night before, wondering whether he would ever work up the courage to give Hermione the necklace, let alone risk engraving it.

The dream had instilled in him a sense of urgency, and, filled with reckless energy left over from the nightmare, Ron felt he had to do something. He didn’t want to stand by and do nothing any more�”he had seen what little good that did. And while Hermione probably wouldn’t die if he didn’t give her the necklace, Ron couldn’t help but feel that every second he delayed, time was ticking closer and closer to the time where Hermione would be dead-- to him at least.

For a moment, he wondered whether that made any sense, coming to the conclusion that he wasn’t in the mood to draw a logical conclusion. Ron stood and strode over to his sock drawer, careful not to make a sound. Even in the dark, it was easy to locate the cool silver chain of the locket amongst the dozen or so moth-eaten sock balls, and within moments he was sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. Not daring to turn on the lamp for a bit of light, Ron raked his brain, trying to remember the incantation. He wished he still had Hermione’s Charm’s book.

“What was it…?” he muttered under his breath, staring at the moonlight reflected on the locket’s smooth surface. “Mucris… Mucris what? Mucris, a broom…? Abrum…. Mucris Abrum. Glorifiche Argentus!” He grinned broadly as the tip of his wand burned a familiar cobalt blue, his heart pounding. This was it. There was no turning back. I either have to do it right the first time�”sitting here, on the floor, in the dark, half asleep--or melt down the silver and hand Hermione a nice shiny blob. No pressure.

With a deep breath, Ron bent his head and, holding his wand like a quill, touched the little ball of blue fire to the metal. It made a soft whistling sound upon contact, but the noise was pleasant, almost comforting, as if the silver was singing its approval.

About five minutes later, Ron extinguished his wand, squinting at the little locket. He had no way of telling how horribly the teaspoon had come out, but the fact the locket hadn’t imploded was a good sign. Delicately lifting the still warm locket into his hands, Ron stood, ignoring the protestant cramps from his stiff legs. Smiling, he stumbled back over to his bed and plopped down on the mattress, running his fingers over the surface of the locket.

Tomorrow morning, he decided. Tomorrow morning, after�”no, before breakfast, he’d pull her off to the side, maybe out into the garden. Then he’d explain everything to her. About Elma and Viktor; about the burns on his hands and the fake disease. After a minute or two, it wouldn’t matter that Hermione was mad at him, because he’d pull the necklace out of his pocket and hand it to her. Then everything would be all right. Better than all right. Excellent.

He twirled the necklace around his fingers absentmindedly, unaware that the chain had looped itself around his wrist several times over.

Unless,he thought miserably, frowning as anxiety flooded his mind. Unless Hermione tells me she’s in love with Viktor, or that I’m too overly git-like for her. And then she’d snatch the necklace out of my hands and stamp on it, laughing all the while… Ron’s ears had turned red just from thinking about it, and his eyes began to sting as he stared blankly at the mutilated tin box.

It was several minutes before he opened the box and took out the picture of Harry, Hermione and himself, if only to occupy his hands.

We were all so happy, then. Ron thought as he watched Hermione swat Harry’s hand, scowling playfully at him for making bunny ears behind her head. Pigwidgeon was perched in a regal pose atop picture-Ron’s head, Crookshanks eyeing the owl with a lusty look. Harry still had Sirius…Hermione didn’t hate me…everything was so simple… The people in the picture seemed to have reacted to some sort of prompting, for all the goofing around stopped and they looked straight ahead, smiling and waving brightly at the camera.

Hermione wasn’t going out with Krum… Percy wasn’t a prat…well, at least not a big of one as he is now… Ron fingered the edges of the picture, unsurprised to find the border crisp, almost as sharp as if the photo had just come out of the camera; he didn’t often disturb the little tin box, and hence had not given the photo a chance to wear or crinkle with evidence of rough handling.

“I didn’t feel so strongly about Hermione, back then…” Ron flinched horribly, startled by his own voice; he hadn’t meant to think aloud. That proved just how tired he was.

Blinking drowsily, it took Ron a moment to realize that, in his panic, the flawless photo he held in his freckled hands had torn down the middle. He sniffed angrily and swallowed the urge to swear, his fingers trembling.

Harry had jumped out of the way before he had had the chance to be ripped in half, and was now glaring at Ron from the picture, giving him a rude hand gesture or two from picture-Ron’s half of the photo. With a kind of sick half-amusement, Ron watched as Harry stormed out of the photo, leaving only Hermione in his left hand, and himself in his right. So this is how it is, then? Ron thought to himself, looking from one half of the picture to the other.

He couldn’t help but notice that he and Hermione seemed rather far apart now, separated by a vista of nothingness. He threw the pieces of the photo to the floor, watching them glide and spin in the draft that was coming from his open window. They landed lightly on the floor and skidded off in different directions; Ron’s half sliding under the bed, Hermione’s skidding towards the door.

With a frustrated grunt, he rolled over in bed, pulling the covers up over his head to drown out the hooting of an owl outside his window. Ron didn’t need Trelawney breathing down his neck to realize that the ripped photograph was a sign. A sign of imminent doom…figuratively, anyways. It was all rather hopeless, though, wasn’t it? Who had he been fooling? No one. No one but himself and that sweet short woman, Elma. It was time to move on.

I don't deserve her, anyway, he thought, rolling over and pulling his Chudley Cannons comforter up to his chin. Brains, heart of gold, and--that smile... She deserves someone like Krum-- handsome, rich, and famous-- who knows what he wants and how to get it... Not some hopeless, mediocre troll who spends two or three years saving up a whopping thirteen galleons, and then blows it on some boyish ideal...

Gradually, his breaths slowed, and sleep greeted Ron once more, the dream and the necklace forgotten. This time, the redhead’s dreams did not disturb him. After all, what was disturbing about having evening tea with Fleur Delacour?

Author's Note: Kudos to my little sister for helping me out with the chappie title. (I promised if she helped I'd say thanks on here. Hehehe)

He awoke the next morning with a jolt, feeling as if someone was touching his face. It took Ron a moment to realize that it was his own hand, cold and numb, resting upon his cheek; the necklace had wound itself so tight around his wrist during the night that it had cut off the circulation to his fingers. He checked his watch and groaned; it was seven o’clock. He had only slept a couple of hours.

Though his body felt heavy and his aching head begged for rest, Ron found that he couldn’t quite get comfortable enough for sleep to take him. Blinking groggily, he looked around his room, feeling something wasn’t quite right.

His bedroom door was open.

For a split second Ron wondered whether someone had been in his room, but, aside from the door, nothing else seemed strange; perhaps he had gotten up to use the restroom during the night, and was just too out of it to remember. Nodding to himself, Ron staggered out of bed and over to his dresser, slamming shut the sock drawer. He found a set of plain black robes and tugged them on, jumping at the light POP! his B.O.G.I.E.S badge made when it reappeared on his chest. “Too right you are…” he mumbled at the badge, plucking it in a grumpy sort of way. Having removed the necklace from his wrist and tucked it into an inside pocket of his robes ( he did his best not to glance at the engraved side; doing so would only depress him), Ron pulled on a dirty pair of socks and headed out into the stairwell, taking care to close the door behind him.


In the time it took him to climb down the stairs, accidentally knock over a vase of dead flowers, and accidentally on purpose drop the peppershaker his mum had asked him to get from the pantry, Ron had changed his mind yet again. He was going to do it. What did he have to lose? Nothing. After breakfast, he’d take Hermione out to the garden on the pre-tense of apologizing, and instead explain the past few days to her, finally revealing the necklace in his pocket�”just as he had planned last night. If it went well, then great; it went well. If it went bad, then, well, okay; he could sell the necklace back to the store, and he’d have 13 galleons to spend however he wanted.

Optimism, though, wasn’t Ron’s forte; he couldn’t stop his face from going pale or his ears from growing red when he pictured Hermione’s bright-eyed laugh as she threw the necklace to the ground.

“G’ morning, Mrs. Weasley!” Ron flinched out of his reverie as Hermione entered the kitchen. Her chocolate eyes flashed dangerously as they met Ron’s blue ones. “…Morning, Ron.” He couldn’t help but realize that Hermione didn’t specify exactly what sort of morning she wished him.

Mrs. Weasley was busy scrambling around in the cupboards, looking for more pepper. Ron had noticed a while before that she looked a bit green in the face, but shrugged it off as a side effect of all the pickles she’d been eating. “Hullo, dear. Help yourself to a muffin�”yes, you can have one too, Ron. One!�”I think it’ll be a while before I start breakfast.”

Hermione cocked a brow. “Is everything alright?” She reached for a muffin and took a seat at the table, almost immediately moving to the opposite side as Ron sat in the chair next to hers.

“Yes, yes. Of course, everything’s fine. I’m just feeling a bit under the weather, that’s all…” Mrs. Weasley and Hermione exchanged a volley of looks and facial expressions. Curiously bewildered and somewhat amused by their antics, two words came to Ron’s mind that seemed to explain everything; girl problems. “I assure you, dear, everything’s fine… Don’t you worry your little head. And you, boy, haven’t you ever heard of a comb?”

Ron grunted as his mother floated over, patting down his unruly hair in a distracted sort of fashion. Watching his mother scurry out of the kitchen, still muttering about combs and messy hair, he stuffed the rest of his muffin into his mouth. Running his fingers through his hair self-consciously, successfully depositing crumbs about his scalp, Ron plucked another muffin from the platter with his other hand. When he was sure his mum was out of earshot, Ron finished his second pastry in one large bite, swallowed hard, and leaned in towards Hermione. “Erm…Hermione?” The bushy haired girl seemed very interested in a catsup stain on the battered wooden table. “Hermione!” he half hissed, half whined.

“What?”

“Can I have a word with you?”

“Fine.”

“L-later?”

“Why?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“After breakfast…in the garden, maybe?”

“You really are clueless, aren’t you?”

“Please, Hermione?”

“No.

Ron furrowed his brow and cocked his head to one side. “‘No?’”

“Yes. No.” Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, staring out the window.

“Wait�”what?”

She stood, straightening her robes in an awkward manner, as if she had finally made up her mind about something, but was as of yet still unsure about her resolve. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where?” He cowered under Hermione’s fiery glare, shrinking back into his chair. The necklace pressed coolly against his chest, chain mail against Hermione’s sword-like tongue.

“Where is none of your business, Ronald. I’m going out, and that’s the end of it. It’s not a crime to nip into Diagon Alley once in a while, is it? Believe it or not, Ron, I have better things to do than sit around here pretending not to be furious with you; more friends than just you or Harry.” She trudged over to the fireplace, taking a fistful of Floo powder into the hearth with her. Glaring at Ron, she hissed, “ I won’t be long, anyway, so why would you care?” before disappearing in a puff of green flame.

“Because I think…I think I love you…” Ron mumbled under his breath, staring at the empty fireplace. Hearing himself say the words made his hands sweat, despite how terribly cold he
felt.

“Ron, mate. You know we’re just friends, right?”

“And brothers, to boot. That’s just plain unhealthy, if you ask me.”

“Definitely a bit disturbing.” Fred and George flopped down on either side of him, grinning broadly as their little brother turned a deep red that would rival the Gryffindor coat-of-arms.

“Gerroff…” Ron growled darkly.

Fred clapped his hands once in delight as he raised his voice ever so slightly. “Oh, Hermione, won’t you please stay? I’ve been meaning to declare my undying love for you since first year--”

“�”And it wasn’t until now that you have plucked up the courage to say it to an empty fireplace?” George giggled shrilly in what he thought was a bubbly fashion. “Oh, Ron, you’re so sweet!” Together, the twins made loud smooching noise mere inches from Ron’s face.

Breathing hard through his nose, still staring at the fireplace, Ron clenched his fists. “Stop it.”

“Oh, not very friendly, is he?” George said, taken aback.

“I said, shut up!”

“Actually, I believe you’re words were ‘stop it’…”

Fred elbowed his twin.“What d’ya expect? He’s just had his heart broken; I imagine the news that George and I just want to be friends was a bit of a shock, wasn’t it Ronnie?” He patted Ron on the back in a gesture of mock good will, his eyes growing round and wide as a soft, metallic jingling met his ears. “Oh, what have we here? Accio necklace…?”

