Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.


"You lose again," said Ron, smirking at Harry as he inspected the chessboard between them.

The month was at an end and the night of the full moon was near. Accordingly, Ron's hair had darkened from coppery orange to bloodred, his teeth had grown slimy, his gums black with pink splotches like those of a dog.

"That I do," sighed Harry. "I'm beginning to think chess is stupid. Why is the knight a horse?"

"Because you lose," Ron stated as he began to rearrange the chessmen back to their starting positions. One of the pieces batted his hand away with a tiny stone shield, shouting grumpily, "I can do it myself!"

"You know what," said Harry, standing up. "Who needs chess? I'm going to go find a better use for my time, like marrying your sister."

Sirius Black tutted from his portrait on the wall. Ron and Harry were in the living room of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, and had been playing wizard's chess at a small black table by the window. Harry walked to the kitchen and Ron followed, ignoring the fervent protests of the chess pieces; Crookshanks had hopped onto the table and was batting a paw at them.

"Oh, you're funny," said Ron. "Now you've told my mum about it, you'd better do it soon. If you don't grasp the nettle we'll have to start placing a Silencing Charm on Teddy whenever Ginny's in the room."

"I'm still considering the best way to go about it," said Harry defensively. "I want everything to be perfect, that's all. I've got to consider the proposal, the wedding, the honeymoon—"

"Might want to discuss that last one with Hermione instead," said Ron in a tone of warning. Harry gave an apologetic smile and went to retrieve a silver kettle that was hanging on the wall. "Mate, you are going to do this, aren't you?"

"What?" Harry's eyebrows scrunched in annoyance. "Yes, of course. What a ridiculous question."

"Right, because if you're having second thoughts, I don't want you proposing. Understood?"

"I'm not having second thoughts—stop looking at me like that!" Harry shouted. "If I'm having second thoughts, it's not about my feelings. It's just that I'm starting to think I jumped the gun."

"The what?"

"You know what a bloody gun is. You just like to play wizard ignorance to be infuriating."

"I do it sometimes for thrills. I also know how to say 'electricity,' but don't tell Hermione I said that."

"Anyway, I just think I might be going a bit fast. Not for me—I'm ready for something that at least resembles settling down—but for her. She's off on Quidditch trips and who knows how long she'll be playing, or which team she'll be playing for in the future. From her standpoint, it seems ridiculous to say yes to me. Every time I think about proposing, I'm afraid she'll laugh or something."

Ron thought for a moment, then said, "What happens if she says no?"

"I don't know. Things remain the same, I'd presume."

"Hey, Harry, what about Godric's Hollow?"

"Please tell me that's you changing the subject."

"It's, er, an emotional place, and she'll be sure to say yes."

"I'm not trying to pity her into marrying me," said Harry as he put the kettle over the stove. He then grimaced, and said, "I never want to see Godric's Hollow again."

"Ah, you've seen worse, I'd wager," said Ron, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"I'm sure you've tasted worse than Hermione's sugar-free biscuits, but you still feed them to Pig whenever she gives you one..."

"They're good for you," said a voice from the kitchen door.

Harry and Ron turned around to find Hermione standing in the doorway with a Daily Prophet newspaper clutched in her hand.

"Not for our taste buds," reasoned Harry.

"That's how it tends to work—healthy or tasty, but never both—although, according to Uncommon Taste, there are many exceptions to that rule. I'll show you tonight," said Hermione. "Anyway, haven't you read the Prophet today?"

"Of course not," said Ron. "What, haven't you tickled a sleeping dragon today?"

"Fair point, but there's been a major robbery," continued Hermione. "Borgin and Burke's, last night."

"Well, if anyone deserved it," began Harry as Hermione dropped the paper on the kitchen table, displaying the front page headline Thousands in Goods Stolen in Diagon Alley Heist.

"This is serious, though," she said, struggling not to smile. "They've been completely cleaned out!"

"The place needed a good cleaning anyway "

"But who could have done it?"

Harry placed three cream colored teacups on the table and poured tea in them from a matching teapot, and his friends began sipping.

