Yo! Finally, I got around to writing a fanfic for a book, not an anime. I did actually do this for my brother after he broke up with his girlfriend, and it worked quite well. I don't think I pulled it off very well here, but in my head the story was awesome :D It took me ages to remember the names of the next generation kids though - I don't have the seventh book, and my internet was down so I couldn't look it up.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, not me - although I have heard that Rowling is a fan of fanfiction. Good news for us!
Albus looked on feebly as his best friend wailed helplessly in front of him. Why did girls cry like that? It wasn't like she was bleeding or anything, or had found out she had cancer, or had a blood clot in her brain, or fell down three flights of stairs like he did last Christmas and still managed to get to his presents before James, or ... well, lots of things could constitute crying. But not this.
"Rose?"
"Don't talk to me! I don't want to yell at you,"
"... why are you going to yell at me?"
"Because I'm UPSET, you stupid, insensitive, irresponsible, forgetful, boy!" And that was the last thing she said, before plunging her head in her hands and sobbing again.
"How can I forget that you're upset? You're crying right in front of me, aren't you?" Albus asked, thoroughly confused. Rose, however, didn't reply, merely threw a cushion at his head and curled up on the sofa, still crying mercilessly. Albus was at a loss. Rose may have been his best friend, and even when she acted like a complete girl he could usually find some way of snapping her out of it; but this? This was beyond girl; this was fully-fledged histrionics with a tint of Aunt Hermione's unprovoked cleaning sprees, only Rose had the addition of making funny snuffling, snorting noises between sobs. Well, and she wasn't running after him with a wand and two dozen Muggle cleaning fluids following in the air behind.
He would have to risk it. Rose would never speak to him again if he didn't do something; at least this way she might talk to him in the next ten years. It would be a nice twentieth birthday present.
"Rose? I – I'm sorry that I - " Albus broke off, unsure. What had he done? Well, more to the point, what had he done recently, in the last few hours? There were countless things he did to upset Rose: only last week he had told her that daffodils were happier flowers than roses because they didn't try to hurt people with their thorns, and of course there was yesterday when he ate the last Every-Flavour Bean even though he had promised her that she could have all the pine-cone ones; oh, and how could he forget that time when Rose got stuck in the tree and he went home without realising? She didn't talk to him for weeks after that one. Today, though? For once, it may have been possible that Albus Potter had spent four hours in Rose Weasley's company without offending her. Only, if he had kept his big mouth shut today, then why was she crying?
Albus abandoned the attempt at an apology; it seemed pointless if he didn't know what he was apologising for. Instead, he tried a different tactic.
Silence.
After five minutes of being silent on the other side of the room, Albus crawled over to the sofa, where Rose was still crying, albeit a little more quietly than before. Maybe she still couldn't hear that he was being silent, though; Albus clambered up and lay next to Rose, so that his head was right next to hers. There was no way she wouldn't be able to hear him being silent now.
Five minutes later, Albus was bored, and Rose was still sobbing. She had got louder again, and Albus was running out of ideas. Idly pulling her hair, Albus wondered if Rose was hungry. How long ago was breakfast? Long enough for him to forget what he had eaten, at least; and that meant that it was definitely time for lunch. Slipping off the sofa, he padded quietly through to the kitchen, where his Uncle Ron was standing at the sink, muttering something about 'any more than fifty feet' – presumably to do with Quidditch, Albus guessed. At the sound of Albus' entry, however, Ron turned, a mildly concerned expression asking the question Albus knew had been coming.
"She's not any better," he said morosely, slumping into a kitchen chair and draping one arm over the back of it, "and she won't tell me what's wrong. She said she was over the tree thing, and you said that she stopped being grumpy about that ages ago, and I've been really nice lately, if you take out the fight I had with James, but Rose doesn't even know about that. I don't know what I've done wrong."
Ron pulled a half-grimace, half-grin that told Albus that he was reminding Ron of Harry again. Albus only restrained himself from scowling with difficulty: they had a big problem on their hands! How far he resembled his father was irrelevant at this point, and anyway, surely the topic had been exhausted after ten years?
"Was she crying this morning?" he asked Ron, who had now sat down at the table.