George caught the silver trinket just as it slithered over the collar of Ron’s robes. Holding it up to the light, the Weasley twin grinned as Ron’s severely blushing features were reflected upon the pendant’s silver surface. “Wow…” he said almost breathlessly, staring at the engraved side. “A spoon, is it?”

Fred snatched the necklace from his twin. “Is this what you were doing last night after we left, then?” he asked, true astonishment in his voice. “You were really going to do the thing right, weren’t you?”

Blushing horrifically, Ron jumped from his seat with much more grace than he’d ever shown on the Quidditch field and plucked the necklace out of his brother’s fingers before either of them knew what had happened. “I know its rubbish, just--” George shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but Ron cut across him, stamping his foot on the ground like a three year old throwing a tantrum. “Just shove off, will you?”

“What’s your bloody problem?” Fred asked as Ron threw himself back into his chair, crossing his arms on the table to cradle his chin.

“Hmm, I wonder. Could it have to do with you two beating the mickey out of him?” Ginny asked as she entered the kitchen, still in her nightgown. “Can’t you see he’s miserable?” Her eyes were soft as she looked at Ron, understanding and sympathy plastered on her face.

Fred and George looked to each other, and shook their heads. “No…! Really?” they said in unison, mocking their little sister.

Ron banged his fists on the table, knocking over a jar of strawberry jam. “JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” All eyes were on him as he glared at the twins.

“Better watch your temper, Ron, or you’ll be breathing fire right soon...” Ron continued to squint angrily at Fred and George, until at last the angry silence grew uncomfortable and the twins excused themselves from the kitchen.

“Huffy…!” Fred muttered as he crept towards the door.

George followed suit, his strides gawky and swift. “I…I think we’ll…just be in our room, then….”

“Yeah… Or-or maybe someplace you can’t find us…”

“I hear Peru’s quite nice this time of year…”

Ron felt Ginny’s hand on his arm and he glanced at her, feeling the heat radiating from his face rise up to sting his eyes. “What?”

“Sorry, but you should--”

“What? What should I do, Ginny?” he asked shortly, fury and embarrassment burning in his stomach like a dying star. “Honestly, I’m not in the mood.”

Mr. Weasley walked through the door that very moment, a stack of papers in his arms and a coffee cup floating before him. “Ah. Good, you’re up.” He offered no explanation as he sent Ginny out of the room, much to her objection. Ginny seemed desperate to tell Ron something, but as soon as she caught one of her father’s rare yet terrifying glares, the redheaded girl dashed from the kitchen without another word.

“What was that all about?” Ron asked, his eyes flicking to a point above his father’s shoulder; Ginny stood in the doorway, mouthing something he couldn’t comprehend.

“I don’t have a lot of time, as I should have been at the Ministry twenty minutes ago.” Arthur sighed, plucking the topmost paper from the pile and examining it for a moment; the photo was taken by a muggle camera, made obvious by the fact that it’s only inhabitant�”a slouched man hidden almost entirely by his cloak except for two large, awkward feet�”was not moving. “But, I think I really should tell you something before I leave…”

Ron nodded to his father, distracted by a scroll that was now hovering above the man’s nearly bald head. “Yeah…?” he asked as the parchment began to unroll itself.

“It’s about…what you heard the other day,” his father pressed on. “We’ve just gotten word that some of our….sources…may not have been reliable…”

“Mmhm…” Ron squinted at his sister, confused, as she mouthed the words ‘feed it’. Feed it? he mouthed back, taking advantage of the few seconds it took Mr. Weasley to fumble with a fold in his robes.

Suddenly Ginny mimed reading a book, and comprehension dawned on Ron’s face. His eyes flicked to the open scroll above his father’s head.

Mr. Weasley took the look of revelation in quite a different manner. “You do remember then. Good. Although, it would have been best if you’d forgotten, but alls well that ends well, right…?”

“Oh, yeah. Erm, what about it…?” Ron mumbled in reply, not really knowing whether he was chatting with his father about plugs or the ghoul in the attic; he was concentrating on catching Ginny’s eye and shaking his head a fraction from side to side, hoping she’d get the message, ‘I can’t read it…’.

Ginny rolled her eyes in frustration, and called back the scroll. Ron watched her fiddling with the parchment, only half listening to his father.

“Mundungus was, well, in a right state when he made his last report to the Order, and--”

The parchment was hovering above his father’s head again, this time a sentence near the bottom was enlarged to twice the size of the rest of what appeared to be a letter.

“�”we couldn’t quite understand what he was saying. I’m not even sure he knew what he was saying, as tipsy as he was--”

Blinking, Ron leaned forward in his chair to read the highlighted sentence;

I will be in the Leaky Cauldron until noon tomorrow, if you wish to speak with me then. Perhaps we will better sort things out in person; besides, I do have what I had hoped would be a pleasant surprise for you. Send an owl only

“�”So, naturally--” Ron wished his father would shut up so he could think; the letter triggered something in the back of his mind�”it wasn’t just the chunky handwriting, either.

if you cannot make it, or wish not to attend�”both cases in which I will understand fully and with utmost respect.

Love always,
Viktor Krum

He felt his stomach go cold. Love Always?

“�”the Durmstrang situation was all a…” Mr. Weasley paused, puzzled by the look on his son’s face. “Ron?”

…the Durmstrang situation… Those words echoed around his mind, bouncing off the walls of his skull until Ron’s head became numb; for a moment, the words ‘Love Always’ were driven from his thoughts. “The….Durmstrang…” He sat pin straight, rigid in his chair as he stared with wide eyes at the battered wooden floor. “Krum…”

Mr. Weasley furrowed his brow. “Sorry…?”

“Krum…his arm… Durmstrang…” Ron smacked his palm against his forehead�”how could he have let this happen? How could he have forgotten? “He’s a Death Eater…!”

Ginny stumbled forward, perplexed. “Death Eaters? At Durmstrang?”

Arthur whipped around in his chair. “Ginny!”

“Dad?”

“RON!”

Bloody Hell! How could I have forgotten? I am an idiot! Ron could hardly hear his father and Ginny, barely noticed the questions they were shooting at him like bullets.

I’ve been so busy�”stuck with my head in those useless clouds�”that now… ‘I will be in the Leaky Cauldron until noon tomorrow, if you wish to speak with me then.’ Now Hermione’s off…off to Diagon Alley with a Death Eater... Alone! He jumped from the chair, knocking the floating coffee cup into Mr. Weasley’s lap in his haste to get to the fireplace.

What sort of surprise did Krum have in mind? An ambush? Perhaps he’d hold Hermione hostage and refuse to let her go until she revealed the Order’s Headquarters--or maybe Krum had something worse up his sleeve, something that Ron didn’t feel quite comfortable thinking about at the moment…

Visions of his dream flooded his mind’s eye, and for a moment, as he took a pinch of Floo powder, all Ron saw was Hermione and her terrified, betrayed expression she had donned just before Krum killed her. This time, Ron thought as he stepped into the fireplace,I’ll be able to stop him.

Mr. Weasley scrambled from his chair, ignoring the burning coffee on his pants, and tried to snatch at Ron’s robes, confused and frightened by his son’s reaction. But it was too late, and his youngest son disappeared in a flash of green flame. The father of seven looked to Ginny for an answer, but found her almost as frantic.

“Dad!” she shouted, tugging him to his feet. “We have to go with him--”

Arthur frowned, his forehead wrinkling. “Where? Where the bloody hell is he off to in such a state? And what’s gotten you so riled up?”

The redheaded girl shook her head wildly. “It’s Hermione. She’s gone off to the Leaky Cauldron--”

“Yes, I know, she said she might--”

“With VIKTOR KRUM!” Ginny finished. When her father didn’t quite react the way she had wished, Ginny elaborated. “The Quidditch player? From Durmstrang, dad! The one who played dirty at the Tri-Wizard Tournament!”

“That matter’s already been taken care of, Ginerva.” Her father’s tone was stern, suggesting that that was to be the end of the conversation.

“Ron thinks he’s a Death Eater!”

Mr. Weasley’s forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows climbed up his receding hairline. “W-what? That’s ridiculous… Why would he think that?”

Ginny rolled her eyes; she was beginning to get a bit frustrated. “Weren’t you just saying to Ron that--”

“I was about to tell him that it was all a mi�”Oh. Oh my…” He stopped mid-sentence, his face falling as he began to piece things together. He remembered Molly telling him about this; as per usual, she seemed a bit keener on the up-take than he, and had become concerned the day Ron left for Hogsmeade, itching his arm with a passion. Arthur had been quite tired that night, when his wife shared with him her son’s peculiar behavior and wondered whether it may have anything to do with what the boy had over heard; lazily, he assured her that she was overreacting, that Fred and George had probably switched out his soap or something…

At that moment, Mrs. Weasley screeched from upstairs, an ear shattering howl that caused Ginny to flinch horribly, her frustration momentarily forgotten. “Oh dear…” Arthur muttered, suddenly going very pale as his wife’s shrieks pierced his thoughts.

“ARTHUR!”

“Mum?” Ginny called, horror painted onto her freckled face.

Mr. Weasley summoned his wife’s coat from the mudroom. “Dear, oh dear�”oh dearindeed. Ginny put on your shoes�”no, no time to get dressed. Find Fred and George, and tell them to meet us in the kitchen in two minutes.”

“Already here, dad,” George exclaimed, skidding into the kitchen as he tugged on his cloak.

Fred held the door open with his foot, cringing at another shout. “We’d know that screech anywhere.”

“Thanks for the head’s up, by the way. It’s just wonderful to know that there are no surprises in this house-- ”

“Don’t you be talking to me about surprises!” the man shouted in aggravation. Mr.Weasley shook his head, his face scrunched in a look halfway between worry and impatience. “No time to spat. Fred, would you--”

“One step ahead of you!” he replied, scribbling something on a bit of parchment. Fred passed it to his twin, who tapped it with his wand and threw the note into the fireplace along with a pinch of Floo powder. It disappeared in an instant. Moments later Fred had scrawled another, slightly longer message onto a Zonko’s receipt from his robe’s pocket and chucked it into the fireplace. It too disappeared in a rush of emerald flames, their howls punctured by the sound of Mr. Weasley pounding up the stairs.

“Who were those to?” Ginny asked, watching her father scurry up the stairs.

“The first one was to Mungo’s,” George explained. “The second, to the Ministry.”

“And this one…” Fred mumbled as he crumpled a third bit of parchment into an awkward wad and tossed it into the roaring green flames. “Is to a friend of ours down in Hogsmeade. Obviously we can’t go fetch Ron ourselves, so…”

“But how do you know where to look for him�”how do you know Ron needs looking for, anyway?” The look on Ginny’s face revealed that the girl was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed.

“We found the Extendable Ears last night…” Fred said in way of explanation.

“Ah…” Ginny heard her mum and dad thundering down the staircase. “What the bloody hell is going on?” She looked from Fred to George, and back. Suddenly, Ginny gave a little wide-eyed gasp, bringing a hand to her mouth. “No…!”

The brothers grinned, nodding in harmony. Their tones were mischievous, yet somehow tense; excited, but horribly nervous. “Yes.”

Everything was just a blur, even as Ron stepped away from the brick fireplace and into the dimly lit pub. A few of his father’s friends from the Ministry nodded to him over their early morning drinks as he swept across the beaten floor, blue eyes darting frantically from corner to corner, but Ron hardly noticed their cheery greetings. He could feel his heart pulsing madly in his chest; hear his footsteps pounding against the floor, but it all seemed far away.

Ron slammed his palms against the bar’s smooth surface, ignoring the piercing sting that burned his fingers. “Where are they?” he demanded of Tom, the barkeep. “I know she’s here; she only just left a few minutes ago…”

Tom swirled around, a look of cheery bemusement on his wrinkled face. “Who?”

“ ‘Who?’ I’ll tell you who, mate,” he hissed, unaware of the scene he must be making.

The barkeep’s face fell at Ron’s tone, and he couldn’t quite keep his frown lines from betraying just how annoyed he was becoming. “Well, I suggest you tell me who you’re after; the better to move this conversation along, eh?”

“A good friend of mine came here to meet with Viktor Krum, and I need to know where they’ve gotten to.”