"And why would they want to?" added Ron.

"You are an Auror, Ron," said Hermione. "You should be more interested in this!"

"We're against it with you," assured Ron. "But all I'm interested in right now is when the Chocolate Frog embargo is being lifted."

"Ron," said Hermione, shaking her head amusedly. "Why don't you just buy one yourself and eat it while I'm not looking?"

"Out of the purity of my heart?"

"There's nothing pure about letting me dictate whether or not you can eat chocolate. Harry, what do you think?" Hermione asked, sliding the newspaper over to Harry's side of the table.

"Sounds like a good case, but we're on Underage Magic duty, don't you remember?"

"You could request it, and they'd like it if you showed initiative. Let's not forget how you solved that Moja case."

"Don't worry, the top brass won't forget that any time soon. Left a right mess for them to clean up. Every time we try to show initiative, we get in trouble," countered Ron.

"Mess? Have you not paid attention to current events? Honestly, even Luna's aware of our touchy situation with the goblins. In the aftermath of the war—particularly after our break-in at Gringotts—we're skating on very thin ice. Goblins in the past have always had a short diplomatic tether, and Kingsley isn't one to suffer intimidation—"

"Bastard!" exclaimed Harry suddenly. He was now hidden behind the unfolded newspaper and reading an article on the second page. "Every time Ginny's photographed next to someone, the bastarding Daily Prophet hints that she's dating the bastard!"

"You learn to live with it," said Ron sagely.

"Ginny's the real victim here; it's your fault for caring about anything printed in this rubbish paper," said Hermione. "Can we return to the topic at hand?"

"Tell you what, Hermione," said Harry through clenched teeth as he refolded the paper recklessly and tossed it back on the table. "We'll stop by Borgin and Burke's today and have a mosey around. We're headed to Diagon Alley anyway, ring shopping, which is a colossal lark as I've already got a fine ring—I'm still buying a new one, Ron, calm down."

"Great," she replied, smiling. She then stood and reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, pentagonal blue box with gold lettering that read Chocolate Frog in a medieval-style font, and lobbed the box to Ron, who caught it with a wide grin. "I can't come, I'm going to the Burrow for my first cooking lesson."

"Good luck," managed Ron through a mouthful of chocolate.


At midday, Diagon Alley was bustling with life, with crowds of people carrying heavy magical tomes out of Flourish and Blott's, wearing colorful new robes from Madam Malkin's, and testing brooms purchased at Quality Quidditch Supplies, all meshing together to form a sea of witches and wizards under the bright white sky.

Street merchants had set up at every storefront, displaying their best goods in the form of jars of obscure potion ingredients, caged owls, and various food items; one such butcher was directing bystanders to his meat stand with the use of a big grey cleaver.

Ron and Harry entered the main road coming from the Leaky Cauldron, and nearly every head in the crowd around them turned as they passed. People were staring, mumbling, and nudging their companions to alert them of the famous Harry Potter's presence.

Harry kept his head down, trying his best to ignore the attention of the crowd, and Ron was more interested in various foodstuffs at a nearby stand. He was so distracted by a merchant's basket of glowing golden bananas that he nearly tripped over the knee of a hooded wizard sitting on the pearly white stoop of Gringotts Bank.

"Ugh, what d'you reckon those taste like?" Ron asked, grimacing at a tray that contained several blackened whole lizards on skewers.

"Feeling adventurous, are you?" asked Harry dully.

"Harry Potter!" shrieked a high voice that was too loud for Harry to ignore.

When Harry and Ron turned around, they were face-to-face with a small group of teenage girls. The tallest and most excited one, which Harry supposed was their leader, held out her copy of Hero: The Harry Potter Story in one hand and a white feather quill in the other.

"Hello..." said Harry awkwardly.

"I think she wants you to sign it," said Ron.

Harry nodded and took the girl's book and quill, then opened it and scribbled his name on the back of the cover.

"Mr. Potter, you are a GOD!" squealed one of the girls. Ron burst into laughter.

