AN: The title of this piece was shamelessly ripped from one of Gilderoy Lockhart's books. He can't sue me; he doesn't remember writing it!
Oh yeah, I just realized I forgot to do a disclaimer for my last story, so here's one for both: I don't own Harry Potter anywhere outside of my own imagination, and if I did... well, I wouldn't be writing this would I?
Saturday Afternoon:
"Well, we're here," said Arthur, setting down his suitcase on the stoop. The thump it made on the pavement had an air of quiet foreboding about it, and Fred couldn't help thinking that this was the last chance they had to run for it. He chanced a sidelong glance at George, who was doing his best to re-rumple his hair that their mother had just hastily flattened. George caught his eye and grimaced slightly. Charlie scratched his nose furiously, taking this last chance to do so, knowing that when the door swung open they would all have to act like perfect little angels, "or else" as Molly had said. Percy, however, was standing up straight with his hands clasped in front of him, an expression on his face that not even The-Aunt-From-Hell (as Fred liked to call her) could find fault in. Behind him, Bill was staring at Percy with a bemused look that plainly said he would never put this much effort into impressing anybody, let alone the person who lived in this house. Little Ron, on Bill's other side, was pale with apprehension. His face had a green tinge that it only acquired when he was really dreading something. Standing in the back, Ginny gripped her mother's hand, bouncing eagerly on her toes. At four years old, she was still too young to remember their last visit. Fred would have felt sorry for her if he wasn't already preoccupied with feeling sorry for George and himself.
After what felt like an hour, Arthur took a deep breath, letting it out slowly to postpone the moment he would have to knock on the door. Finally, unable to find any excuse to delay it further (and because Molly was shooting him A Look), he raised his fist and let it fall on the wood. If the suitcase's thump had felt foreboding, this felt like the summons to one's gallows. Ron gulped.
Another hour later, the sound of footsteps could be heard padding across a carpeted floor inside. Fred resisted the urge to run back to the car and refuse to come out till September first. A fleeting image of what would happen if he did do that crossed his mind, before the scraping of a key in the lock reached his ears, amplified tenfold by the silence outside. Everyone stiffened. The tension in the air was audible.
The door creaked open, and a beaky nose poked through the gap. It belonged to a woman whose red-rimmed eyes and pink, feathery hat gave her the outward look of an elderly, bad-tempered flamingo.
"Merlin's beard, Arthur, you're finally here! I expected you hours ago, what kept you?" Auntie Muriel barked. Before her nephew-in-law could speak she continued, "And can't you get the kids looking at least respectable? Honestly, William's posture is absolutely horrendous; stand up straight, boy! Charles' nose looks like a tomato, and he's far too skinny. The twins are scruffy, and if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, Molly; find some way for normal people to tell them apart. Ronald looks like he just swallowed a streeler, and Ginevra here is just bouncing off the walls—honestly, Molly, what do you feed them? I'm telling you, you have far too many children to be getting on with!"
Their two-week stint in hell had begun.