“I think it is quite obvious, dear boy, that I was not born yesterday,” Tom chuckled in an irritated sort of way. “How word got out that Mr. Krum was bunking here is beyond me, but I certainly will not allow an fervent fan to disturb him--or your ‘friend’.”

Ron sighed angrily as he lunged towards the staircase behind the bar. “You don’t understand, this is urgent--”

“Oh, I’m sure it is…” Tom continued sarcastically, casually sliding in front of him and looking pointedly at Ron as he spoke. “But I’m afraid Mr. Krum has specifically requested not to be bothered whilst he is entertaining his guest.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath, biting his tongue to keep from shouting; a voice inside his head that sounded oddly like Hermione’s suggested that screaming wouldn’t help the situation. “Please. Will you just�”just go up there, and ask him if…tell him Ronald Weasley wants�”needs!-- a word with Miss Granger.” The bartender hesitated, and Ron brought his hands up before him in a gesture of defeat. “I promise, I’ll leave you to your business if you could just do that for me. Please.”

Tom shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I just cannot allow it!” Ron opened his mouth, having finally decided that maybe a bit of yelling would indeed get his point across, but the old man cut him off. “For the last time; no. And if you ask again, I’ll have to ask you to leave. You’re disrupting my customers!” He motioned unconvincingly to the now nearly empty pub; it seemed that the bar-goers had long since finished their morning drinks and Apparated off to work.

The old man glared at Ron, his eyes daring him to make a snide remark about the barren pub. Ron met his gaze, and was about to give Tom just the remark he’d been waiting for when the fireplace roared with emerald flames, the whooshing sound drowning out his response. He watched angrily as a squat woman in a royal purple bathrobe dashed into the pub, curlers bouncing in her strawberry blonde hair. Tom glanced sideways at the woman and reached a hand under the counter, gesturing with his free hand for Ron to wait a moment. “The usual?”

Ron sidled towards the staircase, stopping dead as Tom caught his eye. Annoyed and scowling, he threw himself onto the closest barstool. With an abundance of self control that was somewhat uncharacteristic for him to have, especially at a moment like this, Ron decide to patiently eavesdrop on the little woman’s conversation. That proved rather hard to do; it was very difficult to sit down and act like a good boy, when every nerve in his body was screaming at him to jump up and curse everyone in sight, just so they won’t bother him while he ran upstairs screaming like mad for Hermione to come and talk to him that very instant.

“Oh, no. Thanks Tommy, dear, but I’m actually looking for someone…” she replied, scanning the pub on tiptoe.

The barkeep smiled mischievously, “ A date, Miss Flaherty? Quite a first impression you’ll be making, dressed like that; I see you’re wearing your finest fuzzy slippers.”

“Funny you are, old man. But this truly is quite, quite urgent,” the woman squeaked.

Tom eyed her apprehensively. “Is everything alright? I haven’t seen you in such a state since… Well, I’ve never seen you in such a state.”

The witch heaved what those who didn’t know her would find a quite overly dramatic sigh and pulled herself up onto a stool. “ ‘Is everything alright?’ That’s a tricky question, that is….” She pulled the bathrobe tighter around herself. “To be quite honest, Tom, I’m not sure anymore…” As Tom opened his mouth to speak, genuine concern etched into the lines of his face, she held up a dainty hand and smiled. “Not to worry, Tom. I didn’t come here to gripe about my troubles, less so to bother you, dear. So, please, don’t mind me one bit.”

The barkeep nodded and returned her smile, although he still looked slightly anxious. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ron cleared his throat impatiently as he turned back to the bar, having decided that he couldn’t possibly ignore the panicked electrical impulses surging through his brain any longer. Tom gave a small start, as if he had forgotten he was there. The worry etched in his face changed instantly back to irritation. “Oh. You.”

“Yes,” Ron hissed. “Me. Now--” He stopped, his eyes frozen on the mirror that hung behind the bar. Amongst the cobwebs and dusty tables that the mirror reflected, two light blue orbs stood out, largely because they were framed behind zebra-print spectacles.

“What?” Tom hissed impatiently. When Ron didn’t answer, he clucked his tongue and ducked under the counter, grabbing a second dusty glass to scrub.

Ron held the woman’s beady blue gaze, relief flooding over him. Her reflection smiled and waved at him, gesturing for him to sit down. For a moment he wondered how on earth he couldn’t have recognized Elma the moment she stepped from the hearth, but the urgency with which he had entered the bar returned the moment Elma motioned for him to take the stool next to hers. “Mr. Weasley�” Ronald! Just the chap I’ve been meaning to see!”

“Elma!” he gasped, flinging himself upon the stool and nearly sliding off in his haste. All at once, it seemed as if his mouth was voicing every thought that had been surging through his mind from the moment he had plunged his hand into the pot of Floo powder at the Burrow. “Elma, please�”my friend, she’s upstairs and�”she’s in trouble�”you see, she’s with someone�”I’d bet money he’s one of You-Know-Who’s followers, a Death Eater--but she doesn’t know it�” the arm and the school and�”I had this dream, you see--but she trusts him and I think he’s going to--” He paused for a gulp of air, having said all that in one swift breath.

The woman held up her hand for silence. “Settle down, please. Take a deep breath, there we go. That’s better. Calm down, everything will be just fine, sonny, just fine…”

As much as he liked the woman, Ron felt a twinge of annoyance. Hermione was upstairs with a Death Eater-he no longer had any doubt about that detail-and here was Elma, talking as if this was afternoon tea. “I don’t think you understand!” he began, but was silenced once more, this time as Elma placed a stubby finger to his lips.

“I think I know more than you think I know, boy. And I’m sure everyone would appreciate it if you would keep your voice down,” the cheery woman added with a small smile. “Now, things here are not as they seem, you must understand that, dear.”

“I think I understand quite well!” Ron replied indignantly, listening hard for any sound that might indicate trouble. Presently, all he heard was the bartender whistling as he pretended that he wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation, and a door close somewhere upstairs. “We haven’t time for games and riddles�”Hermione’s up there, and--”

“And she’s in no immediate danger!” Elma finished for him, her voice rather squeaky as she fought to speak above him. Ron made to stand up, his patience growing thin, but Elma grasped the sleeve of his robes. “Please, deary, just sit and listen to an old woman prattle before you go tackling Quidditch players and snapping wands, eh?” Ron sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, but he didn’t sit down. Satisfied, Elma straightened her bathrobe and continued. “I’ve just gotten word from your brothers, Fred and George�”charming boys, really; lovely shop they’ve made for themselves, too… The note itself was very cryptic, I admit�”horrid penmanship he’s got, that Fred-- but from what I can gather, there’s been a misunderstanding at home�”one that could mean the difference of life and death. The life being yours in Azkaban Prison, the death being that of Viktor Krum.”

Ron grunted and stared at her expectantly, casting glances at the stairwell from the corner of his eye. He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head towards the witch, silently pressing her on.

“From what I could gather in the few seconds I scanned the note,” she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. “ There is something about someone drinking dung, and that their order was informal--” Elma started, sliding off her stool. Ron was about to ask if she was okay when a sound like bees buzzing reached his ears.

Elma shot up, a curler or two coming loose, but otherwise seemingly unfazed. “Terribly sorry!” she squeaked, whipping out her wand. It was vibrating, a queer pinkish glow emanating from it. Elma scowled, heaving a disgruntled sigh as she jammed the rather stubby wand back into the pocket of her bathrobe.

She looked up at Ron, an apologetic smile on her lips as she fumbled with another pocket. “Again, my dear, terribly sorry. Heaven knows I’d rather�”but, erm, you see, Grizelda’s simply useless without--” The wand was now emitting a high-pitched static that reminded Ron briefly of a Muggle ‘rodeo’ his father had worked on years ago. “Dear, dear…Forgive me, child!” Elma squeaked, shoving a scrap of parchment into Ron’s hand, and dashing towards the back door.

Halfway there, just as the wand began to glow through her robes, she stopped, looking rather huffy. “Really, now?” she said to no one�”at least not that Ron could see. “Is it that serious… Oh my...!” With that, Elma disappeared with a loud popping sound.

Staring at the spot Elma had been seconds before, it took Ron a moment before he came to his senses. A crumpled piece of parchment clutched in his hand, he turned back to Tom, who appeared to have been watching him. He leaned against the bar, mentally debating whether he should storm upstairs, or read the note first. Elma seemed quite urgent in delivering her message, but would it be more important than getting Hermione away from Krum? Perhaps Fred and George had finally cottoned on, and had sent the message to assure him that people from the Order would be there as soon as possible.

But what were the chances of that?

“You have to let me up there!” he barked after a few more moments’ thought, whipping around to stare at the old man.

Tom glared at Ron. “We’ve already gone through this, boy!”

Without thinking, Ron whipped his wand from his robe pocket and started for the stairs, walking backwards. “I understand, sir, but--”

“NO BUTS!” shouted the innkeeper, throwing his mug to the ground in fury. “Get that wand out of my face, son. In fact, get the bloody hell out of my bar-- I’ve had quite enough of you! The ministry will be hearing about this, they will!”

The redhead raised his wand to the bartender, hoping to Merlin he wouldn’t have to use it. He blinked as the man moved towards him with agility and strength unbecoming of such an old chap. For a split second, Ron supposed it came from years of breaking up bar fights and quarrels, before he realized that Tom had stopped advancing towards him and was staring at a point over his shoulder.

“Is everything alright?” Ron stood paralyzed, waiting for his head to clear; the moment those words reached his ears, a peculiar pang of adrenaline mixed with a rush of relief had surged through his skull, causing his head to go cold, his hands numb. “We heard shouting; is there a problem?” Hermione continued, starting down the stairs.

“Nothing you need to worry about, Miss,” Tom assured her, his demeanor changing quite dramatically. “My apologies to Mr. Krum�”and to his lovely guest, of course.”

Ron lowered his wand and slowly turned to look over his shoulder, finding that Hermione looked quite unconvinced. She ignored Tom’s courtesies, and was staring at the tip of the barkeep’s wand. It seemed like an eternity to Ron as her eyes traced the wand’s path, passing over his chest and slowly rising to meet his pale face. “Hermione…” he began, but his voice trailed off. Ron noticed that Hermione’s eyes looked slightly red, her cheeks pale. Color further drained from the girl’s face as seconds passed, stretching into minutes. “Hermione,” he repeated, his tone softer now. “Have…have you been crying?”

All at once, Hermione seemed to come back to life. “Will you excuse us?” she asked Tom, her tone strained.
Without waiting for an answer she paced down the steps, grabbed Ron rather forcefully by the shoulder of his robes, and dragged him to the back of the bar.

Tom stared after them, his expression hinting frustration. “I was abo--”

“We won’t be long,” Hermione called over her shoulder. “And then I’ll let you have him.”

“Hermione,” Ron began again, but the brown haired girl cut him off with a steely glare.

“Shut up.”

“But you look like--”

“I said, shut up,” she repeated, her voice trembling--but whether from fury or something else, Ron had no way of knowing, his only clue the girl’s bloodshot eyes. Hermione positioned him so that his back was against the wall, the stone fireplace to his left and a table to his right�”no place to run. Standing in front of him with her arms crossed over her chest, she glared at Ron, as if daring him to try something stupid. “What are you doing here�”and why were you about to duel with Tom?”

“I came here to tell you something,” he confessed after a moment, deciding not to press the girl anymore about the tearstains on her cheeks.

“But I told you already, at the Burrow. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I know, but… it’s important. Really, I promise. Just hear me out.” Ron was surprised to see Hermione’s face soften almost instantly, though she still seemed a bit pale.

Hermione nodded, looking taken aback. “Alright, then… What is it?”

Just as he opened his mouth to respond, but the voice he heard was not his own. “Herm-own-ninny?” Viktor Krum was standing at the top of the stairs, peering down into the main room of the bar.

“Down here,” called the brunette, turning around to face him. “Its alright, Viktor. Everything…everything’s fine.”

Over Hermione’s shoulder, Ron watched Viktor amble down the stairs, grinning at Hermione in quite an unusual fashion. He was slightly put out to see Hermione returning the grin, however feeble, but decided there were more pressing matters to attend to than the jealousy burning in his stomach. Ron reached for her hand and furrowed his brow meaningfully. “Erm, can we talk in private?” he muttered as Krum made himself cozy at the bar. He was ordering a drink from Tom, but Ron could feel his dark eyes staring at him and Hermione through the mirror.

