Faultlines Chapter 10: The Dinner Party, a harry potter fanfic

Firstly: a whinge: I know for a fact there are hundreds of people following this story, but only about 20 of you ever bother to review. You must know how many hours, days, weeks, and months of care and hard work goes into writing this; please, is it really too much to ask that you take two minutes to show your appreciation with a review? I don't expect an essay, just a few words or a couple of sentences from you would really make my day. So sort yourselves out, you lazy sods! Right, whinge over, here's Chapter 10...

Chapter Ten: The Dinner Party

---

I am walking home from work, stretching my legs and enjoying the fresh air after a long day at the office. It is a beautiful late Spring evening, still plenty of warmth in the day, blossom on the trees, a light breeze stirring the leaves and my hair. In less than twenty minutes I'll be home, with the whole glorious weekend stretching invitingly out in front of me like an empty glass waiting to have wine poured into it.

---

The last two weeks have been wonderful. I feel like I'm falling in love with him all over again. Little things he says and does that remind me - Oh, yes, that's why I fell in love with you, that's why I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. I have hardly ever thought about Anna, but then I have been helped by the fact that by a peculiar mix of design and circumstance, there have been no more post-match pub visits for the last two weekends. The first Sunday because we were away for the weekend for our anniversary, so he just went down to London for the match, then Apparated straight back to the B&B to be with me. (Without even having a shower first – I didn't mind too much…)

---

The whole weekend was just perfect, in fact. Going away turned out to be one of the best ideas I've ever had. We found this wonderful little bed & breakfast right on the moors, so we only had to step outside our front door and we could walk for miles over hills and moorland without seeing another soul for hours on end. It was still muddy after weeks of rain, but the sun was shining, the sky was blue and cloudless, and it was even warm enough for Ron to catch the sun a little. We took a picnic and ate it sitting on a rock overlooking a wide valley; ham sandwiches, crisps, Scotch eggs, grapes, and chocolate flapjacks. Ron bought the food; I suspect the grapes were a concession to me. There's something about eating outdoors that makes every mouthful seem especially delicious, even the Scotch eggs, which I eventually gave in and ate, much to Ron's delight. Well, exercise makes you hungry!

---

It makes you tired, too; we were so exhausted after all that walking and fresh air we were tucked up in bed - asleep! - by half past ten. And it was so quiet. Waking up on Sunday morning with only the sounds of birdsong and the occasional distant bleat of a sheep to trouble our ears, was just bliss. We had originally planned to go back after breakfast, but we just couldn't bear to have to go home so soon, so we booked in to stay the Sunday night as well, and came back for work on Monday morning instead. While he was at Quidditch, I went on my own to visit the Bronte Parsonage, which was absolutely fascinating. It would have been more romantic if he had been there with me, of course, living out my Wuthering Heights fantasies, but you can't have everything. Actually, if I'm honest, Heathcliff was never really my type. Too macho. No sense of humour. All that brooding and chest-beating would get boring very quickly, I suspect. And I always thought Cathy was a bit of a whiner. Now, Jane Eyre; the smart, plain girl who makes good, falls in love with her boss, then has him fall in love with her right back... that's much more my kind of story!

---

Actually, it's probably best that he didn't come. He'd have been bored within minutes, and it was very busy, full of coach parties of tourists and numerous little Ye Olde Tea Shoppe-type establishments trying to wring every last pound out of them. They reminded me a bit of the Olde Ottery Tea Room in Ron's village that we used to visit when we were teenagers. That certainly didn't have doilies and proper china cups and saucers, and real flowers in little vases on each table. It had fluorescent yellow hand-written and misspelt signs in the window ("Pentioner's Specil £3.25"), and was run by a real harridan of a woman who threw us out once for giggling too much.

---

Last Sunday happened to be his dad's birthday, so he had to go down to Devon immediately after the match for a big family meal; the first time he's been there and seen all of them since we got back together. I wasn't invited, of course. Our sole discussion on the subject involved me asking him afterwards if he'd had a good time, and him saying it was "Alright." I didn't pursue the matter, but I can't pretend I wasn't a little disappointed.

---

Still, I can't complain too much. After all, I did tell him I wasn't bothered about seeing his family. I just hoped he might realise I didn't really mean it. I suppose at least he wasn't with her. And, even better, the Quidditch season finishes a week on Sunday, so that means - ta-dah! - no more Anna for the next three months! I can't tell you how light and happy that makes me feel. No more Anna. Three months is long enough for him to forget her and for me to help remind him that it's me he really wants. Me that he loves. Long enough for everything to get back to normal. Maybe even long enough for him to start to forgive me. But I feel more positive now than I have done for a long time. With Anna out of the picture, I really believe we can make this work. No distractions. Just the two of us, working things out on our own.