"No, not really," said Harry, his cheeks pink. "There you are, one autographed book."

Harry bade the girls goodbye and continued down the road at an increased speed, along with the sniggering Ron.

"We love you, Harry!"

"Look, it's Harry and Ron!"

"Mr. Potter, if I could just have a word with you for the Daily Prophet?"

"Yeah, I've got one," said Ron. "Rubbish."

"We should visit Borgin and Burke's first," said Harry. "I don't want to be caught in Knockturn Alley with an expensive ring in my pocket."

"Are you sure you want to go?" asked Ron. "Last time we stuck our necks out when we didn't have to—"

"You were, ahem, rewarded by Hermione."

Ron paused in thought for a moment, then grinned and said, "Let's do it."

Harry and Ron ventured down a side road and ended up in Knockturn Alley after a few more turns. The atmosphere was in complete contrast with that of Diagon Alley, with its absence of street merchants, enchantments, and even the sunlight that brightened Diagon Alley seemed dim over Knockturn Alley's grimy buildings and dirty streets.

"I'm starting to remember the smell," said Harry as they passed a witch in black robes with a greatly hunched spine and a face scattered with warts.

"Smells like Crabbe and Goyle after a Quidditch game," said Ron, scrunching up his nose.

"Here," said Harry as they arrived in front of a shop at the center of the alley.

Harry had only recognized Borgin and Burke's from memory of the surrounding shops; it was boarded up, and the sign had been taken down. There was an enchanted message etched on the door that read 'closing.'

"A nice silver lining," said Ron.

Harry banged his fist against the door a few times. There was some rustling and footsteps from inside the shop and Mr. Borgin opened the door. As soon as he saw Harry, his beady eyes grew wide and he slammed the door shut.

"Ministry!" shouted Harry, knocking on the door again. There was no answer.

"Not like he'd want the Ministry snooping around anyway,," said Ron. "They'd have him bang to rights just telling them all the Dark artifacts he's missing."

"Hermione was right, it's been completely emptied," said Harry as they made their way back to Diagon Alley. "This case does appear to have... uneck qualities."

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing, that's just how Borgin would have said it."

"Right, well, Gringotts is our first stop then, isn't it?"

Harry and Ron set off down the main road of Diagon Alley, wading through the crowd on their way to Gringotts Bank, which stood at the end of the street, towering and heavenly white.

"Dung's just done his time, hasn't he?" said Ron. "Might want to keep an eye on him."

"D'you really think Dung would do this?" Harry scoffed.

"Well, it's precisely his M.O., right?"

"Nah, these days, Dark artifacts are a dying market. If anything, he'd clean out the register and have done with it. Removing every item in the store must have taken a lot of time and patience, seeing as the whole lot of Borgin's products are either poisoned or cursed."

"But then who would?" wondered Ron as they arrived at the front steps of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

Together, Harry and Ron pushed through the bank's burnished bronze doors and found themselves in its vast and splendid marble hall. Two long mahogany counters on either side stretched all the way to the end of the hall, and seated a hundred Gringotts Goblins, each with their own small golden lamp and quill and ink in their workspace.

Harry and Ron approached the counter; it was polished to such a rich sheen that the young Aurors could see their reflections in the wood. Behind the counter, two goblins in red uniforms were huddled together in hushed conversation.

"He's been loitering around here ever since," one of them said. "He needs to be taken care of."

"You think the loiterer is planning something?" asked the other.

"I'm sure of it."

Then the two Goblins noticed Harry and Ron nearby and walked further along until they were out of earshot. Harry and Ron looked at each other for a moment, then Harry shrugged and turned to the nearest free Goblin behind the counter.

"I've come to withdraw from my vault," he said.

"Mr. Potter," said the goblin without hiding the edge in his tone. "Before we proceed I must inform you that you have been placed on our list."

"What list?"

"Our list of individuals who are not allowed into the vaults without first depositing all wands and magical items at the security desk."

"Not a chance!" said Ron, but Harry hushed him.