Hermione jumped at his touch, but did not pull away. Her tone was a bit higher than usual, but firm. “No. Now. You said it was important. So important it couldn’t wait any more.”

“And it is!” Ron assured her hastily, fearing he might be losing her cooperation. “But--”

“It’s now or never.” The girl’s tone was resolute; but, was she talking to Ron, or herself?

For a moment he hesitated, feeling Krum’s gaze upon him. He took a deep breath and seized Hermione’s other hand, leaning in to whisper in her ear, for fear of being overheard and causing trouble before it was due. “I, er… Hermione. You see, I think…er, I don’t know how to tell you this, but…” What was that in her eyes? Concern? Pain? Hope? “I think that…that Krum is a-- a Death Eater.”

Hermione’s face fell, and there was no mistaking the look in her eyes now; they were alight with alarm�”no, fury. Both? Perhaps there was still a bit of mystery in the girl’s expression; Ron did have a B.O.G.I.E.S badge pinned to his chest, after all.

“What...?” she stuttered, stunned. She pulled her hands lose from his, staring at him.

Ron glanced up at Krum, who was stirring slightly on his stool. “Hermione, please. Don’t let him hear--”

“I don’t believe this…”

“I know, but you have to trust me, Hermione,” he insisted, reaching for her shoulder.

“No,” Hermione huffed, taking a step back. “I don’t believe you.”

“Listen; I, er, overheard a while ago that Dur--”

But Hermione was still rambling on, a hurt expression on her face. “I don’t believe this… Here I thought�”ugh! I am such an idiot!”

Ron shook his head, wishing Hermione would keep her voice down. “ Please, quiet down; I don’t want him to hear… You’re not an idiot, Hermione. No one had any reason to suspect him; it was just a stroke of luck that I--”

“No, I just thought…” She trailed off, looking at the ground. Ron stared at her for a moment, confusion painted on his freckled face. After a few moments of awkward silence, she looked sharply back up at Ron, glaring. “Wait what’d you say?”

“I said that you weren’t an idiot…”

Hermione bristled. “You said�”that you think Viktor is a Death Eater…? Ronald Weasley, how dare you! Rubbish, that is. Rubbish. It’s fourth year all over again! Do you really think I have so little sense as to rub elbows with a Death Eater?” She didn’t wait for him to reply (there was only time for Ron to make a lame gurgling sound in his throat); Hermione seemed to be working up a sort of steam reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley. “I honestly cannot believe you! You haven’t any valid reason to think�”he’s my friend, Ron. And I thought you were, too. I thought…”

“Vat is going on?” Viktor slid off his barstool to stalk over to the brown-eyed girl, and was now looming over her shoulder, eyeing Ron defensively.

Hermione seemed not to notice, even as Ron made subtle gestures for her to stop talking. “I suppose that’s all you came here to tell me, that I’m ‘fraternizing with the enemy’? Fine then. Message received.” She finished dryly, crossing her arms and staring determinedly at a spot on the floor.

“Herm-own-ninny…” Krum’s dark eyes flitted to Ron. “Vat in Merlin’s name did you say?”

Ron drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders, pleased that he was at least a half an inch taller than the man before him. He took a few brief moments to ensure that nothing stupid would come out of his mouth involuntarily, cast an anxious look at Hermione, and then stared right back into Viktor’s heavily browed eyes. “If you’ll excuse us; this is a rather…private, conversation.”

“It’s not a conversation at all!” Hermione hissed back at him, her eyes shining. “Not anymore. For the last time, Ron; go home. I don’t want to talk to you right now. Never mind, Viktor, not now…” she added as the Bulgarian opened his mouth to question her once more.

Ron watched, as if in slow motion, Krum lift a callused hand to rest on Hermione’s shoulder. “Don’t touch her,” he growled, his eyes narrowing.

“Vat?” Viktor replied quite sincerely; Ron’s murmur had only just been audible.

Ron lunged forward and grasped the man’s wrist firmly in his hand, wrenching it away from Hermione’s delicate shoulder. “I said, get your ruddy hands off of her.”

“Ron!” Hermione gasped, her voice trembling with shock and fury.

But neither boy moved. Ron tightened his grip on Viktor’s wrist, his knuckles turning white as he held Krum in his icy gaze; Viktor flexed his fingers a bit, but held Ron’s stare unyieldingly despite his confusion.

A few moments passed before Tom the barkeep looked up, the sudden silence drawing his attention. His toothless mouth curved into a scowl as he threw down his rag and marched towards Ron, his wrinkled nostrils flaring. “What is--? So sorry, Mr. Krum�”you, boy! Hands off, before I call--”

“No,” Viktor grunted.

Tom stopped dead, dropping the hand that was reaching for Ron’s robes. “Sorry…?” he asked, struggling to keep his tone polite while talking to the Quidditch celebrity.

“Leave him. If you don’t mind, ve vould like to have a bit of…privacy.”

“But-”

Viktor shifted his glare to Tom, who bowed begrudgingly and left towards the staircase, muttering under his breath things that were only just barely above a whisper, but clearly unkind.

“Let go of him!” Hermione shouted, her voice cracking. “What has gotten into you?”

“I vould like to be knowing the same…”

Ron released Viktor’s wrist, mostly because he was unnerved at Hermione’s expression, but continued to glare at the man. “I’ll tell you ‘what has gotten into’ me,” he hissed.

“Vell? Ve are vaiting…” Krum muttered, his patience growing thin. The Quidditch player took a protective step towards Hermione, which Ron countered by sidestepping between the two.

“Don’t you go near her, you filthy excuse for a wizard. I’m surprised no one else has found out about you�”ex-Death Eater being your teacher for most of your school career, and all. And that stunt you pulled in the maze�”no one can really be sure that you were under the Imperious curse, can they? Thought you were clever, didn’t you?”

Hermione pressed the palms of her hands against her forehead. “Ron…! We’ve already gone--”

“And what about your arm?” he continued, gesturing towards Viktor’s left arm. “It seemed to be hurting you, that day in Hogsmeade. Had to turn in early, eh? I didn’t punch you that hard…”

“It was a Quidditch injury!” Hermione sputtered, outraged. “Ronald Weasley, honestly, I cannot believe you!”

“I was talking to Viktor,” Ron replied smoothly, looking at the Bulgarian expectantly.

Viktor nodded, absentmindedly caressing his arm. “Yes. It vas an injury�”a malfunction on the Healer’s part. My arm bothers me from time to time, but vat…” He trailed off. A few seconds later, though, something seemed to click; he raised his heavy eyebrows and snorted. “Is that vat all this is about? You think that…that I am a Death Eater?”

Ron crossed his arms over his chest and nodded curtly. “You don’t deny it?”

“Vy�”of course I deny it! That is preposterous! I certainly am not in league vith the Dark Lord.”

“There,” Hermione huffed, tugging on Ron’s sleeve. “Is that good enough for you? Now will you stop acting like such an idiot and leave?”

“Of course he’s going to deny it!” Ron exclaimed, rounding on Hermione.

“This is ridiculous, Ron. You’re making a fool out of yourself�”not to mention embarrassing me and insulting Viktor! What do you want him to do? Prove it?”

“Yes.”

Hermione looked as if she might curse him into oblivion, or else cry, but instead she sighed angrily and turned to Viktor. “Get to it then.”

“Vat…?” he replied uncertainly.

“Show the git your arm so he’ll leave and we can apologize to Tom.”

“Do you really think that is necessary, Herm-own-ninny? I… I haff nothing to prove!”

“Come on, Vicky,” Ron challenged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robes, one hand tightening around his wand. “What’s the harm in showing me your arm… if you’ve got ‘nothing to prove?’”

“I…”

Ron brandished his wand and held it ready at his side, his posture suggesting more confidence than he really felt at the moment; doubt was starting to set in his mind… Was he overreacting? Truth be told, he had no real evidence, no real reason to believe that Krum might be a Death Eater. Only�”and he hated to admit it�”jealousy. Jealousy, and a bad arm… “Roll up your sleeve, then,” he croaked.

“Honestly, Ron!” Hermione huffed angrily, her cheeks turning pink. In one swift motion (and a muffled apology to Krum) she seized Viktor’s forearm and less than gently pulled the sleeve up to his elbow. “There! Are you satisfied? If you’re quite through making a fool out of yourself, Ronald, now would be an excellent time to leave.”

Bloody… bleeding hell…. “Hermione--” Ron began urgently.

“We’ve had enough of you for one day! I have had enough of you!” Hermione interrupted curtly, her fingernails digging into Krum’s arm.

“But--”

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes meditatively, releasing Viktor’s arm. After a moment she opened them to stare at Ron, looking much like she had through most of third year; frustrated, exhausted, and on the verge of tears. “Look, Ron--”

“No,” he said urgently, snatching at Krum’s arm. It took him a few clumsy tries�”the Bulgarian wasn’t very cooperative�”but he managed to clasp his fingers around the man’s thick, hairy wrist, twisting it so that his sweaty palm was face up. “You look.”

Biting back a sudden, almost automatic urge to catch Hermione’s eye and hiss, ‘I told you so!’, Ron tightened his grip on Viktor’s wrist. He could feel the man’s pulse, and it was rising fast; a quick glance showed Ron that Viktor’s pupils had narrowed to mere pin-points, that his mouth was firmly set in a thin line, curved at the corners to form a distorted kind of scowl. “I’ll stay here, you run and get help,” he offered. On Viktor’s forearm, vague as a shadow yet still somehow bright as day, shone an ominously grinning skull, a serpent hanging from its gaping mouth.



“No. No one’s leaving, no one’s going to get help! Not until I…” Looking as if she didn’t quite understand what she was seeing, Hermione cast her gaze fleetingly to Viktor. “Is that… what I think it is?”



“What the bloody hell do you think it is?” Ron snapped, glancing over his shoulder at Hermione with outrage. “It’s a--”



“I know what it is!”



“Why did you ask, then, if you ‘know what it is?’”



Hermione stared into Viktor’s deep, dark eyes and gave a sort of grunt, drawing her wand. “Let go of him, Ronald.”



“Are you mad?” the redhead sputtered. A moment later, startled by the ferocity in her chocolate-colored gaze, Ron released Viktor’s wrist, though he refused to step aside.



The brunette advanced on Krum until she had to look up to see his face, her nose nearly touching his. A few moments passed, in which an eerie, expectant silence filled the bar. Ron watched anxiously, his grip tightening on his wand all the while. Hermione was close enough to kiss the bloke, and for an instant he half-feared she would do just that. Just when he was about to put a stop the staring contest, a satisfyingly sharp snapping sound broke the silence.



What was even more satisfying was the look on Viktor’s face as Hermione’s palm met his cheek quite violently.



“I guess I vos deserving that…” was Viktor’s gruff reply after a moment. He rubbed his stinging cheek dejectedly. “Please, Herm-own-ninny. Let me explain.”



“Explain? How can you ‘explain?’ I trusted you, Viktor!” Hermione exclaimed. “But you’re… ” She trailed off, eyes wide with hurt and shock. Ron took a step forward and placed a protective, freckled hand on the girl’s shoulder.



“A lying, homely, putrid pile of slime?” he offered, his voice a low snarl.



Hermione furrowed her brow, not looking from Viktor’s almost pleading gaze. “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘a Death Eater’, or, ‘one of his’…”



“Potato, pot-ahto….” Ron raised his wand to Viktor’s throat.



“I only ask zat you listen for even one moment, please, Hermy-own-ninny.”



“We don’t make it a habit to negotiate with Death Eaters, Viktor.”



The Bulgarian cocked a thick eyebrow, gazing at the girl in earnest. “I am ze same man I vas minutes ago, upstairs. You had no problem vith speaking to me zen, vhy is now any different?”



“A minute ago she didn’t know you were a bleeding Death Eater, that’s the difference!” Ron growled, squeezing Hermione’s shoulder.



“I am very sorry to have hurt you, Hermy-own-ninny. I have not meant for it to come zis far. You vere never to find out�”neither of you.”



“Of course we weren’t, you prat!” Ron hissed. “You couldn’t very well prance around in dark velvet robes--”



Hermione brushed her elbow sharply against his side, quieting the redhead. “Ron, hush.”