---

It's not just the lack of Quidditch (and slutty Seekers!) to distract him that gives me such hope, either. It's all the things we can do, all the places we can go, now the weather's warmer. Going away for our anniversary really inspired me. Can you believe, for example, that I've been living in Yorkshire all this time and I've never been to Haworth to see the Bronte Parsonage? Just shows how not myself I've been. I can't remember looking forward to the Summer more, in fact. Even when I was at school I didn't especially look forward to the school holidays, that's the kind of hopeless bookworm I was!

---

I have also thought – although it's still too early to suggest it – about maybe the two of us taking a proper holiday together, somewhere in the sun. I haven't had a day off in two years; they can hardly begrudge me a fortnight in the Med. I really think that's what we need. Two weeks away from everything, everyone. All the pressures of home. A kind of honeymoon, I suppose. What I would really like is for us to go travelling for a few months. I have quite a bit of money saved up; enough for both of us. Ron would never let me pay for him, of course, so there's no point in even suggesting it, at least, not yet. Maybe next year. The very fact that I can even think about next year shows you how far we've come in the last two weeks.

---

He has started to drop little hints about the future into the conversation too. Tentatively, to see how I will react, whether I will say no.

"So, I was talking to this guy at work, he lives in Gloucestershire and Apparates into work every morning. Says he doesn't miss London at all..."

"That's a cool dog. I've always wanted a dog. Of course, you really need a garden..."

I hear him, and I know what he wants, and I think that's what I'm going to have to do, if I want this to work. I am being tested. I don't blame him, but sometimes a flicker of doubt crosses my mind as to how the balance of power has shifted in our relationship and how this will affect us long-term. He gets the nice little house in the country and the garden and the dog, and I get him. That's the deal. It's still too soon to talk about this properly or make any unalterable decisions like properly moving in together, too soon to make any serious commitment. But maybe it's what we need. A new beginning somewhere else. Somewhere with no memories for either of us, good or bad.

---

It's funny how quickly everything has just gone back to normal. Or, at least, it must look that way on the surface. But there's still this underlying tension. Things will be going along nicely for a while and then - bam! - we'll remember. I had to go into work early for a meeting the other day, and he was still in bed, and as I kissed him goodbye I told him, "You're very hard to leave, you know that?" As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew. I saw him flinch and the pain in his eyes, and I wished I could unsay it.

---

We're trying, though. Maybe we're trying a bit too hard. One day at a time is the only way. We try to keep it light, we try not to bring up anything that has happened, but sometimes these little cracks appear. It's like when you break a vase and you glue it back together again, and it looks good as new, but it's weaker than before. The cracks are still there, even if you can't see them. It's fragile, and all it takes is one little knock and the whole thing could break apart, and this time you can't fix it. I can almost see those cracks running along the ground underneath us, like faultlines. Can we repair this or is it too damaged? Is there going to be a time, next week, next month, next year, where he's on one side and I'm on the other, and what was just a hairline crack is now as wide and uncrossable as the Grand Canyon?

---

We've started saying things like, "Remember when we used to…?" and "I used to love it when you…" Everything is divided into then, and now. Our old life and this new one, for however long it lasts. I used to be in no doubt. I just knew - we just knew - that we would be together for the rest of our lives. And of course I still want that, hope for it, desperately. The thought that it might not happen… We talk about our life before as though it's all in the past. Maybe we're different people now. I hope that we have both realised we can't be without each other. I used to - used to! - take it for granted that he knew I would never leave him, but I did, and now he doesn't know that anymore. I don't even know that anymore.

---

When it's bad I can't see a future for us, I just see everything unravelling again, him leaving, never to return, my future alone, trying to pick up the pieces. When it's good I want everything to happen at once: let's get married, let's have children, let's get a house together; one with a garden, let's move to Devon, let's get a dog! And I know that part of that desire is wanting to catch up on the time we've wasted being apart, but mostly it's because I desperately don't want him to leave, and all of those things are extra reasons for him to stay. I'm not sure if I'm reason enough anymore, on my own.

---

But the doubts are getting less and less. I am happy, for the first time in as long as I can remember. I have hope. The sun is shining, it's the weekend, and Ron will be at home waiting for me. And why the hell am I walking home when I could Apparate there in three seconds and be in his arms?

---

"Ron!" I call automatically, as I walk into the front room and put down my bags, "I'm home!"

The kitchen door is slammed quickly shut and Ron's panicky voice yells out, "Don't come in!"