"That's fine," he said.

"Your key?" asked the goblin.

Harry stuck his hand in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a tiny golden key.

"Very well," said the goblin, inspecting it closely. He then turned, and called, "Krag! Harry Potter would like to be shown to his vault!"

Krag, another goblin, shuffled past Harry and Ron and escorted them to the security desk, where they emptied their pockets and relinquished their wands to the guard. Krag then took them to one of the hall's many doors. Beyond the door was a narrow stone passageway that led down a long tunnel, grungy and dark like a mine, with railway tracks on the ground and rows of flickering torches on the walls.

Krag whistled and a small mine cart was summoned to them, rolling towards them with squealing iron wheels. Harry, Ron, and Krag climbed into the cramped cart and set off down through the underground tunnels of Gringotts at high speed.

They zoomed past many twisting passages and forks, with the cart steering itself as Krag held onto the sides, looking rather bored. They passed by an underground lake, with drops of water falling from the ceiling and rippling its black surface, and came to a screeching stop beside a small door built into the stone wall.

Krag unlocked the door, and a gust of green smoke came billowing out. Harry and Ron stepped through the smoke and into the Potter vault.

As Harry took several gold Galleons from his stash, Ron wandered about the vault, inspecting various items that had gathered a lot of dust.

"Are these your father's glasses?" he asked, holding up a pair of circular spectacles. Harry nodded from across the room. "Do they work on your eyes?"

"I haven't tried them," said Harry. "I haven't really rummaged through all this stuff."

"That's odd, I'd have figured that's the first thing you'd do."

"All sorted," said Harry, standing up with a jingle of coins.

"Hey, an Every Flavor Bean," said Ron. "Eugh, toenails—no, wait, it's coffee—probably been in here too long."

"Are you quite finished?" mused Harry.

"Blimey!" Ron turned to Harry and held up a small, sparkly object. "It's a ring, Harry!"

"What?" Harry hurried over to Ron and took the ring in his hand. "So it is... but whose?"

"Your mum's, obviously."

"They'd have buried her with her ring, wouldn't they?"

"With her wedding ring, perhaps, but that's the other one, yeah?"

"They don't wear both?" Ron shrugged, and Harry huffed with indignation. "They don't even wear both, and we're expected to buy them two?"

"Hermione said they wear both, traditionally, but some Muggle women only wear the wedding ring—or is it the other way around?"

"My mum was Muggleborn, after all. So I should buy one like this. Thanks, dad."

"Why don't you just use that one?" suggested Ron. Harry's grin faded.

"Use this one? I don't know, Ron..."

"I do." Ron's tone was wise. "Women love that sentimental mush. She'll be touched, Harry, and in the only way I want you touching her, too."


Though it was a rare sunny London afternoon, Sherman Roque was only able to enjoy the weather through the window of his bedroom; he'd been grounded for the remainder of the summer as punishment for his back-to-back Underage Magic violations.

The first warning came by owl during the second month of summer, for Roque's attempt at Transfiguring his square wooden table into a big round one, at which he and his friends, the Battle-Axe Bandits, could then conduct their roundtables.

When the letter began explaining this to Roque's parents in Mafalda Hopkirk's pleasant voice, the frustrated young Hufflepuff set fire to the parchment with a wave of his wand, and the second warning arrived later the very same day.

After three weeks banished to his room, Roque was allowed a visitor, Elena, whom his mother remarked was a "good influence." Despite his reluctance to be influenced positively, Roque invited her to spend the night, and there they sat the following morning, sitting at the square table next to Roque's bed.

The walls of Roque's room were the dullest taupe; Roque had surmised long ago that anything more interesting might make his frequent groundings too enjoyable. The white carpeted floor was cluttered with plastic figurines, trivia cards, and world maps from the many board games Roque and Elena had gone through the previous night.

"Truth," said Roque, crossing his arms and looking confident.

"That's not fair," protested Elena. "You're impossible to embarrass."

"So?"

"So what's the point of asking you a question then?"

"Search me..."