“Even the Minister of Magic�”your brother--gives his prisoners counsel; allows a man to defend himself before condemning him!”



“Unluckily for you,” the freckled boy replied heatedly, ignoring Hermione. Next to him, the girl cringed, undoubtedly because she knew Krum had struck a rather sensitive nerve. “I’m not Percy. I care more about my family, my friends�”the people that I love than I do what the bleeding Prophet will have to say about me when I finally get around to severing your--”



But Ron never got to tell the man exactly what he planned to sever.



“Hermy-own-ninny!” the Bulgarian gasped. “Have ve not been friends for these last few summers? I vould have thought that you�”you of all people, vould understand…” Seeing the incredulous expression on the girl’s face, a low snarl emitted from the man’s thin lips. He took a step forward and plunged a hand into his robes, pulling out his wand with a flourish.



In the blink of an eye, Ron sidestepped in front of Hermione, using the hand he still had on her shoulder to spin her around and hold her behind his back. He pressed the tip of his wand to Krum’s throat; though his hand was trembling in the slightest, the redhead’s icy-blue eyes were ablaze. “Not a smart move on your part, mate,” he growled, straining to keep hold of the protesting brunette. Despite his stony front, Ron flinched when Krum threw his wand at his feet.



The Weasley lad lifted his left foot searchingly and pressed his toes down upon the thick wooden stick, its handle pressing into the soft soles of his trainers. Glaring at Krum as if daring the man to make a move, Ron scuffed the ground, sending the Bulgarian’s wand spinning across the beaten floor to rest under the legs of a barstool. A satisfied grin slid onto his freckled face as Viktor’s dark eyes followed the path of his wand with dismay.



“Now you are armed and… I am not,” the man drawled, returning his gaze to Ron and pushing the redhead’s wand from his throat with a thick, hairy finger. “Now vill you hear me speak?”



“Talk, Viktor,” Hermione snapped before Ron could open his mouth, wrenching herself free from his grasp and appearing at the boy’s side. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, wand twitching in her opposite hand.



Viktor eyed the pair, clearly unnerved and regretting the loss of his wand. “thank you, Hermy-own-ninny. I am glad to see zat von of you, at least, has some compassion.”



“You wanted a chance to talk,” Ron grumbled, losing what little patience he was pretending to have. “I’d use it wisely, if I were you.”



“I vas only sayink,” Viktor pressed, shrugging his slumped shoulders. “That Hermy-own-ninny is a bit more trusting than yourself, Mr. Veasley. Something that is as much as an advantage as it is a hindrance. Yet, the both of you have trouble seeing something that is lying before your very noses….”



Casting Hermione a sidelong glance, Ron was appalled to see that his friend actually looked mildly thoughtful. “Philosophy lessons from a Death Eater?” he spat. “You aren’t seriously considering… whatever the hell it was Krum just said?”



“Well…”



An angry huff of air burst from Ron’s lips as he looked back at Krum. Whatever insight or wisdom Hermione seemed to find in Viktor’s words was totally wasted on the redhead; to him, it sounded like Krum was making a bunch of stuff up, trying to buy himself more time. “Alright then, you had your chance to ‘explain yourself’, and you blew it. But, while we’re on the subject of lectures,” the red head paused, a smirk twitching in the corners of his mouth as he slanted his wand a fraction, aiming its tip a bit lower than would be expected in most duels, “I think its right time I taught you a lesson of my own.”



Face ghostly pale save for two bright red spots on the apple of his cheeks, Viktor swatted Ron’s wandering wand away. “You vouldn’t.”



“Try me,” Ron challenged, cocking his head to one side. “Scum like you shouldn’t be breeding, anyway.”



“Speak, Viktor,” Hermione demanded, her tone stern. “Or forever hold your peace.”



“In Azkaban,” the freckled boy added for good measure.



Krum moved his dark gaze to Hermione, his expression almost pleading. He mouthed wordlessly for a moment before finding his voice.



“The Dark Lord can be… very persuasive. I haff connections, you see�”connections the Dark Lord found vould help his cause greatly. And the things he offered me… I could not resist… But I did not mean to hurt you, Hermy-own-ninny. that, you must understand.”



“But you realize, of course,” Hermione replied slowly. “That I am a Muggle-born? One of those that Voldemort has sworn to exterminate? You and I have been in friendly correspondence for over a year�”I find it hard to believe that your ‘Dark Lord,’” she spat the words as if they were a nasty swear word, “would think you a loyal ally, seeing as you don’t see eye to eye on one of the subjects very dear to his black-hole of a heart.”



She’s got him, Ron thought almost cheerfully, watching the Bulgarian open and close his mouth like a goldfish out of water. It was refreshing to see someone besides himself or Harry feel the wrath of the razor-sharp tongue that Hermione donned whenever she felt the need to tell off someone who thought they could get away with breaking a rule.



“But that’s it, isn’t it? We haven’t been in friendly correspondence…” Hermione tugged her wrist free of Ron’s grasp, her brow furrowing the same way it always did when she began to piece something or another together. She pressed her palm against her forehead. “Or, at least, you haven’t. Connections… Oh, how could I have been so stupid? It isn’t a coincidence that my best friend happens to be your Master’s archenemy….”



“Erm…” It was at times like this�”when Hermione figured something out before Harry or himself, but refused to come right out and say it, insisted on thinking out loud, waiting until they were breathless with anticipation before revealing the plot and making them feel thick and dimwitted for not catching on sooner�”that Hermione was at her most exasperating, Ron thought. But it was also when she shone the brightest.



“You were using us,” she breathed, staring accusingly at the Death Eater. Viktor gazed back at her, his expression blank. “Using me. To… to get to Harry.”



He didn’t know whether it was the girl’s trembling voice or the terror in her gaze, but something about Hermione made the redhead’s insides turn to ice. “Wait a minute…”



“He’s been asking for weeks,” Hermione explained, straining to keep her voice level. “About Harry, I mean. I thought nothing of it; Harry is one of my best friends… I thought you were being friendly, Viktor, that you were concerned about him when you asked how Harry was fairing after Sirius’ death, when you asked if we’d made plans for him to meet us at the Burrow this summer… if he was still at his wretched Aunt’s house and whatnot….”



Ron blinked at her for a moment as the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “And what did you tell him? Hermione? After all the misery you put me through the other day at supper over my letter to Harry, you didn’t tell Krum--”



“Anything!” the man spat, glaring at Hermione. “She vouldn’t tell me a blasted thing. Hermy-own-ninny kept insisting that she mustn’t put anything in viting, incase the letters vere ‘intercepted and read by untrustvorthy eyes.”’



“Yes,” Hermione snarled. “And it’s a good thing, too. Though I must confess that I hadn’t suspected for a minute that the untrustworthy eyes would be yours.”



Though the knowledge that Harry was still safely out of the picture had brought a momentary surge of relief upon the lad, Ron could feel ice-cold fury burning in his stomach, turning his ears red and his palms sweaty. “You would have had Hermione betray Harry? Would have had his death--abduction�”torture, whatever it was you and Voldemort were conspiring to do, on her shoulders? And you said you hadn’t meant to hurt her! That is some very messed up thinking, if you ask me, Krum.”



“You’re wrong,” Viktor said, his voice a grunt.



“He’s wrong in that it isn’t a rather twisted thought process; or he’s wrong in that you had meant to hurt me?” the brunette asked heatedly.



“It is true; you vere never to experience pain, Hermy-own-ninny.” Viktor stood a bit straighter. “Vat is untrue, however, is the crime of which I am being accused. Yes, I have been prying in your letters, Hermy-own-ninny. But I respected the loyalty you portrayed in refusing to visper secrets, even to a trusted friend. It is lucky for me that my… mission, vas not to extract information from you.”



Ron’s eye’s narrowed; he didn’t like where this was going. Reaching for Hermione’s free hand, he held it in his own. Simply by squeezing her trembling, clammy fingers, the redhead could tell that she didn’t, either.



“And so,” Krum continued. “It is not because you failed to give me the information that I sought, Hermy-own-ninny; not because you have discovered von of my darkest secrets; and not because I have never honestly valued our friendship…” He flexed his gnarled fingers, dark eyes twinkling.



“Viktor…” Hermione warned, her face going pale.



“It is simply because it is vat I vos ordered to do--” Krum’s words were cut short as Ron, with every ounce of strength he had in his body, lunged at the man. He rammed his shoulder into Viktor’s chest with a throaty grunt and sent him flying, only to crash into the barstools that lined Tom’s bar. Glasses fell from their hooks and shattered, showering everything�”the bar, the floor, and the boys themselves�”with grimy bits of glass.



Ignoring his throbbing shoulder, Ron rolled onto his back, having landed hard a few inches away from Viktor. Accepting Hermione’s outstretched hand, he pulled himself up. He turned to Krum. Stooping, he jabbed the tip of his wand sharply into the man’s neck, straddling his chest. “Kill her?”



An incomprehensible hissing noise escaped Viktor’s lips.



“Excuse me?” Ron prodded furiously, pressing his tip so hard into the man’s throat that he gagged.



Hermione grabbed his wrist, her palms sweaty. “Ron… he can’t breath,” she whispered, her tone suggesting that she was more worried her best friend may become a murderer than his potential victim’s actual well being.



Reluctantly, he eased up. “Well?”



Viktor drew in a gasping breath before speaking. “…no…”



“No! Don’t lie to me, you--filthy pile of rags!” Part of him told Ron that he was over re-acting in the slightest. That, while Viktor was a proven Death Eater and dirt bag, there may be some chance that the man’s mission was comparatively innocent. That he wasn’t supposed to kill Hermione, rather to schmoose Tom or one of his guests into doing some dirty work.



Still, the thought that Viktor might have been biding his time for the perfect chance to knock off Hermione had roused an almost subconscious, primal part of him; a part that said ‘to hell with misunderstandings. Knock him down and make sure he doesn’t come back up. Beat him with a bloody club if you have to.’



“I vos to gain the trust…” Viktor croaked, shifting under Ron’s weight. “ … Are you going to kill me, Mr. Veasley? It is in your eyes.”



“… I haven’t decided yet,” Ron heard himself say. To his right, Hermione shifted almost uncomfortably. Undoubtedly, she was torn between telling Ron to get a hold of himself, and getting right down on her knees next to him and pinning Krum’s arm to the ground. “Depends on the way your sentence ends.”



The Bulgarian sighed as much of a sigh as someone whose lungs were being crushed could manage. “I vos to gain the trust of Harry Potter’s best friends. You vere my connections. Hermy-own-ninny and yourself.”



“We’ve realized as much, thanks,” the brunette spat, taking no heed to the apologetic tone of Viktor’s voice or the pleading in his eyes. “I think what we really want to know, Viktor, is why.”



“You act as if you already know the answer,” Viktor accused.



“Of course she does, she’s Hermione.” He turned his freckled face to look up at the girl. “Maybe you should finish for him,” Ron commented sardonically, a bit annoyed by the knowing twinkle he saw in Viktor’s eyes. It quickly changed to the appropriate shine of pain as Ron dug his knees a bit deeper into his ribs. “Krum doesn’t look like he’s much in the mood to chat.”



“It’s obvious, though, Ron. He was going to use us to get to Harry. By gaining our trust, he would have had Harry’s, since Harry would trust us not to forge dodgy alliances. It’d be child's play to set up a trap, and right beneath the Order’s nose…” Hermione brought a hand to her forehead and exhaled sharply, as if she should have realized this sooner. “What? I’ve got it wrong, have I?” the girl snapped, seeing the strained way Viktor was shaking his head from side to side. With a silent nod, she told Ron to ease up on Krum’s chest, just enough so he could talk.



“I meant Ronald,” he mumbled feebly. “Ron already knows the answer. It’s in his eyes, as I said, and in the grip he has on his vand… the veight he has so kindly placed upon my chest.”



The redhead in question blinked at Viktor for a moment, a bead of sweat running down the bridge of his nose. Before Hermione could express her confusion, he snarled, “It was to kill her, then.” Krum had as good as admitted it; therefore, Ron could honestly tell himself that he would feel no guilt whatsoever after blasting this man to smithereens.