"Don't be silly, what's going on?"

"Nothing!"

"Well, let me in, then!"

He opens the door and I can't help laughing. He's quite red in the face and covered with flour and wearing a red and white striped apron he must have borrowed from someone else, because I certainly don't possess such a thing.

"You're cooking?"

He gives a sheepish little smile. "Um... yeah. It was supposed to be a surprise."

"Well, it's certainly that. Did you leave work early?"

"Took the afternoon off."

"You took the afternoon off!"

"Yeah, had to do the shopping and that."

"Just to make dinner for me? That's so sweet!"

"Yeah. Um... look, don't freak out or anything, but... I sort of invited a guest..."

"Not Anna?" I ask faintly.

He shakes his head. "Harry..."

I am delighted. "Oh, great! I haven't seen Harry for w-"

"And, um, Ginny..."

I don't know whether to be relieved or horrified. This brings up a whole new set of potential problems for the evening ahead.

"I wish you'd given me a bit of notice."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry. I just thought you might..."

"Say no?"

"Well... yeah," he admits.

"I can't believe Ginny's actually coming here."

"Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up, she still might not."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I left Harry in charge of that, didn't I? He hasn't really got back to me yet."

"You didn't even ask her yourself?"

He shrugs. "I thought Harry might do a better job."

I sigh. "Ron, you're her brother, you should have asked her. She'd be doing this for you, not Harry."

"I've been busy," he says, evasively.

"What did Harry say anyway? Did he think it was a good idea?"

"Well, he didn't really say anything. I sent him a note at work on Wednesday, and he sent one back saying he'd do his best. I'm sure he'd have sent an owl if they weren't coming," he adds, hopefully.

I refrain from pointing out that perhaps he might also have sent an owl if they were coming. Instead I glance around at my flour-covered kitchen.

"So what are you cooking?"

"Chicken pie. Ginny's favourite."

"Sounds lovely. From your mum's recipe?"

"Of course."

"Have you ever cooked it before?"

"Um..." he mumbles, flushing slightly.

"You don't think that might be a tad ambitious?"

"Oh, ye of little faith! It'll be fine!"

I'm not sure who he's trying to convince, him or me.

"And anyway," he continues, brightly, "If it isn't, we can always go to the chippy."

"And what's for pudding?"

"Who said anything about pudding?"

"Ron. You're a Weasley."

He laughs. "Yeah, alright. Apple pie. Also -"

"Ginny's favourite," I finish for him. Something occurs to me. "So... basically, we're having two pies?"

He shrugs. "She likes pies."

Faultless logic as usual.

He shows me a Sainsburys apple pie from the fridge. "What do you reckon?"

It takes me a couple of seconds to process what I am looking at. "Why is the chicken pie homemade but the apple pie shop-bought?"

He looks confused. "Oh. I dunno."

"I mean, if you'd made the pastry already, wouldn't it have been easy enough to just chop up some apples?"

"Er..."

He is starting to get stressed again, and I wish I hadn't asked. "Sorry. I'm getting in your way, aren't I? Tell me to shut up."

"No, it's alright. I've just got a thousand and one things to do, that's all."

"Alright, I can take a hint. I'll let you get on with it. What time are they supposed to be here?"

He glances at his watch. "Seven."

"Seven! But it's six now!"

He just shrugs apologetically.

"I wish you'd warned me..."

"It'll be fine," he says, soothingly, taking me by the shoulders and steering me out of the kitchen. "Go and have a nice long bath." He pushes a glass of wine into my hand. "Drink this, and when you're ready I promise I'll have tidied the place up and won't be covered in flour, alright?"

I am still unsure. "Maybe I shouldn't have a bath after all..."

"It'll be fine," he repeats, "Trust me."

I smile. "You know, you look quite sexy covered in flour," I tell him.

He grins. "Go and have your bath, woman. There's no time for that now, I've got a pie to make."

"I don't know..."

"It's under control," he says, firmly. He pushes me out of the door with a quick pat on the bottom that I suspect he knows full well is going to leave a nice big floury handprint.

-----

When I emerge from the bath all clean and new and feeling considerably calmer forty minutes later the pie is sitting on the kitchen worktop in a shallow dish. It looks wonderful. He's made some small leaf shapes out of spare bits of pastry and arranged them on top, and brushed the whole thing with egg yolk for a glaze.

"Why have you never made this for me?" I demand, teasingly.

He beams proudly. "It looks alright, doesn't it? Probably give us all food poisoning, but it looks okay."

"If it tastes as good as it looks, I'm sure it will be delicious."

