Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.
'Where the lilies blow.'
A haze of limp, heavy summery air hung over the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, an unseasonably sunny spell turning the April afternoon into a promise of true summer to come. Like the majority of the villages in the vicinity, the inhabitants of Ottery St. Catchpole were making the most the weather, tumbling out into the open grounds and fields, spontaneous picnics, lunches and high teas taking place under the clear blue sky, hats donned against the sun, lily-white winter flesh turning pink beneath copious amounts sunscreen.
There was nary a body indoors and the countryside fairly hummed with voices, laughter and the distinct sounds of a cricket ball being hit for six and the accompanying groans and cheers. Barely a field, garden, pub or meadow was empty of human's lapping up the sun. Not even the small cemetery, at the edge of town near the old church, was spared.
Very few souls, living that is, visited the tiny grave-yard anymore, it having long since been declared 'full' and the newly departed of the village where buried on the parish grounds on the other side of the village, where the much newer Church stood. The only real visitors the small cemetery had these days were the occasional stray cat or fox, or intrepid devotee to genealogical research, but today was different.
A large yew tree in the northern most corner dominated the grave-yard, over-shadowing the majority of the old tombstones and markers. Its foliage, although not as heavy as in the true summer months, was already sufficient to provide shelter from the sun, and its residents were in a bustle of the spring-related activities. A pair of starlings were arguing about nesting sites, while a determined squirrel cleared out its small hole, a shower of old nuts and seeds falling to the ground.
Fortunately far enough away from the cascade of rodent-debris, the only human visitor to the cemetery, was stretched out on a grassy patch, watching the play of light through the leaves of the tree above him. Bits and pieces of shadow danced across his face and body as the tree moved softly in the wind, occasional snatches of sound from the cricket game in the field opposite audible as the wind chopped and changed.
And if one of the distant fielders was unluckily enough to have to chase a wayward boundary all the way to the cemetery wall, he might have heard an oddly jovial voice chatting away to nobody. And if he had, he would probably have chalked it up to the wind and the distant voices urging his return. But as it was, only the squirrel and the starlings were audience to the conversation going on below.
"Well, it seems that our brilliant plan has, of course, worked. Little Ronniekins is getting married."
An errant butterfly rode the breeze onto an early daffodil and flapped its wings in wonder.
"No, the girl hasn't had a frontal lobotomy. Although giving Hermoine Granger one would probably only reduce her to the level of us mere mortals in intelligence."
The squirrel paused in its efforts, perhaps to listen but more than likely to eat a particularly tasty leftover.
"SPEW mate – yep, she is actually trying to turn to the regulation of magical creatures on its head... mental, I know."
The starling quarrel grew in fury, oblivious to the snort of disbelief which sent the squirrel scurrying for cover, its 'morsel' falling to the ground to join its compatriots of waste.
"Ginny – Bridesmaid. But hell mate, that's not bloody half of it – bloody reserve Chaser for the Harpys! Just about fell off my stool – the super soft, extra padded for boil-afflicted bums ones we bought, remember? – when I heard. Mum's fit to burst, and Dad and Charlie can't stop raving about the first Weasley to become a Professional Quidditch Player and yeah, you can hear the capitals and the italics."
The butterfly, soft yellow wings matching the daffodils petals, abandoned the mutually co-ordinated flower and wafted over a relatively new, compared the others in the cemetery, grave stone, alighting on a bunch of wilting pink roses.
"And if you think they're bad, you should see Ron – can't decide if he's proud of her or mad that she didn't try for the Cannons - git. But so far it's the only thing that distracts him from the massive scariness that is Hermoine and her plans for the wedding … "
Looking forlornly down at the dropped seed, the squirrel hung between indecision on the merits of braving the noisy voice below or rescuing its lunch.
"Scary? Not even close. Terrifying! Like Mum with PMS."
"I kid you not!"
The issue was decided by the rising voice below, and the squirrel returned to its spring cleaning, while the starlings flew up higher, both to avoid the 'apparent' danger below and to argue about this new nest site.
