“Wake up,” called the voice from above.
“Wassat?” murmured Hermione back. She smiled contentedly to herself and, ignoring the voice, turned over in an attempt to get back to the lovely dream she was having. Music played through her head, and she sighed deeply. She felt something nudge her on the shoulder.
“Not now, Crookshanks,” she muttered “I need to sleep, sweetheart.”
The nudging got more insistent until, finally, Hermione opened one eye to find herself staring into the blue eyes of her nearly brother-in-law, Charlie Weasley. “What are you doing in my bedroom?” she moaned, too dazed to be annoyed.
“Nothing,” Charlie replied.
“You must be doing something, Charlie,” she asserted. “Even if it’s just breathing, you’re always doing something.” She closed her eyes again, drifting right back to sleep, except-
Charlie chuckled. “Very logical, Hermione, but still wrong. I’m not in your bedroom.”
She snorted. “I may be very sleepy, but I’m not dreaming your existence. Now, go away before people get the wrong idea. Ron might even hex you.”
She felt his hand on her shoulder again. “I’m not in your bedroom, and neither are you, Hermione. You’re in the bathroom. More precisely, you’re currently snuggling up to a toilet, having turned the seat into a pillow.”
“That’s nice,” she said, yawning. She heard him laughing again, and then, as his words sank in, she opened her eyes. “I’m in the bathroom?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Why?” Hermione lifted her head and looked around her. Charlie was not lying. She was sitting on the floor of the top floor bathroom at Grimmauld Place.
“Not sure,” Charlie replied smoothly. “I think it has something to do with you needing to send an owl last night; you thought it was best to send it from here.”
“Who was I sending an owl to?” she asked, puzzled. “Wasn’t everyone here last night? Oh, was Ron late again? Typical!”
Charlie grimaced. “Nope, it wasn’t Ron ... and unfortunately for you, he was here last night.”
She frowned. “Why is that unfortunate?”
Charlie stood up. “Because, my lovely sister-in-law-to-be - hopefully, that is - last night you sent an owl to someone called Cormac McLaggen.”
“Merlin’s pants!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t.”
Charlie nodded. “Although you were so drunk you did keep calling him Caramac Cloggan, so you might get away with it.”
“B...b...but,” Hermione spluttered, unable to make sense of Charlie’s story. “I didn’t drink anything last night. I didn’t want to feel awful the next day, so I stuck to Butterbeer.”
“Ha!” Charlie mocked her. “Hermione, I think it’s best to come clean now. Confess to having had a few too many, and I’m sure everyone will laugh off last night’s performance.”
“There’s more?” she asked in a quavering voice.
“Oh, yes,” Charlie replied and walked towards the door. “There’s a helluva lot more.”
“Like what?” she whimpered.
“I’ll let the others tell you,” Charlie said, stepping out into the landing. “Oh, and Hermione...”
“Yes,” she answered dully.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, God,” she groaned, hearing his footsteps down the stairs. “It’s Christmas morning, and I’m sitting on the floor of the bathroom. What in Merlin’s name happened to me?” She shook her head, pleased to find it didn’t hurt; she just felt a bit woozy, that was all. “I wasn’t drunk! I know I didn’t touch anything stronger than Butterbeer.”
“’Tis a strong drink for some, Miss Granger,” croaked a voice coming through the door. She looked up to see Kreacher toddling into the room, carrying a mop and bucket. He looked around as though he expected to see puddles of something on the floor, but, seeing nothing, he turned around and headed back towards the stairs. “Miss Granger did seem to be having fun last night. All that dancing.”
“Dancing?” she asked faintly.
“Yes, Miss,” he replied eagerly. “On the dining room table. Kreacher has finished clearing up the broken plates now.”
“Broken plates?” she whimpered. A memory was seeping into her head of crockery breaking. Had she rowed with Ron? Had she thrown plates at him? She screwed up her face in concentration, trying desperately to remember, but the memory stubbornly remained distant. She tugged at Kreacher’s arm. “Why was I breaking plates?”
“Greek dancing,” he affirmed. “Miss was showing us all how it was done.”