"No, she seemed fine earlier," Ron replied, "It must have been when you got here that set her off," he continued with a grin, unfazed by the unsuccessful glare Albus tried to give him. Ron ploughed on, regardless of Albus' unwillingness to hear about how his presence in the Weasley household was the breaking point of crazy for his best friend. "When you rang the doorbell, she was really excited – she thought it was one of the Muggle postmen, we don't get them as often as you do. Her face kind of fell when you arrived though. Dunno why." Ron lapsed into thought as Albus sank lower in his chair, and neither of them looked up as Hermione and Ginny bustled in, arms full of bags and smelling faintly of cats.
Both women busied themselves with putting away unidentified items into cupboards before turning to Ron and Albus. Albus had no idea why his mother was doing Hermione's shopping, but he suspected that it probably had something to do with being nosy about Rose; and therefore, she had come to see if he had been able to console her. Judging by the re-established wailing reaching through the closed door, he assumed that they knew better.
Ginny took one look at her son then smacked Ron on the back of the head, jerking him out of his reverie. Ron looked up guiltily, but his face then became defensive when he saw that it was his sister, not his wife, who had hit him.
"What was that for?" he asked angrily.
"For diminishing the morale of your best friend's son!" Ginny retorted angrily. "And mine, too," she added as an afterthought.
"Can't even remember her own son," muttered Albus, although not loud enough for his mother to hear. Ron heard though, and winked surreptitiously at the young boy before turning back to defend himself against Hermione. The couple bickered harmlessly while Ginny perched on the table next to her son, who had resorted to banging his head lightly on the table to try and find ideas to cheer up Rose. As yet, he had nothing. How could he cheer her up when he didn't know what was wrong?
Ginny perched quietly for a while, seemingly ignoring Albus. In the end, Albus gave up waiting for his mother to talk to him, and asked her for the advice that he had thought he was going to get anyway.
"Mum? What does Dad do when you're upset? Or Aunt Hermione?"
Ginny Potter snorted slightly, "Not a lot; sometimes I think he and Ron have been spending too much time togeth - " Ginny stopped at the mutinous look on her son's face. Perhaps that wasn't the most helpful advice to give at a time like this.
"Mum, no domestics, please. What would you want somebody to do for you?"
Ginny paused before answering – although she may just have been wondering where her ten year old son learnt the use of the term 'domestics'.
"I don't think I can answer that. Because everyone's different – nobody could replace your dad for me, and nobody could be Rose's friend in the same way that you are. Why don't you just be yourself?"
"Because that's probably what made her cry in the first place! It usually is!" Albus wailed.
"Well. You might have a problem, then," replied his mother. Albus sighed. Parents were useless.
*****************************************************************
Lunchtime had come and gone, and Rose was not getting any nearer to comfort. At one point Albus had thought she had calmed, but after venturing into the living room he had learnt that just because Rose was silent, did not mean that she was not still upset. The bruise on his forehead reminded him of that every so often – shoes were a lot harder than cushions.
'Be yourself'. What kind of advice was that? Didn't his mother realise that every time Albus tried to be himself when apologising to Rose he ended up getting hit? Had she not seen the bruise? Albus had now resorted to wandering aimlessly around the Weasley household, reluctant to go home until Rose began talking to him, yet avoiding the living room for fear of attack. At the moment he was lying spread-eagled on Rose's bed, staring at the non-moving poster on the ceiling above her pillow and wondering what a 'catalytic converter' was. It sounded like something Grandpa Weasley would enjoy – actually, he was probably the one who gave it to her. Albus grinned a little; if Rose wanted to know what a catalytic converter was, then surely she was already crazy: today's episode couldn't make her much more insane than she already was.
Albus sighed and rolled onto his stomach. His eyes scanned Rose's bedroom floor with little interest: he knew most of what was in here, having practically grown up in this house as much as his own. Rose's bedroom was a lot neater than anything in the Potter household, though; he never had got used to that. Surely it wasn't as comfortable to have everything in neat piles and – damn, he had forgotten about this – the alphabetised bookcase? What possible need could somebody have for an alphabetised bookcase? Actually, why would anybody want a bookcase full stop?