He seems to notice what I'm wearing for the first time then (a suitably sister-impressing grey knee-length skirt and loose-fitting dark blue blouse, which actually now that I think about it, I may have worn for a job interview once) and his face falls.

"Oh."

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Don't you like it?"

"Yeah, it's nice, it's just..." He turns his back on me and pretends to busy himself with the vegetables so I can't see his expression. "I thought you might wear your new dress, that's all," he says, in a studiedly casual voice, "You know, if you want..."

"Oh. Well, I wasn't sure if -"

It might be a little too low-cut considering my role for the evening as reformed penitent super-bitch.

"Yes, alright." I glance at my watch. "Don't you think you ought to go and get changed too? They'll be here in twenty minutes."

"Or not..."

"Why, have you heard from Harry? What did he say?"

"Nothing yet. I'm sure it'll be fine," he says, unconvincingly.

"Why don't you go and see her now?"

"You were all against the idea half an hour ago!"

"No, I wasn't, I just said I wished you'd given me a bit of notice, that's all. Anyway, the damage is done. It'll only take you five minutes. I'm sure you can persuade her."

He shakes his head. "No, it's too late. She'll have already made up her mind by now anyway. Can you lay the table?"

"Well..." I give in. He's right, it's too late to do anything about Ginny now. I look him up and down.

"Ron, you're covered in flour. Go and get changed."

"I can't leave it, there's too much to do!"

"Go and get changed," I tell him soothingly, "I'll clean up in here."

"Can you just lay the bloody table? Sorry! Sorry..."

"It's okay, but you really need to calm down. I should be the worried one, for heaven's sake. You're not the one she hates."

"She doesn't hate you," he says automatically.

"She's not my biggest fan, either. Ron, please, just... go and get changed, have a quick shower or something, and try and calm down. Have a glass of wine."

"Yeah. Good idea."

He knocks it back in one go as though it is water, kisses me quickly on the cheek, and hurries off. I turn back to the floury warzone that is my kitchen and take a deep breath.

---

They are late. I see Ron glance nervously at his watch several times, and it makes me nervous too. Ten past seven, twenty past, half past, twenty to eight... We sit opposite each other at the table, waiting, Ron drumming his fingers nervously on the table, me feeling rather self-conscious in the dress that up until now only he has seen me wearing. Still, at least this time I am wearing knickers. I bend my head to hide my smile and am suddenly seized with the urge to take him into the bedroom for a quick de-stressing. That would certainly calm him down much better than a glass of wine and any number of falsely reassuring words ever could. I stifle a giggle at the thought of Ginny and Harry waiting out in the hall and having to listen to us noisily proving how much we are back together. Me answering the front door all flushed and breathless ("I'm so sorry, we didn't hear the doorbell, have you been waiting long?") as a now terminally relaxed Ron pulls his shirt back on hastily behind me. My God, what am I thinking? This could be one of the most important evenings of my life, and all I can think about is - this is so inappropriate! It must be the dress. Maybe there's some sort of spell on it that turns me into a wanton sex goddess every time I wear it.

---

I look across at him, now practically gnawing his fingers off in a kind of fervour of stress, and suddenly hope that they don't come. Ron doesn't cope well with stress. Or rather, he doesn't cope well if he has time to worry about it beforehand. Throw him in at the deep end and he'll acquit himself admirably. Tell him about it three days in advance and he'll not sleep for three nights worrying about it. When he's stressed he has a tendency to panic, and when he panics he makes mistakes, blurts out things he shouldn't, takes things the wrong way, starts arguments. When we were at school and he was on the Quidditch team, he used to spend most of the morning before important matches throwing up, he was so crippled by nerves. He doesn't need this. Neither of us do. We were muddling along just fine, we were working things out. The last thing we need is Ginny coming along and stirring things up again.

---

"They're not coming, are they?" he says, with a high, shaky laugh.

"Of course they are. They're probably just stuck in traffic."

Of course, of all the likely excuses for a witch and wizard being late, stuck in traffic is the least likely, and we both know it.

"They probably just got the time wrong, that's all."

"Yeah," he says, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

We sink into silence again. Oh God, I think suddenly, what if he's right? What if they really aren't coming? I was sure Harry would be able to persuade Ginny, but if even he can't change her mind, we might be in real difficulty. Maybe the rest of his family feel the same about me. And if that's the case, how much harder that makes it for both of us. Has he really got the strength to carry on seeing me against the wishes of his whole family? Until two years ago I wouldn't even have questioned it, but now...

---

At ten to eight Ron stands up and announces with a resigned sigh that he might as well turn off the vegetables, and trudges towards the kitchen. I follow him.