"When someone picks 'truth,' you ask them something that they don't want to answer, like who they fancy, but of course you'd just say" — Elena stuck her nose in the air and crossed her arms, imitating Roque — "Girls are a distraction to a Bandit like me."

"I didn't invent this insolent game, you know," snapped Roque. "Just ask your question."

"Fine," said Elena. She set her eyes on the band aid over the bridge of Roque's nose, and asked, "Why do you wear a plaster over your nose?"

"I don't know, I just like it."

"Are you being entirely truthful?" Elena smirked. "Remember, you're bound by the rules of the game to speak only the truth."

"Well, there is a superhero I quite like," admitted Roque. Elena's smirk grew. "Captain Commander, along with his sidekick, Lieutenant Deputy. He wears a plaster over his nose when he fights crime so that no one recognizes him."

"And that's meant to work?" asked Elena, incredulous. "A little bandage over your face and you're well disguised?"

"He wears a hat, too." Roque ignored Elena's giggle.

"I don't think you should wear it anymore. It leaves a strange mark on your face," said Elena sincerely.

"Oh, stop being such a good influence."

"It's also a waste of bandages—AH!" Elena jumped back and yelped, her auburn hair flapping wildly.

Roque turned around and saw a dark figure lurking outside his second-story window. The window was pulled open, revealing the shaggy black hair and blue eyes of Adrian Starr, a fellow Bandit.

"Good morning, Blackboot," said Roque, grinning.

"'Ello," Blackboot said as he climbed into the room. "Hey, what's Ellie doing here?"

"What am I—what are you doing here?" demanded Elena. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Right, of course, I'll just go tell Munky not to scale the ivy and sneak in here behind me because it's against the bloody rules, and Helga forbid we ever defy the rules."

"Fine, just know that I'm not responsible, Roque, if you get in more trouble for this."

"School year's almost here anyway," reasoned Roque. "What can they do?"

"Hi, Roque," said a voice from the window. A second, much taller visitor had climbed into Roque's bedroom. "Sorry, but I think I left a footprint on the side of your house."

"Not for nothing, though," said Blackboot. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded page of parchment. "Look at this letter, it's from McGonagall."

Roque took the parchment and unfolded it. It was a short letter written in green ink.

"It's mostly just the book list, and the Hogsmeade permission form, but look at the PS," suggested Blackboot.

Roque skipped to the bottom of the page and read it aloud: "PS. I feel I should warn you that you, along with Mr. Roque and Mr. Beech, will be met with expulsion should you violate any more school rules."

"I've got one too," said Munky.

"Why isn't Ellie mentioned?" asked Blackboot.

"Do you know, it was you who said I'm only kept around because I appear innocent," said Elena.

"Was only joking..."

"What're we going to do?" asked Munky. He, Elena, and Blackboot looked at Roque expectantly.

"We'll have to ease up," said Roque. "We can't get expelled, of course, my parents would skin me alive—that is if Filch doesn't beat them to it—and I'm also a bit fed up with Sean and his smug little looks since last year."

"You want to win the House Cup, then?"

"Yes, but more importantly, I want Slytherin not to win, don't you?" The Bandits nodded eagerly. "Gryffindor won't manage it, not with Con Castle around, and Ravenclaw was even worse than us last year."

"Then it'll be us," said Munky. "All right, I'm up for it."

"I'm not," said Blackboot, pouting. "Why don't we just change our name to the Goody-Two-Shoes while we're at it?"

"It's the best option we've got," said Elena, attempting to sound resigned. "Besides, Munky's agreed, so it's three to one in favor of it."

"Oh, come on, Munky," pleaded Blackboot. Munky rubbed his chin in thought.

"No, it's already been decided," said Roque.

"No it hasn't!"

"Yes it has, by me," said Roque. "This is not a democracy. It is a Roquetatorship."

"Fine." Blackboot held out his hand, and his fellow Bandits held out theirs together and chanted, in varying levels of enthusiasm, "On to the House Cup!"