“Not exactly,” Viktor gasped, grasping Ron’s wrist just as he had begun to rather violently raise his wand.



Ron’s icy blue eyes bore into Krum’s own. “What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” he growled, trying to wrench his arm free. Viktor was proving quite strong for a man with one hundred forty-some pounds on his chest.



“No more games, Viktor,” Hermione commanded in a finalizing tone, brandishing her wand. “Let him go, and you won’t get hurt.”



“No, not hurt�”killed,” the man responded tartly. He eyed Hermione’s wand with distaste. “I do not believe you are having it in you to kill, Hermy-own-ninny. But Mr. Veasley, here…”



“Too right you are, mate,” Ron spat.



Now Hermione cast her warning gaze to the blue-eyed boy. “Tell him you won’t do anything, Ron. Promise him,” she demanded. Although commanding, her tone suggested that she didn’t want Ron to promise Krum he wouldn’t harm him�” not yet, anyway�”but rather to promise her he wouldn’t do anything rash. Like killing Viktor.



“Can’t,” he retorted simply, eyes still planted on Viktor’s face. “He was going to kill you, Hermione. You know too much for him to turn back now, we both do.”



Hermione’s silence spoke volumes, telling him how horribly his killer resolve was frightening her; how terribly irrational he was behaving, how out of character his actions were. But he had an excuse. The man upon whose chest he sat had intended�”perhaps even from the beginning, even from Fourth Year�”to take Hermione’s life. The redhead couldn’t bear to imagine Hermione’s chestnut hued eyes dull, their former kind-hearted, intelligent light gone. Forever lifeless.



Particularly not now that he had admitted to himself how much he really cared for her, not when he had been moments away from admitting it even to the brunette herself.



Oddly enough, he now felt almost grateful for the jealousy that had plagued him for two years, thankful for the monster that had torn at his insides at the very mention of Viktor Krum’s name. It was a mistake on Krum’s part, he now realized, to have egged him on, to have antagonized him, feeding the monster. If a jealously green fog hadn’t clouded his rational sight, he might not have been so stubborn in his assertions that Viktor was not to be trusted. He might not have come to the Leaky Cauldron after reading the letter Ginny had shown him. He might have gone up to his room to sulk, and Krum might have killed Hermione well before he realized that it was getting late and went to check up on her.



Just thinking about it made his anger grow. Thinking about how nonchalant Viktor had been through his exposure made him angrier, and the cautiously amused look in the man’s eye even more so. Viktor had a man on his chest, and two wands pointed at him; he’d been knocked onto his back, and is certainly facing a death sentence or, worse, life imprisonment in Azkaban. His plans had been thoroughly botched, and even if he did get away, Krum would have to face the wrath of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Ron knew that the ‘Dark Lord’ didn’t take kindly to failure.



So why was Krum acting as if this was all just a big joke, a game?



Because it was? Was Viktor toying with them?



Ron’s eyes widened as he continued to stare into Viktor’s face, though now his gaze was unseeing. Viktor was a star Quidditch player, in top physical condition. Ron wasn’t in particularly poor physical condition�”he was lazy, not flabby. But he wasn’t as fit as he’d like to think, either. Playing Keeper in school Quidditch matches hardly demanded as rigorous training sessions as world-class matches. He shouldn’t have been able to take Krum down so easily, and even if he had managed to knock the man down, Viktor could have easily wrestled him off his chest if he wanted to. If he wanted to.



It suddenly occurred to Ron that Viktor was acting so indifferent because, in fact, everything was going just spiffing, that everything was going as planned or anticipated. Perhaps it wasn’t a mistake that Viktor had roused suspicion and mistrust within him. Perhaps, knowing it would be quite difficult to befriend Ron, he had chosen to become his rival instead. And, maybe he even knew(as nearly every person in the Weasley household had, even before Ron could admit it to himself) that Hermione would have been a soft point, an easy nerve to pinch. He’d be killing two gnomes with one stone.



All he had to do then was get Hermione away somewhere where she would be vulnerable, or perhaps get her away when she was vulnerable(at this point, Ron saw again the pale, slightly tearstained face he saw when he had looked over his shoulder on the stairwell), as Viktor had already done, probably in anticipation that Ron would follow soon after, as he, too, had already done. It now seemed very possible that everything that had happened in the last fifteen minutes�”the row, him finally proving to Hermione that Krum was a Death Eater, Hermione giving Viktor a chance to explain himself, and Ron knocking the man down�”had played right into the bugger’s huge, hairy hands.



Krum had been telling the truth; he hadn’t meant to get to Harry. His mission was to kill his connections, ‘Harry Potter’s best friends’. Viktor had meant to kill not just Hermione, but Ron as well.



Ron had been so busy following his own strategy, too occupied with setting his own trap and taking out as many of his opponent’s pieces as possible, that he had allowed himself to be backed into a corner with no way to escape, and his Queen was going to go down with him. Put simply, Hermione and himself were on the bad side of a surprise ‘checkmate’ situation.



An icy fist, with a grip twice the strength of the one Krum had on his wrist, squeezed his heart, sending a rush of dread and adrenaline through his body. “Herm--!” he managed to gasp before Viktor’s left fist smashed into his skull. Alternate waves of bright light and deep darkness flashed before his eyes in time with his pulse as pain spread from his temple and flooded his mind. Coherent thought didn’t exist in the redhead’s mind as he was flung backwards, returning only an instant before his head smacked hard onto the wood floor, welcoming back the great abyss of nothingness and pain. He might have lain there for an eternity, trying to drown himself in the darkness that accompanied the pain in skull, if Hermione’s sharp yelp hadn’t brought him back to reality.



Ron forced himself up onto his knees, willing his head to clear and the pangs of pain shooting through his brain to cease. He realized that his right hand was empty; Krum’s punch and the realization that the entire situation was a set-up had come as such a shock that Ron had dropped his only useful weapon. Dizzy and defenseless, he opened his eyes, tasting blood in his mouth. For an instant, his vision swam, bubbling and distorting the world around him. A world that consisted of two dark orbs shrouded in shadow and reeked of cheap cologne.



“Gerroff me!” he sputtered, thrashing against Krum’s solid frame. He would have punched the man square in the nose, Merlin new he wanted to see the man spill blood, but Viktor had Ron’s arms pinned at his sides.



“I could do it now, you know,” Viktor taunted, his voice that of a madman. “One flick of my vist, and your neck vould snap.”



“I never did like you,” Ron snarled, choosing to ignore the fact that he had practically worshipped the bloke prior to and during much of Fourth Year. Having given up his thrashing, he was now attempting to gain a bit of leverage with his knees.



“And I--”



“Oppugno!”



In a flash of gold light, a great weight was lifted off Ron’s shoulders. Far away, he heard the familiar sound of shattering glass, followed by the unmistakable thud-crash of a body smashing into several wooden stools. He could sense Hermione at his side an instant later. Her gaze was planted on the pile of robes and limbs that lay haphazardly someway down the bar, draped over numerous stools and sprinkled with cutlery. They both watched the body for a moment longer, keen for any sign of movement. Sufficiently assured the Viktor wouldn’t be rising anytime soon, Ron turned his eyes to Hermione. “Thanks for that,” he mumbled, taking her hand and pulling himself up. He scrubbed his face with his hands as a terrible dizziness consumed him, wand they soon became damp with an abhorrent blend of sweat and blood.



“I’m sorry,” Hermione said quietly, inspecting his freckled face. She thumbed a cut on his temple, memorial to where Krum’s knuckles had met Ron’s skull, and the source of all the blood. Ron sucked air in sharply through his teeth, fighting not to flinch. The wound wasn’t horribly deep, but it was wide and about two inches in length.



“You didn’t tackle me,” Ron muttered truthfully, shaking his head. He quickly stopped the motion, though; it already felt like his brain was trying to force its way out of its skull using a hammer and chisel, and shaking his head only made it feel worse. He almost couldn’t stand the way Hermione was staring at him, looking guilty and concerned and bemused at the same time. He shifted his gaze to the left, looking over her shoulder at the mess of stools, glass, and hair that was Krum’s sorry form. “And you didn’t know he was… you know.”



“No,” she admitted, averting her own gaze. “But… I’m sorry I hadn’t believed you in the first place, or gone for help when you told me to. I was…”



“Confused? And then you were confused even more,” Ron added with a forced grin. “Because not very much ever confuses Hermione Granger. Except chess.”



Sheepishly, Hermione looked up at him. “You’d be surprised.” The redhead cocked an eyebrow, or would have if the eyebrow in question hadn’t been momentarily out-of-order, but Hermione shook her head. “I am sorry, Ron. About… everything.”



“Stop it,” Ron demanded, his voice perhaps a bit harsher than he would have liked. Hermione’s eyes widened, and Ron felt another icy fist squeeze his heart. The brunette was disconcerted enough as it was--he could tell by the look on her face that Hermione was trying very hard to maintain her composure--and here he was making things worse. The freckled boy hesitantly wrapped his arms around her shoulders.



“I mean, stop apologizing. Please, stop saying you’re sorry, Hermione. ” Not feeling quite as awkward now that Hermione was returning his embrace, Ron spoke into her shoulder, his gaze roving the disaster scene before him; glass, straws, and forks littered the beaten floor, and all but one stool had been toppled in the scuffle. Ironically, almost symbolically, Viktor’s wand was still resting beneath the stool, forgotten. To the left of it, equally forgotten and symbolic, was a shining silver chain. The necklace must have fallen from his breast pocket when he had run down the Quidditch player.



Even distracted by the pendant, Ron could hear the smile in Hermione’s voice. “Can I be sorry I hadn’t let you hex the hell out of him?” she inquired, although her tone and the fact that she had cussed revealed that she was only half-joking.



“Will it make you feel better?” Ron asked, releasing her and holding her at arms length. Pale and seemingly exhausted, tearstains still evident on her cheeks, he thought she must feel as horrible as he felt and, probably, looked. He considered confessing everything just then; explaining to Hermione that it had been jealousy that had had him following her to Hogsmeade and that had eventually saved them both; embarrassed panic that had justified lying to his mum and caused the twins to invent a disease in order to hide a stupid trinket; and not intellectual interest but interest in an intellectual that had brought about his request for her Charms textbook.





But he couldn’t help feeling that now wasn’t the right time. She was too vulnerable, they both were. Instead, he chose to keep his mouth shut and smile down at her as she nodded in reply. “It would help, I think.”



“Alright, then,” Ron conceded, dropping his arms. “If you think so.”



Hermione caught his hands before they fell to his sides, giving them a friendly squeeze. “It’s settled then; I wish I had let you curse the living day-lights out of him before he gave you a concussion.”



Ron was thankful for the second time in two days that there was an abundance of a sticky red substance plastered to his face.



After a moment, he gestured with his chin to a point over Hermione’s shoulder. “I don’t think he’ll be waking anytime soon. One of us should head back to the Burrow, or maybe Gri… Headquarters. The Order will want to get a head start…” His voice trailed off as his gaze returned to Hermione’s face. Her expression clearly said that she would not be the one to go, and Ron knew he sure as hell wasn’t about to leave Hermione alone. At the risk of starting yet another row, he whined, “Well, we can’t both stay here, someone has to--”



“Shh!” Hermione glanced over her shoulder, scanning the bar warily. Evidently not finding what she was searching for, she turned back to Ron. “Sorry. I… thought I heard something. It was just nerves, I suppose. Paranoia setting in. Discovering that someone you trust�”or detest-- actually has it in for you can do that to a person.”



The redhead grunted in agreement, but nevertheless, his gaze was on it’s own search-and-destroy mission. Nothing seemed peculiar; Krum didn’t appear to have moved, and there didn’t seem t be anyone on the staircase. The necklace was still exactly where it had been, next to Krum’s wand. Except, Viktor’s wand wasn’t there anymore.



He hadn’t even had time to comprehend this fact before movement caught his attention in the corner of his eye. Ron flicked his stare to what had once been the sorry pile of robes and limbs just in time to see that Viktor had risen from the wreckage. Aiming through the upturned legs of a chair, his wand was pointed at an unsuspecting Hermione’s upper back, the first words of the Killing Curse already curling on his lips.