"I have not gone soft! Nor has the memory of mother in a rage dimmed with nostalgia… Herm-o-ninny is bloody terrifying… she has lists mate, lists upon lists of 'stuff!' – she even has lists of all of the other lists she has … and an entire wall in our kitchen is plastered with notes and this massive moving board that follows her around while she makes lists. Ginny was on the verge of tears the other day because …"
A timid mouse watched from under a tussle of grass, as the giant who was blocking his usual route back to his burrow beneath the roots of the yew tree, waved its arms above its head, even as it lay flat on its back.
"No, Percy is not helping! Even he ran for the hills after Hermy bit his head off for re-arranging her 'Flowers by Colour' list…"
Butterfly and mouse both twitched at the snort of laughter, the mouse edging closer into its hidey hole, the butterfly taking off for 'fresher' flowers.
"I had nothing to do with it – whatsoever… ok, so maybe I suggested to him that Hermione needed help and didn't know how to ask for it. Oh, you should have seen his face – priceless!"
"Yeah, Penelope Clearwater."
"Yes, she is blind."
"And insane."
"And has had a frontal lobotomy."
For a blissful minute, quiet fell over the yew tree, its surrounds and its residents, the squirrel wondering if it was safe to return to the ground. The silence was not for long though and the squirrel decided its tail was in need of cleaning rather.
"No, no wedding in sight – I think Hermy-the-mad-bride-form-Hell has frightened every sane single man into perpetual bachelorhood."
"Even Harry."
A long line of ants, their path, like that of the mouse, disturbed by a mountainous giant, were climbing up 'Denim-covered Leg Mountain', bringing home dinner and tea to the unsquashed ant hill beneath the largest exposed tree root.
"He and Ron have been disappearing every time the word 'wedding' comes up, Ginny too, and if it wasn't for the shop that I can escape to, I'd rat them out for goofing off and playing quidditch when Hermy is looking for 'helpers'.. Even Mum's a little scared of her… Hell, I still can't believe she bought the 'we're helping Ginny train' story!"
"Seriously".
The still hungry squirrel, tail now moderately clean was fortunate to avoid impending starvation when yet another tasty leftover revealed itself under a large nut-shell.
"Dad? Mate, Harry bought him a muggle game thing – PSP I think and Dad's been visiting the village pub so often to play it … well, Mum is not happy – come to think of it that's also probably why Harry is being a little scarce. Ginny too – her idea, it was."
Mr and Mrs Starling had at last agreed on a spot, a narrow forked branch, sturdy enough to carry a nest, 2 eggs and Mrs Starling. It even had a good view of the cricket game next door, not that the birds cared that old Mr Humphrey was approaching his first century in the 21st century.
"Caught them snogging – and Gin just about hexed my other ear off when she caught me… obviously Harry can't be all that good if she notices little ole innocent me watching covertly from the kitchen."
A mighty cry of 'Out!' ripped through the air. Poor Mr Humphrey's dream of 'just one more 100' was dashed by a nasty Yorker.
"I might have been using a tickling charm on her… still… the boy should be enough distraction to ignore a subtle tickling charm…"
The mouse, tired by its early morning foraging, had settled into an uneasy sleep in its grassy cave, nose and whiskers unconsciously twitching at every sound.
"So, right – back to the topic at hand. Little Ronniekins is getting married… and the blaggard chose the Boy Wonder to be his best man – go figure... so, I'm in charge of the Bachelor's Party."
"No, they don't know that I am – but I am."
"Any ideas, Fred?"
By the time the sun was setting, and the air was cooling down enough that people were thinking of cardigans and tea, the cemetery was its quiet undisturbed self again. The squirrel was safely ensconced in its hole, the mouse in its burrow and the starlings settling down to roost. The butterfly, however, was still in search of a place to rest for the night and after flitting around the 'newer' grave-stone for a moment, it settled on a stiff paper card. Cleaning its antennae, collecting any stray pollen, it settled to sleep, unaware and uncaring of the words that scrolled quietly through shades of green and magenta on the card.
"Happy Birthday!"
It was fortunate indeed, that the butterfly didn't rest on the small package next to the card, its highly volatile and experimental contents may have proven to be quite fatal … for a butterfly.
The end.
A/N: Yeah, I miss Fred. Reviews – will be as cherished too.
Title taken from the poem, 'The Lady of Shallot'