Ron Weasley had been attacked in his sleep by a Dementor. He was sure of it, because he had shivered himself awake in complete darkness, freezing from head to toe. It was usual for Ron to feel weakened and sapped of energy after one of his transformations, but never too cold to move. It was like his muscles had been shut off.

Ron's chest was particularly icy, as if a ghost had been cuddling with him, and he felt that he had been sleeping face-down, hugging a big block of ice. His senses returning to him, Ron realized that it was actually a frozen slab of meat. He couldn't see it, as his murky eyes still only saw in grayscale and none too sharply, but it smelled delicious.

With great difficulty, Ron rolled off of the block of meat and landed on a wooden floor. He now knew where he had fallen asleep: the magically chilled pantry that the residents of number twelve, Grimmauld Place used as a refrigerator.

Feeling more awake, Ron lifted himself to his feet with a heavy sigh, seeing his breath puff into the air like steam. He pushed through the pantry door and stepped out into the kitchen; when he closed the door, he saw that the edges of the chunk of frozen meat had been gnawed on.

Ron walked over to the sink and cranked the hot water tap all the way, then leaned into the sink and began guzzling warm water directly from the tap, smiling as he felt the heat pour into his chest.

When he was done, Ron grabbed one of Hermione's sugar-free biscuits for a snack and left the kitchen. Nibbling unsatisfactorily on the tasteless treat, Ron entered the living room, eyeing its cardinal-and-gold wallpaper, red Gryffindor tapestries, soft armchairs, and two portraits framed in black wood, one labeled Sirius Black, and the other Phineas Nigellus Black.

Ron approached the coffee table in front of the couch, and, on it, he spotted what appeared to be a large, disheveled feather-duster that had fallen victim to Crookshanks' claws.

"Morning, Errol," said Ron, sitting at the couch and prodding the Weasley family owl. "You alive?"

Errol stirred, then shuffled to his talons. Ron offered the elderly owl the rest of his biscuit, and Errol accepted it, giving Ron an affectionate nip on the knuckle before flying off into the other room.

Moments after Errol had flown out of sight, there was a loud CRASH and the sound of several piano keys being jammed at once. Ron hurried to the other room to see Errol rising to his feet and soaring through the open window, playing a few more notes on the piano as he took off.

Shaking his head with a wistful smile, Ron plopped back onto the couch and started on the post Errol had left on the coffee table. The first was a small white scroll of parchment, rolled up and sealed with a golden W sticker. When Ron unrolled it, two little green pellets fell out onto the table. Careful not to touch them, Ron examined the scroll, and it read:

Hey there, would you (be you Harry, Ginny, or Hermione) kindly test these new Dye Drops on Ron's hair? Just slip them in his drink and see what happens. Of course, I'm trusting that Ickle Ronnie isn't reading the morning post, as I assume the poor lad only wakes up once he whiffs breakfast being made. Thanks.

Mean-spiritedly,

George

"Nice try," Ron mumbled, pocketing the Dye Drops and picking up the second letter. He immediately recognized Rubeus Hagrid's untidy scrawl.

Dear Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny

I've got something to show you. Please stop by my house as soon as you can for tea, just like old times, and I'll introduce you to an old friend!

— Hagrid

"If it's Norberta, I'm telling McGonagall," said Ron.

The last letter was an envelope addressed to Hermione. Ron's groggy eyes narrowed in an instant.

"Krum," he growled.

With covert glances left and right, Ron hunched down over the envelope and began gently prying it open, careful not to tear its edges. He moved so slowly that he could see the strands of the adhesive coming apart. Every little sound of number twelve, Grimmauld Place was amplified; the drip of the tap in the kitchen, Crookshanks' footsteps on the stairs, and the whooshing of passing cars on the road outside.

From his portrait, a grinning Sirius Black mimicked the sound of Ron's heartbeat: "Bumbum, bumbum, bumbum!"

"Shut it, Sirius," hissed Ron.

At last, the envelope was opened, and with no cosmetic damage to the seal. Ron had just reached inside, when—

"That was not addressed to you."