In an instant, Ron swung Hermione around, doing an odd sort of two-step in an effort to maneuver her out of Viktor’s range. With his back to the Death Eater and making a conscious effort not to look the girl in the face, as much so that she couldn’t see the fear in his eyes as it was so that he couldn’t see the terror in hers, he flung an arm around the girl’s shoulders once more, but kept his other hand firmly locked in hers(“Ron?”).



From what Ron could hear, Viktor seemed to be enjoying the struggle. He was speaking the incantation painfully slow, relishing each syllable. “Advada…”



The stiffness of Hermione’s body told Ron that she now fully understood the situation. His assumption proved correct as the girl’s rigidity melted away and she began to fight against him, her voice dripping with dismay. “Ro-on!”



Holding Hermione fast and squeezing his eyes shut, Ron hissed, “Hermione, I’m sorry.” Not for the first time, the brunette’s voice rang truthfully in his mind, It’s now or never. “And--I lo--”



“…Kedavara!”



Although Ron finished his sentence, his words were drowned out by a powerful roar. The entire bar glowed a deep, vibrant green as the spell flew across the room from the tip of Viktor’s wand, deadly as a bullet. Ron heard Hermione scream; faintly thought that Krum might have called his name. Then a second crack reverberated in the air, louder than the first roar, and the wind was knocked right out of his lungs as they seemed to catch fire. The redhead collapsed to the ground, only having time to consider coming back as a ghost, if only to see Hermione again, before everything went black.

Ron awoke to find himself shrouded in darkness. Waking, he supposed, was not an entirely accurate way of putting it�”you can’t wake up once you’re dead, now, can you? Terminology aside, rational thoughts were forming in his mind, echoing around in the dark abyss.
Where the bloody hell am I?

And why is it so da�”

He boy recoiled as everything came rushing back to him in a surge of memories rich in sound and color. He saw himself berating the bartender, demanding that he let him upstairs to talk to Hermione; the girl’s face swam before his mind’s eye, first frustrated and tearstained, then apologetic and anxious, and finally, horror-struck. Ron could hear Viktor’s heavily accented voice snarling the killing curse. The sound of Hermione shouting his name as he held her was still echoing in his ears as he thought,
So that’s it, then. I’m dead.

Death wasn’t so bad, he supposed. At least it didn’t hurt. Except… it did. It hurt not knowing whether Hermione had made it out or not, whether she had gotten away from the berserk Bulgarian. And it hurt knowing that he would never be able to tell her… anything, anymore.

The old saying ‘hindsight is twenty-twenty’ came to mind as a horrific thought struck him; what if, by clutching the girl so closely to him, Ron had hindered her ability to slip away? What if, frozen in instantaneous death, Hermione hadn’t been able to wriggle out of his lifeless arms, or to raise her wand in defense against Viktor? And if rigor mortis hadn’t paralyzed him, what if the dead weight of his body had knocked the brunette off balance and pinned her to the ground, leaving her helpless as a the Death Eater did his master’s bidding? Or, what if--?

He stopped mid-thought, a spasm of pain shooting through his head. He had thought too soon: apparently, being dead did hurt. Like hell.

Ron cried out into the nothingness, his voice laden with pain of two varieties. A kind of muffled laughter filled his mind, as if the darkness itself was mocking him. He wished he had had time to say goodbye. To his mum, his father; Ginny and the twins; to Harry… The truth was, he did have a chance to say his goodbyes to Hermione, but no. He had to go and waste his breath on the three most meaningless words in existence. Not that he regretted it. If given the chance to “rescue” Hermione again, he wouldn’t have done anything different. Actually saying the words to her had been a release of sorts, a relief, and he knew that he would despise himself if he hadn’t said it at all.

His only regrets were that he hadn’t said it sooner, and that he hadn’t had the foresight to shove Hermione out of the way instead of locking her in a death grip.

Ron clenched his teeth as another jolt of pained seemed to shoot through his head. He cursed violently, and the darkness mocked him once more.

How can you be so insensitive? a familiar voice chimed.

It figures, Ron thought; even in death, Hermione was there to scold his language. Ron knew it was merely a hallucination, a surfacing memory, perhaps. Merlin knew how many times Ron had heard those very same words in the last six years. The darkness mumbled something back to the girl. Although the redhead couldn’t quite make out the words, he thought that maybe the darkness�”or whatever lay behind it, for did darkness alone have a voice in death?�”was mocking the hallucination. His guess was confirmed as the Hermione-hallucination spoke for a second time, this time sounding flustered, and perhaps even embarrassed.

I’ve had enough of you. I can’t take this�”just… go... Her voice sounded closer now, clearer. Tentatively, Ron spoke into the darkness. “…Hermione?”

There was a startled pause, and an even more startled reply. “Ron?”

“You’re here, too?” At first, Ron had been delighted by the response�”he hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to truly hear the brown-eyed girl’s voice again�”but then dread washed over him like an ice cold shower.

“Only because of you,” the girl replied softly.

There was not even a trace of accusation in her voice, but Ron felt guilt press in on him like the suffocating darkness they were shrouded in. He cursed again, and it seemed each time he did, the words got a bit cruder. “Oh, bloody hell, Hermione. I’m�”I’m sorry. It was my fault, I shouldn’t have�”If I had been thinking--”

“I wouldn’t be here.”

“I know! I know… that’s why I’m so… sorry… Maybe if I had just…” He felt Hermione take his hand, and this time the jolt of pain didn’t pass through his head, but through his heart. They were so close! She was right next to him, figuratively, anyway, and the darkness was so heavy that he couldn’t even see her. He could touch her, and hear her breathing, but he couldn’t see her.

“Hush,” she whispered. “You’re getting worked up, and that can’t be good. There’s nothing to worry about, everything’s f--”

“Everything is not ‘fine’!” he insisted feverishly, shaking his head violently. The familiar sensation�”the one that suggested that his brain was trying to force its way out of his skull�”returned, but he didn’t care. “Are you mental? Don’t you realize? The darkness, the pain�”you’re dead, Hermione. Dead. That is most certainly not ‘fine’.”

The young girl couldn’t keep puzzlement out of her voice. “But, I’m not dead.”

Denial, Ron thought, Bless her, the woman’s in denial. “But you must be, because you’re here, talking to me. And… I am, so… Hermione. Try to remember. After Krum… got me, what happened after that? ” Hermione was silent for a long moment, but Ron knew she was still there; he could hear her breathing, still felt her hand in his. “You remember, don’t you?” he said after a minute, his voice gentle and patient. “See?” More silence as she squeezed his hand a bit tighter. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

There might have been a hint of a chuckle in her voice when Hermione said, “Open your eyes, Ron.”

“…What?”

“Open your eyes.”

He hesitated, and Hermione whispered the command again. Not seeing what good it would do when all he was going to see was more darkness, even if somehow he did manage to ‘open his eyes’, he humored the brown eyed girl, and tentatively lifted his left eyelid. It was a strenuous task; it felt like his lashes were made of lead, and the effort sent a faint, pulsing pain across his brow that made him cringe.

But it was worth it to see Hermione’s eyes staring back at him. “Hermione!” He made to sit up, but the bushy-haired girl placed a gentle hand on his chest, shaking her head and grinning.

“Not so fast,” she said, sitting back down on the side of the sterile-white hospital bed. “They just got your head to stop bleeding; keep on like that and you’ll get it going again.”

Ron stared around at the room, recognizing it as one of many in St. Mungo’s. He appeared to have the room to himself; the bed to his left was empty, at least, and the sheets looked as if they hadn’t been disturbed in ages. Off to the right were a set of matching chairs that had been pulled together a few feet from his bed, tilted at an angle so that whomever sat in them could see the others as well as the bed’s occupant. The bright light streaming in from the open window made his eyes ache, but the pain was welcome, because the unrelenting darkness was gone. Ron felt achy all over, particularly above his left eye and in the back of his head. “But… I thought… What the bloody hell just happened?” Ron used his elbows to hoist himself into a sitting position, going slow upon Hermione’s request. The effort made him dizzy. “No one’s ever lived through a killing curse�”save for Harry, of course…. But that was different. I’m supposed to be dead, aren’t I?”

The girl averted her gaze, wringing her hands in her lap. “Yes, and no. It depends on how you look at it.” She chanced a glance up at the freckled lad in time to see uncertainty flash across his features. With a sigh, Hermione rearranged herself on the bed so that she could see him better. “If things had gone as Viktor planed, you�”and I, most likely�”would be dead.”

Ron blinked at her some more, having no clue where Hermione was getting at. His head hurt too much at the moment, or else he would have told her so.

“And up until a moment or so after you grabbed me, things were doing just that. I thought for sure that… that the spell had hit its mark,” she explained, struggling to keep her voice from cracking. “All I could see was green for an instant, and then you collapsed. I thought…” Hermione blinked at him for a second as she struggled with words and fought the tears brimming in her eyes. An instant later, she had her elbows resting on her knees and her head in her hands.

Horrified, Ron stared at the girl, wondering what he had done this time. “Hermione…?”

“I don’t know what I would have done, Ron…” she began, tearing her gaze away from his to stare at the floor. “If… if you had…”

“Died?” twin voices finished for her, their tones remarkably more chipper and cheerful than the girl’s. The sorrow in her eyes quickly changing to annoyance and incredulity.

George turned one of the chairs around and straddled it backwards, crossing his arms on the back and resting his chin. “Oh, yes. That would have been dreadful. Absolutely dreadful.”

“I can’t imagine the tizzy mum would be in if you had kicked the bucket, mate,” Fred piped up. “And the rest of us would have been choked up, too, of course.”

“Some of us more than others,” George added with a mischievous glance at Hermione. She returned his glance with a fiendish glare that might have made three-year-olds cry, but instead provoked chuckles and grins from the stocky teens. “Chipper up, Hermione. Alls well that ends well, right?”

“But what if it hadn’t ended well?” Hermione growled at the twins. “You’re brother�”how can you be so�”so…” Ron reached for her hand, but she stood up, suddenly filled with restless energy.

“Even if Dad hadn’t been there, Hermione, and Krum had hit his mark�”at least Ron would have died a hero! That’s a right sight better than dying a git, I say,” Fred replied simply.

“How can you be so inconsiderate?” For a moment, Ron rather thought Hermione was going to smack his brother right across the face. Instead, Hermione turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, only pausing to cast a teary, almost apologetic glance back at Ron before she disappeared down the hall.

“Brilliant,” the weary redhead muttered, leaning back on his pillows.

Earnestly, George offered, “It was for the best, really. The woman needs a good cry by herself.”

“You should have been awake an hour ago,” Fred interjected. “Hermione was positively having kittens, she was. It was scary, actually. Never cried, just leaned against the wall, staring at you, looking ghastly. Ginny said she’d rather see Hermione cry than look like that again.”

“We tried to cheer her up�”you were only knocked out, after all, and the Healers had given you the right-o. But she got all defensive and told us to clear out.”

“Why are you telling me this? Is it supposed to make me feel better? Because its not.”

“Well, no. I suppose knowing you’ve made someone miserable isn’t exactly a Cheering Charm. Actually, we came to talk about that pretty little necklace of yours,” George replied casually, unsurprised by the expression of alarm that crossed his little brother’s freckled face.

He’d forgotten all about the necklace; finding out you’re not actually dead and watching your best friend march out of the room nearly in tears can do that to a person. But, he found himself thinking that the necklace didn’t matter much to him anymore. There were more important things in life. Like…life, and the people with whom you share it. Heaving a sigh, he muttered, “It’s gone. Fell out my pocket when I tackled Viktor. But it’s not a big deal, really…”

“Ah, but it isn’t lost. Dad found it. He thought it was Hermione’s at first. Still does,” Fred assured his little brother, grinning as alarm changed from relief and back to alarm on the boy’s face.

Ron opened his mouth to ask another question, but the other twin held up a freckled hand to silence him, knowing exactly what he was going to ask. “She hasn’t a clue; we told him we’d make sure the pretty little trinket got to its owner safely before he could give it to her.”

A Healer walked by the door, poking her head in briefly to see if everything was all right; Ron told her everything was excellent, and declined a pain-killing potion. When the blonde was gone, he asked the twins, “You said dad found it? But… what was dad doing at the Leaky Cauldron?” His gaze was drawn to the door again as Ginny walked in, tentative at first, but then with a spring in her step when she saw Ron was up.