“But... I can’t do Greek dancing... I’ve never even been to Greece,” she uttered faintly.
She heard a laugh from the landing. “Didn’t stop you last night, Hermione,” Ginny said, giggling as she walked into the bathroom. “Last night, you instructed us all in ‘Athenian dancing’ and then you started talking about Athenian men.”
She reached out her hand; Hermione accepted it gratefully. As she stood, she felt something slip down her shoulder. She looked down in horror as she realised she was wearing a sheet and nothing else.
“Ah, yes,” added Ginny. “You also told us that the party was very boring, and we should be wearing togas.”
“I didn’t?” whispered Hermione in horror, but she knew Ginny wasn’t lying. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could remember running into a bedroom and stripping it of sheets. “What happened to me, Ginny? Did someone slip me a drink?”
Ginny looked thoughtful. “I don’t think so. It’s not as if we’re back at Hogwarts. When we offered to hold Aunt Muriel’s birthday party here, we weren’t expecting you to turn it into an orgy!”
“Wh...what do you mean by that?” Hermione asked.
“Umm, well, let’s just say that, last night, Ron was muttering about shoving his wand in an unmentionable part of George’s anatomy!”
Hermione blanched and began to sway. “Oh, gods!”
“Interesting...” murmured Ginny. “You haven’t disputed or questioned my mention of George. You remember some things, then.”
Closing her eyes, Hermione nodded. She remembered George and a bed “ very clearly. She gulped. “I think I need to talk to Ron, don’t I?”
“I think you should find your clothes first, Hermione,” replied Ginny dryly. “Besides, Ron isn’t here. He and Harry have been called in to work.”
“Work?” queried Hermione. “It’s Christmas Day!”
Ginny pulled a face. “Since when has that stopped the Auror Department? They had a call from Dad this morning about some Dark Magic objects that have appeared. Bac... something.” She shook her head. “Sorry, Harry did tell me, but I was so bleary-eyed from last night that I didn’t take a word in.”
The room Hermione should have slept in on Christmas Eve was on the second floor. Kreacher had carried her small bag to the room the morning before and laid out her night dress on the pillow. He’d hung her clothes in the wardrobe; opening the door, she pulled out the red velvet dress she’d planned to wear for the Christmas celebrations. Ron, she knew, loved this dress. But will he still? she pondered.
She glanced across at the bedside table, noticing that Kreacher had also unpacked the new books she’d treated herself to only yesterday morning. On the floor, she could see scrunched up pieces of paper. She picked one up and smoothed it out. “Oh, no,” she moaned as she recognised her writing.
‘Dear Caramac,’ she’d written.
‘I’m sitting in my bedroom “ actually, it’s not my bedroom, it’s Harry’s bedroom. Do you remember Harry Potter? Well, I’m in his bedroom... not with him, though... it’s his spare room. I need to ask you something. It’s very, very, very, very, very important, Caramac. I NEED to ask you about your thighs. Don’t ask me why “ I just do, okay? Also, are you Athenian? That is important. Very, very, very, very, very important.
Yours “ actually, I never was, was I? Ha-ha! “
Hermione nearly-Weasley-Granger’
“And that was a rough draft,” she cried. “What on earth did I actually send to him?” She studied the note again. “And why was I so obsessed with thighs?”
There was a knock at the door, a tentative tap. Hermione lifted her head to see George standing nervously beyond the threshold.
“Can I come in?” he asked, in a very quiet voice.
“I...I...I’m not sure,” Hermione stuttered.
“We need to talk about last night,” he stated firmly.
Hermione backed away as he walked in. “George, we have nothing to say. Whatever happened last night was obviously because I’d had too much ... wine ... or was tired ... or... or ... or..” A thought struck her. “Was I Confunded?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” he replied. George walked over to the chair by the dressing table. Hermione edged towards the wardrobe. He took a deep breath. “Hermione, you’re a nice girl ... and very attractive “”
“George, stop,” she cried in alarm. “I’m engaged to your brother.”
“Yes, and I’m seeing Angelina who, in case you didn’t know, can fly into a rage that would scare even my mum!”