"AH!" Ron yelped and jolted to his feet. Kreacher the House Elf had appeared in the doorway of the living room, hobbling towards Ron.

"Kreacher!" said Ron, his eyes wide. "Er, hello, g-good morning "

"Yes, Kreacher, old bean, fine day isn't it?" sniggered Sirius.

"I'll just put this back," said Ron. Kreacher narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Ron resealed the envelope and awkwardly shuffled towards the stairs, but stopped dead in the hallway when he encountered a yawning Hermione.

"Good morning, Ron, how are you feeling?"

"I, er, great," stammered Ron. "Feeling good."

"Are you sure?" Hermione tilted her head.

"Of course." Ron smiled, but then realized his teeth were dark and slimy at the moment, and closed his mouth. "Well, I—never feeling too good after the full moon, of course—oh, and there's post for you. I'm going back to bed."

"Who from?" asked Hermione with a knowing look.

"Viktor Krum," said Ron, shrugging casually.

"Did you read it?"

"No, of course not." Ron cleared his throat, and Hermione smirked. "I didn't!"

Hermione looked to Sirius, who nodded.

"He was going to," he added. "But you know me, I put a stop to it straight away."

Kreacher shook his head, then walked off to the kitchen, mumbling. Hermione strode over to the table and examined the letter while Ron observed from the doorway.

"Ah," she said. "Look at this, Ron."

Ron sheepishly approached, and Hermione handed him a photograph; in it, Viktor Krum, skinny and birdlike, was standing at an altar in fine dress robes next to a short blonde woman in a long white gown. Ron smiled approvingly and returned the picture to Hermione, then started walking upstairs.

"By the way, the only reason I'm not hexing you to oblivion is because it's fuzzy day," mentioned Hermione, sounding amused.

Ron pumped his fist in a stealthy celebration as he walked up the stairs. By the time he reached the second floor, he felt too cheerful to sleep, and when he felt his stomach growling he decided to pay Harry and Ginny a visit.

Soon, Ron was standing at the door of the room Harry shared with Ginny. He rapped his knuckles gently on the door, and heard his sister's sleepy response.

"Yes?"

"I'm hungry."

"Then eat something." Ron knew from Ginny's tone that she thought the matter to be sorted.

"I will once you cook it."

"Ha, like that's going to happen!"

"Actually," spoke a second voice from within the room, that of Harry. "I'd like a spot of breakfast as well."

"Hush."

Ron thought for a moment, then said, "I just don't have the strength, you know, after last night..."

The door opened suddenly, and Ginny stood before Ron in her pyjamas, looking skeptical. Ron pouted theatrically.

"Fine." Ginny kissed her brother on the cheek and walked down the hall towards the bathroom.

"Have you asked her yet?" Ron whispered to Harry, who was groping around his bedside table in search of his glasses.

"No, not yet," said Harry between yawns as he stood.

"Hagrid wants us over at his house for tea, by the way—says he's got something to show us."

"Something mad and hairy?"

"An 'old friend,' apparently."

"If it's Fluffy, I'm telling McGonagall." Harry stopped for a second, then grinned widely. "That's it!"

"What's it?"

"I'll do it on the train!"

"What?"

"Ginny!"

"Oi, I don't like to think about you doing my sister anywhere, let alone—"

"No, you prat, I'll ask her on the train."

"What train?"

"Today is September the first, isn't it?"

Ron frowned. "You want to go on the Hogwarts Express?"

"Of course, why didn't I think of it before?" Harry patted Ron's shoulder, beaming. "I'm a married man, mate."

"But why?"

"It'll be perfect, just think of all the memories we've had "

"We've had, you and I, but not Ginny. She didn't usually ride with us, remember?"

"Well I suppose you're right, but it'd definitely get her in the mood, and then I can do it at Hogwarts, maybe—maybe under the Beech tree or something. Merlin knows how many hours we spent—er, well, it's just a good idea."

"So, when I propose to Hermione, I'd best drag her all the way to the school library then."

"Now you're getting it!"