The girl bent to give her brother a brief hug. “Finally!” she gasped, grinning. “You had us worried something awful, mum especially. Dad’s in with her now. We’re supposed to wait here until someone calls.”

“Until someone calls…? About what?”

Ginny turned to look sharply at Fred and George. “He still doesn’t know?”

“Know what?” Ron demanded.

The twins shrugged. “We haven’t gotten around to telling him, yet,” Fred muttered to his little sister.

“ Gotten around to telling me what?”

“I can’t believe you haven’t told him!” Ginny exclaimed in amazement.

George stood, stretching nonchalantly. “We’ve been tying up some loose ends, Ginny. The subject hasn’t gotten round to mum as of yet. Well, now it has, but that’s beside the point.”

Panic seized Ron yet again. He felt as if he might explode, with so many questions rushing through his mind like river rapids, most of them pertaining to the two most important women in his life; his mother, of course, and Hermione. “What’s wrong with mum?” And Hermione, what’s wrong with her? Whatever happened to Viktor? What was dad doing at the Leaky Cauldron�”and why the bloody hell aren’t I dead?!

“Mum isn’t ‘beside the point’, she is the point! What could possibly be more important than--” George whipped the silver pendant out of his pocket and held it before his sister. Ginny stared at it for a minute, watching the trinket wind and unwind itself on the chain. “Oh… You haven’t given it to her yet?” the freckled girl asked suddenly, turning her incredulous gaze on Ron instead of the twins. She took the necklace from George and dropped it into Ron’s outstretched palm.

“Well, I… I was a bit busy, see, Krum being a Death Eater and wanting to blast us to bits and whatnot…” Ron mumbled, his voice dripping with frustration.

Ginny recoiled at his tone, eyebrows raised. “Sorry! I just assumed you must have, given the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” he growled. He would have shouted if his head didn’t pound with every syllable. “You know what�”I don’t care about the circumstances! Will somebody just answer my question?”

“Nothing is wrong with your mother,” Hermione answered abruptly, startling every Weasley in the room. She seemed to have regained her composure, and color had returned to her face. Even her eyes seemed clearer. “Mrs. Weasley’s perfectly fine. A bit tired, but that’s to be expected when one is attempting to bring new life into the world.”

Ron blinked at Hermione, not understanding what she was saying. “…what?”

“You know how odd your mum’s been acting lately? Her moods… odd cravings… the ‘weight’ she’s put on? That wasn’t stress,” Hermione asserted, striding into the room. “She was pregnant, Ron. Your mum is going to have a baby.”

Ginny, Fred, and George tore their stares from Hermione’s face to watch Ron’s reaction. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat and asked in a slightly higher tone than usual, “How the bloody hell did that happen?”

A devilish grin formed on Fred’s face. “Well, you see, little brother, when two people really love each other…”

“Shut up!” Ron spat, his ears growing red. “But… I mean…. Oh, this day just keeps getting better and better…” He leaned back on his pillows, throwing the necklace upon the bedspread so that his hands were free to scrub his face. “She’s doing okay, though, right? There aren’t any…?”

“Complications?” the brunette offered with a thin smile. “No, she’s doing brilliant. Your dad’s a bit worse for wear, actually. But Mrs. Weasley’s fine. Just fine.”

“Is it a boy or a girl, do you know?” Ginny asked.

Hermione shrugged, sitting on the edge of Ron’s bed again. “Not yet. I don’t think it’ll be much longer, though… What is that?” she added, motioning with her hand to the end of the bed.

“Hunh?” Ron opened his eyes and peered through the gaps in his fingers at Hermione. “What’s what?” To his right, Ginny was making an odd noise with her throat, somewhere between a hiss and a hum.

“Oh, wow,” he heard Hermione breath, and he lowered his gaze to see her fingering the silver chain at the foot of the bed.

“Oh, no,” Ginny whispered, followed by curses from the twins and Ron’s, “Bloody hell.” His hands slid slowly down his face and chest to rest limp at his sides, and he could feel color start rising in his cheeks and ears. “Hermione, I can explain…”

“Explain what?” she asked, looking up from the necklace to stare curiously at Ron.

“That it’s mine!” George said suddenly, and the eyes that were previously planted on Ron flicked to him.

Hermione was rolling the trinket in her fingers now. “It is?”

“It is?” Ginny echoed, looking at her brother with an air of distrust.

George comfirmed the fact with a hearty nod. “It is, yes.”

Sitting on the hospital bed, the freckled boy couldn’t believe his ears. Was this the second or third time the twins had tried to cover for him in the last few days? Watching a story effortlessly take shape behind George’s eyes, Ron decided that enough was enough. No more lies. “No, it’s not. The necklace, it doesn’t belong to George.”

Fred laughed, and punched his twin lightly in the arm. “Of course, not when one is speaking technically. Technically, it belongs to Katie Bell. We nipped out to Hogsmeade yesterday, and Forge saw that pretty little thing in a shop window and knew he had to have it. That is to say, he knew Katie had to have it. Not him.”

“How sweet,” the brown-haired girl replied with a grin.

Fred nodded, glancing at his brother with convincing scorn. “Painfully so.”

Ron shook his head and said, almost inaudibly, “Guys, it’s alright. You can stop.”

“I was never so ‘cute’ with Angelina,” Fred went on, “ I don’t see why he has to be so… gentleman-like. It’s nauseating.”

“Fred…” the younger lad called warningly.

George rounded on his brother, what looked to be sincere color rising in his freckled cheeks. “Maybe that’s why you lot broke it off two months into the game!” he spat accusingly.

“George…”

“It was three months, thank you very much!” Fred snapped.

“Oh-ho, one month! Big difference.”

“Ginny!” Ron hissed. The girls were watching the twins with mingled amusement and exasperation, but Ginny managed to look away long enough to catch Ron’s pleading stare. With a nod, she pushed herself off the wall and grabbed her brothers by the arm.

“Come on, you two can make a scene in the waiting room,” she said, sounding like a kindergarten teacher trying to get the class ready for naptime. The twins kept bickering as Ginny tugged them out the door and down the hall, only quieting down when the fiery girl shouted at them to shut up.

“It’s mine,” Ron said with a small cringe.

“Pardon?”

“The necklace, it isn’t George’s… or Katie’s. It belongs to me.”

Hermione blinked at him. “But then, why would George say it was--”

“They were trying to help me. And that whole, yellow-tongue disease thing, that was a lie, too.”

“You’re kidding!”

The sarcasm in Hermione’s voice startled him. He looked up, relieved to see that she was smiling. Heartened, Ron allowed a smile of his own to cross his freckled features, and tentatively took the girl’s hand. “Hermione. I need to tell you something….”





Bulgaria’s Star Seeker Behind Bars

This morning Bulgaria’s own Viktor Krum, star Quidditch player and former Tri-Wizard Champion for Durmstrang, was apprehended by the Ministry on accusations of working and conspiring in accordance with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. He will be charged in due course for attempted murder, conspiracy against the Ministry, and dis-orderly conduct.. According to Tom, the barkeep at the Leaky Cauldron, the place where Krum was taken into custody, the Death Eater was found unconcious, and quite, quite guilty. Tom reported seeing the accused slumped over an over-turned barstool, obviously stunned, covered with splinters of wood and glass.
“See, the freckled lad�”that one, who’s knocked out?-- came in here an half hour ago, squaking about one thing or another. He mentioned something about a friend of his being in trouble, that she was probably up there with Krum. I asked him to settle down a bit, sit and have a drink, and I’d go check for him, you know? I’d suspected something curious from the start, see, so, like I said, I went to check at Viktor’s room.” Scratching his head, Tom adds with apparent confusion, “Something happened up there, I don’t ‘member what, but when I came to, there was a sound like a barfight down here, so I came to check. I heard him [Viktor] start the Killing curse, and there was a flash…”
When asked what he did next, the bartender replied, “Nothing I coulda done, it was all happenin’ so fast, see, I’m not as young as I used to be, yeh know. Anyway, then there was another flash of green, and I realise, someone’s using the fireplace! So I look over that way, and sure enough, another redheaded bloke comes out, and quick as a kitten stuns Krum just as he finishes the incantation.” This ‘redheaded bloke’ turned out to be non-other than our Ministry’s own Arthur Weasley, of the Department for Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. Why exactly he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron at such an opprotune time is unclear, as Mr. Weasley declined any comment. Upon qustioning, he did, however, express great concern for his wife, who had been transported to St. Mungo’s shortly before the incedent.
“I thought for sure the freckled kid was done for, but then sometin’ round him ‘sploded and he and the girl�”by the looks of it, huggin’ I guess�”sorta ripped apart. She was fine, the girl, but the boy, I dunno, I think he musta been knocked out or sometin’…” As of yet, Tom remains the only one willing to enlighten the public. That is not to say that we gave up on our story when Arthur fled the scene and we were ordered to leave by an auror with stunningly pink hair.
We successfully tracked down the two teens Tom described for us, locating them at a far room in Mungo’s maternity ward after about an hour of asking around. Mr. Weasley was less than pleased to see us knocking at his wife’s hospital room door, unfortuantely, and promptly informed us that only immediate family members were allowed to enter. He was not, however, able to slam the door in our faces fast enough�”as always, my faithful phtographer was able to pull through for myself and the readers, leaving us with a single photo that, for some, may only inspire more questions than answers. I’ll give you a hint, you don’t need a color photo to tell that a certain someone’s hair sticks out like a sore thumb�”either she’s the milkman’s child, or Mr. Weasley’s a bad liar.


“Two minutes, Elma! And not a second more, I mean it!”

A pair of blue eyes rolled behind Zebra-print glasses. “Of course, miss,” the small witch replied. Taking a leisurly bite out of her breakfast muffin, Elma flicked her gaze to the photo Tabatha had been referring to.

It certainly looked as if it was taken at the very last possible moment.

On the left margin, an older man with a tired face could be seen clutching the hospital room door, clearly attempting to shut the reporters out of the room. In the center of the photo was a hospital bed, occupied by an exhausted but joyful looking witch cuddling a small bundle of blankets. A young girl with cherry-hued hair sat next to the older woman on the bed, wiggling her finger at the bundle, while a pair of identical young men�”men Elma immediately recognized as the owners of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes--stood on either side of her.

The curtain that divided the already cramped room parted to reveal the freckled boy she knew to be one of the subjects of Tabatha Meade’s artical, Ron Weasley. Elma looked him over with the trained eye of a jeweler. He looked quite cheerful�”pale, yes, but otherwise simply elated, nevermind the golfball groing under the skin above his left eyebrow. She watched as he made to stand on the other side of his mother’s bed. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder and said something to the curtain, holding out his hand.

She could not help but smile, watching yet another hand appear through the curtain to hold Ron’s. It almost made her giggle, watching the gawky, awkward teen that had visited her shop a week ago pull a young woman out of the curtain, like a rabbit from a hat.

The girl stepped up to the side of the bed, and Elma couldn’t help but notice how close the pair was standing. “Ah, so this is the lucky lady, well, I must say--”

“You’re two minutes was up thirty seconds ago, you good for nothing wench!” Griselda crashed through the curtain dividing the front and back of the store. She ripped the paper from Elma’s small hands, her eyes flashing across the page. “Now, just what is so important that you---Is this that boy who was in my store last week, one of your charity cases?” she demanded, poking the photograph with a manicured finger.

Elma nodded, brushing crumbs onto the floor. “Of course it is. See there, the girl standing next to him? That’s who he gave the necklace to.”

“So it is…” Griselda huffed. She brought the paper so close to her face that it touched her nose. “Is that�”oh, Merlin help me, a teaspoon!?

“Is it really?” Elma snatched at the paper, a smile twitching in the corners of her mouth. “Mercy me, its uncanny, he really did a fabulous job--”

“At defacing a very expensive piece of jewelry! Look how he’s repayed you, Elma, that imbecile--”

Griselda’s sentence was cut short as an eription of girlish giggles bubbled from her coworker’s mouth; the bushy haired girl in the photo had just kissed Ron on the cheek, and the color burning in his face was just as obvious in black-and-white. “Oh, shove off, Griselda,” Elma chuckled, sweeping a biscuit off the counter and stuffing it into her boss’ gaping mouth.