“So stop trying to seduce me,” she implored him. “George, it won’t work. It can never work. What happened last night was a mistake ... an accident ... a “” She stopped and looked at him curiously. “Why are you grinning?”
“I’m not here to seduce you, Hermione,” he said, as his smile split his face in two. “What exactly do you remember about last night?”
Hermione blushed and began fiddling with one of the pleats of her dress. “I... um ... remember being on a bed with you ... and rolling around rather a lot.” She stared at him. “Merlin! Did Ron catch us?”
“Not exactly,” George replied. “It was actually Aunt Muriel. She got lost on her way to the bathroom, and sort of...fell through the door. Now, she was very drunk “ I think Charlie had been topping up her glass “ and, when she collapsed on the floor, she started screeching that Uncle Bilius was after her.”
“Uncle Bilius! Why would she think that?”
“Because, at the time, you had a sheet draped over you. You had some idea about using it as a toga,” George explained. He shrugged. “You must have looked like Uncle Bilius to her.”
Hermione bit her lip. “So why were you in my bedroom?”
“I wasn’t,” answered George. “Hermione, you charged into my room whilst I was getting changed and demanded to see my thighs. Then, when I said no, you burst into tears for no accountable reason and lay down on the bed. You refused to move, and then started raving about some idiot called Tarmac Cloggan, who kissed like Grawp.”
“Oh, sweet Merlin,” gasped Hermione. “What happened to me? Please tell me that was all.”
“Not exactly. You returned to your favourite topic of the night “ men’s thighs “ and demanded a sheet from my bed. When I said no, you pulled it off anyway. I happened to be sitting on the bed at the time...”
“So that’s why we were rolling around on the bed.”
George nodded solemnly. “That’s all there was to it, Hermione.”
She grinned at him. “Oh, thank goodness for that. I was afraid I’d done something really awful.” She stopped and blushed again. “Not that being with you would be at all awful, George. I’m sure you’re very ... um...”
He laughed. “Yes, Hermione, I’m very ... ‘um’.’”
She didn’t laugh back, but sat down on her bed. “Ginny says Ron is furious. I take it he doesn’t believe you.”
He sighed. “Unfortunately, when Aunt Muriel started yelling, everyone came running. You, at this point, had discarded your dress and were tying the sheet into a toga. I was cowering on the floor whilst Aunt Muriel boxed my ears. She thought I was Bilius by that stage, and wanted to punish him for coming back and haunting her on her birthday.” He frowned at her. “You, I should say, were not at all helpful. You kept advising her to punch the right ear, because my left ear had gone, and you didn’t think that would hurt as much.” George rubbed his right ear. “Turns out Aunt Muriel wasn’t as sozzled as we thought, and managed to take your advice on board.”
“Sorry,” whispered Hermione. “George, I really don’t know what to say. I can’t believe I acted like that.” She felt tears well in her eyes. Desperately, she searched around for a handkerchief to blow her nose and saw one on the bedside cabinet. She reached for it, then stopped as her hand came into contact with one of her new books - except it wasn’t a new book. She’d picked it up in the second-hand bookshop on the corner of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. She’d wandered in because she was bored and she could never resist books. New or old, she loved them. This was a small, brown book; its pages yellowed with age. As she ran her fingers over the cover, the embossed title began to glow very faintly. The book was inviting her in, to read ... to entrance her. She gazed fixedly at the book, hearing music, then ...
“NO!” Ron shouted from the door. “It’s that book, Hermione. That bloody book!”
He leapt towards her and wrenched it from her grasp. “Harry,” he yelled. “Get in here now!”
“Ron, what are you doing?” shouted Hermione, angry that he’d snatched her one solace away from her. Ron was about to reply, but Harry entered the room.
“What’s the matter?”
Gingerly, Ron handed him the book. “Here’s another one, Harry. Should have realised last night, shouldn’t we “ especially as books are her weakness.”
Keeping the book firmly closed, Harry read out the title. “’Theseus and the Chairs of Forgetfulness.’ Yup, it’s another Bacchus book, all right.” He cast a spell over the book, encasing it in its own Bubble-Head Charm, and then turned to Hermione. “You okay?”