His curiosity piqued, Albus rolled off the bed and crawled over to Rose's bookcase, wondering whether she had normal books or Muggle stuff – Lily had some Muggle books, but he didn't think they were half as good as the 'proper stuff', as James called it. Running his finger idly along the spines of the books, Albus contemplated rearranging them into height order, just to see how long it would take Rose to notice, seeing as he never saw her reading any of her books. Pulling out the heaviest of the volumes on the bottom shelf, Albus flicked open the front cover to see who the publishers were. Flowson & Trent ... well, there went that idea; actually, he didn't know any publishers anyway, Muggle or wizarding, but at least it had been an idea.
Albus tried to slot the book back into place, but it wouldn't fit. If he had known any swear words, he would have used them. Rose would kill him for messing around with her stuff. Now he would have to rearrange the whole bookcase, to make his own death worthwhile. Taking off the next few books in the row, Albus went to put them next to him on the floor; only, his foot was in the way.
"OW!" Albus yelped. Today was getting worse and worse; although, maybe if he was injured Rose would stop crying and want to make sure he was okay. No, that was a stupid idea: she would just cry harder about having a complete moron for a best friend. Sliding the biggest volume off his now somewhat delicate foot, he was surprised when a multicoloured packet fell out of the sleeve. It wasn't like Rose not to put everything in its own place.
Upon closer inspection, the pack turned out to be a large pack of Muggle balloons. Albus had seen some of these once before, when his Uncle Dudley had sent a mysterious package through the Muggle post for his dad's birthday. In it had been a blocky thing with what he recognised as 'wires' coming out of one end (he only recognised thanks to extensive lectures on the things on Grandpa Weasley's part), and a little bag of balloons, with a note saying 'Your kids can have these'. Considering none of them had ever met Uncle Dudley, Albus had been impressed, as had his father. Ginny, James, and Lily, on the other hand, huffed that if Dudley was going to remember them then he could remember their birthdays too, not just tag them onto Harry's.
What did you have to do with them again? Albus vaguely remembered something about air and floating; Dad had said Muggles used helium, whatever that was, but had then used a Hover Charm instead, so Albus had got a bit distracted. Finding a hole at one end of a balloon, Albus lifted it to his lips and blew. Then blew a bit harder. A little harder still. Finally, he took the biggest gulp of air his lungs could cope with, and blew with all his might into the little rubber hole.
Albus almost keeled over – nobody had ever told him how painful blowing up balloons was! And the stupid thing didn't even look any different! All that was different was that Albus' cheeks felt like they were on fire, he felt very light headed, and he suspected he had burst a blood vessel in his face. Taking a few calming deep breaths, he tried again, this time trying to blow air forward instead of into his cheeks; to his surprise, the middle of the balloon swelled a little. However, Albus' excitement soon faded as he realised that the rest of the balloon stopped getting bigger after that point. Knotting his eyebrows in concentration, he pinched the hole of the balloon, took another deep breath, and blew again. Amazingly, the balloon got bigger! He repeated the process until he felt that the balloon was a respectable size. Only then did he wonder what to do with it. He couldn't just hold it in his hand all day; what if he wanted to eat? Or blow up another one?
Puzzled, Albus pored over the balloon packet; on the label were pictures of inflated balloons (although Albus couldn't help but feel that they should have been moving), and it looked like somebody had tied a knot in them. A knot! That was easy!
Grinning, Albus stretched the neck of the balloon a little, wound it around the index finger of his left hand, and poked the end of it through the loop: simple.
Except now his finger was stuck.
How on earth were you meant to tie these things? Was this meant to be the appeal, the mystery of the knot? Surely there was more to it than that. Albus tried relooping the rubber around two of his fingers; with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, he pushed the end through the gap between two of his fingers and pulled, quickly removing both fingers before the noose (as he was now beginning to think of it as) became too tight. Result! One perfectly tied balloon.
Albus peeked furtively into the hallway to make sure nobody was around; satisfied, he swiftly crossed to the centre of the room and proceeded to bow four times, once towards each corner of the room. He was just a little bit proud of his achievement.