She frowned. “Yes, I’m fine, apart from not having a clue what is going on. What are you doing with my book, Harry?”
“Bacchanalian books, Hermione. They’ve been enchanted to produce “ how shall I put this “ unseemly behaviour in the reader. Let me guess, you were getting ready for the party and thought you’d have a few minutes reading in your room before joining us?” Hermione nodded. Harry pointed his wand at the book and watched as the pages flicked over through the Bubble Head Charm. He perused the story and began to laugh. “That explains a lot. The story you read was about Theseus in the Underworld being stuck to a chair that made him forget his previous life. His friend, Heracles, pulls him from the chair, and saves his life, but in doing so, he rips off the flesh from the back of his legs. According to legend, Athenian men had very sculpted thighs from that day onwards.
“Ahhh, thighs,” said Ron, sighing. “That explains a lot.”
“Why?” asked Hermione nervously.
“Because,” Ron explained a smirk across his face. “You kept demanding to see our thighs. At one point, you became convinced that the Weasleys were Greek. Dad’s very nervous around you now. And Fleur isn’t that happy, either. Trying to remove Bill’s trousers as he was showing everyone pictures of baby Victoire did not go down well at all.”
Hermione moved towards Ron. She could deal with Fleur (who, truth be told, she still didn’t like very much) and Arthur would be fine once she’d given him the battery-operated toothbrush he coveted “ but Ron? She gnawed her lip nervously. “You do know that there was absolutely nothing going on between me and George?”
Ron reached out his arms and pulled her into a hug. “Hermione, as soon as I woke up this morning, I knew there’d been something fishy going on.”
“How?” she whispered. “I hadn’t had a chance to explain anything.”
Ron sat down on the bed with her and took Hermione’s hand. “Well, last night, you did one other thing that was completely out of character.”
“Oh no,” she moaned. “What else did I do?”
He grinned at her, his smile lighting up his freckled face, and then he leant forward to kiss her. “You gave Teddy an early Christmas present.”
She stopped him and frowned. “I did?”
“Mmm, and I should have known then that you weren’t in your right mind.” He started to kiss her on the cheek.
“Why?” she asked, pushing him away slightly. “I’m not ungenerous, am I?”
“No, you’re not,” he murmured, “but you are sentimental, and, as much as you love Teddy, I really don’t think you’d give him your copy of Hogwarts: A History and tell him he could colour in the pictures if you had been your usual self.”
“Nooo,” she moaned, more upset by this than by anything else that had occurred. “Please tell me I didn’t do that.”
Harry laughed. “You did. Fortunately, for you, Teddy became bored with colouring all the werewolves pink, and I managed to rescue it. He’s far more excited by the toy broomstick I got him. So...” Harry walked towards Hermione and produced her cherished copy of Hogwarts: A History from under his robes, “... Happy Christmas, Hermione.”
“Oh, thank you, Harry,” she said joyfully, tears beginning to blur in her eyes.
“AGHHH!” A scream echoed through the house. It was louder, shriller, and scarier than even Walburga Black. Hermione leapt off the bed in fright, Ron and Harry gripped their wands tightly, and George dove under the dressing table.
“Aunt Muriel,” they heard Ginny cry. “What’s the matter?”
There was a pounding of footsteps across the corridor and then Aunt Muriel “ wearing a bedsheet fastened across one shoulder and a blue hairnet “ burst into the room. “A man!” she screeched. “A man has appeared in my fireplace.”
“What man?” Ron said, laughing. He turned to Hermione and said in a loud aside, “She gets these delusions, especially after having a few too many glasses of mead.”
Aunt Muriel glared at him and he stopped laughing. “His name is Cormac McLaggen,” she said loftily, “and he’s wearing a pair of underpants and very little else.” She fixed her shrewd eyes on Hermione. “He says he’s not Athenian, but hopes that won’t disappoint you.”
“Oh, no,” Hermione whimpered.
Ron grinned broadly. “Leave it to me, Hermione.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked a flicker of concern on her face.
“Not sure yet,” Ron replied, twirling his wand menacingly, “but it’ll make McLaggen sorry he ever recovered from those doxy eggs.”