Emboldened by his first success, Albus attacked the balloon packet with a new ferocity: he wanted to explore his new found talent. Maybe, he thought, balloons could be an ideal gift for Rose – they didn't cost anything, but he had to go to a lot of effort to give them to her. Hopefully she would appreciate that, otherwise he was about to spend the next three quarters of an hour wasting his time only to have Rose harass him later as to why he wasn't spending that time comforting her on the sofa.
Would fifteen balloons be enough? Perhaps a few more, just to be on the safe side. Albus settled down to work.
***********************************************
At twenty past three, Albus burst into the kitchen where Hermione and Ginny were poring over what looked suspiciously like a photo album. Hoping they weren't baby pictures (again), Albus ignored the album and addressed his aunt.
"Aunt Hermione, can I borrow your duvet for five minutes? I'll put it back,"
The two women exchanged apprehensive glances. Hermione simply asked, "Why?"
"I can't tell you. It's a surprise. But it's definitely part of a good and amazing plan concocted by a brilliant child genius who you are lucky enough to have residing in your husband's sister's household."
Ginny raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, that sounded better in my head," Albus went on, "but if my plan works, Rose will stop crying! She hasn't stopped crying yet, has she?" he added worriedly, afraid his efforts of the afternoon may have been entirely wasted.
Hermione merely cupped a hand to her head and raised a finger to her lips. Although no sobs could be heard from the direction of the living room, there was definitely some sniffling going on, with maybe a hint of nose-wiping (a discreet sound Albus prided himself on being able to discern).
"Great!" Albus grinned, and sped off back upstairs. Hermione and Ginny resumed their perusing of the photo album, unfazed by behaviour that was normal for any child related to Ron Weasley.
******************************************************
Rose had by now curled into a tight ball on one end of the sofa; she didn't look up when heavy footsteps sounded on the staircase, nor when the smooth sound of something big and light being dragged down thirteen steps interrupted her thoughts, nor when the door handle was yanked downwards and Albus burst triumphantly into the room dragging Rose's parents duvet behind him, the four corners clenched in his fist to make a bulky, unkempt parcel.
Albus ignored Rose for a few moments, busying himself with spreading out the large duvet and revealing its contents. That done, he sat in the middle of the duvet and threw balloons at his best friend. He had a plentiful supply of them, since the large 'package' he had delivered had consisted solely of the balloons he had been blowing up for the past forty minutes.
Only when Rose was half-buried in balloons did she emerge, her lower lip pushed forward into what she imagined was probably a pout: Albus was not fooled. He grinned, crawling towards her and leaning against the seat of the sofa.
"Do you like your present?" he asked innocently, trying not to pant. He hadn't anticipated how faint he would feel.
"How many balloons have you blown up?" Rose replied instead, dodging an answer.
"Thirty five," wheezed Albus, "but don't change the subject. Am I back in your good books now?"
"Why thirty five?"
"Because it's the age of the relative we share the most: Mum. Well, not to you, obviously. To you she's Aunt Ginny, I guess, but I - "
"I get it," interrupted Rose, "but you could have done Dad instead."
"What, and blow up another balloon? I don't think so!"
Rose laughed then; properly, not a half-hearted little giggle. Relief washed through Albus, who still couldn't quite bring himself to stand up – or move, for that matter.
"Does this mean you're not upset anymore?"
"Upset? Why on earth would I be upset? I've got balloons!"
"But you were upset before – are you going to tell me why?" Albus half-whispered, twisting his head to look up at Rose, who cast him an appraising look for about thirty seconds. Albus tried not to squirm.
"No, I don't think so," she managed finally. Albus' mouth fell open.
"After four hours and thirty seven minutes of crying, and me blowing up thirty five Muggle balloons – something I have never before been able to do, by the way – you don't trust me enough to tell me why you were upset? Thanks a lot."
"Who's upset now?" Rose teased, playfully aiming a balloon at his face, "Besides, I can't remember."
Yeah, the ending was rushed. I put off writing it for days and then finally buckled down to write it only to find that I had run out of steam a little. More proof that procrastination is not good for you! Anyway, a review would be awesome - you know you want to.