"Never mind," I say, soothingly, "At least you tried. It's up to them n-"

The doorbell rings loudly and we both nearly jump out of our skins. Ron throws me a panicked look, announces that he "just has to go and check on the potatoes" and disappears into the kitchen so fast you would think he was on fire. I force a welcoming smile onto my face, check my dress for any tell-tale floury handprints, and pull open the front door.

---

"Ginny! Harry! So nice to see you both! Do come in!"

It takes me no more than a few seconds to realise that the reason Harry and Ginny are so late is that they were having a gigantic row - presumably about whether or not they should come tonight - and are now not speaking to one another. The atmosphere between them is so frosty I am surprised Harry doesn't need to scrape the ice from his glasses before stepping through the door.

Harry raises his hand slightly in greeting instead of giving me the usual warm hug, and Ginny merely nods in my direction with a curt, "Hermione."

I busy myself with taking their coats and showing them into the front room, still wearing my rictus grin of welcome.

"Wow!" Harry exclaims, noticing the backless nature of my dress for the first time, "Nice dress!"

He catches sight of Ginny glaring at him, and a tiny flush creeps up his cheek. "I mean, I didn't know we were dressing up!" he finishes, quickly.

"Oh, we're not," I reassure him, "I just thought - well, it's a new dress, that's all." I demonstrate a little twirl. "An anniversary present from Ron!"

I beam at them, but my smile sags almost immediately. Harry has just noticed my dress's somewhat low neckline and is currently caught in the headlights of my breasts, something which unfortunately does not go unnoticed by his girlfriend.

"It's nice," he offers, quickly dragging his gaze up to my eye level, and blushing a rather Ron-like crimson. Ginny just purses her lips.

"Of course, Ginny looks nice too," he adds, hastily.

"Too little, too late, Harry," she says, icily.

Harry gives a nervous little laugh. There is a long embarrassed silence. I wish I had thought to tell Ginny she looks nice myself, but of course, now I can't say anything without it sounding false.

"Drinks!" I exclaim, clapping my hands together with false bonhomie, "Wine? Beer?" Hemlock?

---

A few minutes later the three of us are all seated at the dinner table with large glasses of wine. Harry, I notice, knocks back half of his in one go and immediately refills it whilst Ginny is not looking. I know how he feels. I force that smile onto my face once more.

"So how are you, Ginny? It's been... a long time."

"I'm fine," she says shortly, just about managing to refrain from adding, as I'm sure she wants to, "And whose fault is that?"

"And Harry, you're alright?"

"Fine!" booms Harry, rather over-enthusiastically, "And you?"

"I'm fine too."

Silence.

"Nice weather we're having."

"Yes, it's supposed to be a really nice weekend as well, I heard."

"Yes."

"Much better than last month, anyway."

"I know! I thought it would never stop raining!"

"Apparently it was the wettest April for forty three years."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, it was on the news."

Oh, God, this is all so bloody polite!

The subject of the weather exhausted, Harry and I sink into silence, and the three of us all sit there staring at our shoes, desperately racking our brains for a new topic of conversation.

"So, do you have any plans for the weekend?" I ask, addressing my question to both of them, but inevitably, Harry is the one to reply.

"Not really. Just having a lazy one, you know."

I nod. "Yes, we haven't really got any plans either."

Silence.

"I went to Haworth a couple of weekends ago. You know, where the Bronte sisters lived?"

"Oh, right. Was that good?"

"Yes, it was very interesting. A bit touristy, though. Do you know much about the Brontes?"

"Not much," Harry admits, with a shrug, "Not really my sort of thing."

"No," I concede, "I don't suppose it would be. Well, anyway, it was interesting."

But not interesting enough to sustain an entire conversation with someone who's never even heard of them, and someone who has at least heard of them, but hasn't read any of the books.

More silence. Ron has still not emerged from the kitchen, and his absence is now becoming so pronounced as to be suspicious. Once or twice I catch Ginny glancing towards the closed kitchen door, and I get ready to throw myself bodily between her and the kitchen if needs be. There is no way I'm letting her be alone with Ron tonight, putting those doubts in his head again, telling him all the reasons he shouldn't be giving me another chance.

"So where was that, then?" Harry again, still flogging a dead horse with the Bronte conversation.

"Oh, not far. About thirty miles away."

Harry nods.

"It was our anniversary weekend, actually," I say quickly, hoping that if I say it fast enough perhaps Ginny won't pick it up.

"Oh, that's nice," says Harry, with a nervous little sideways glance at his girlfriend, who merely rolls her eyes skywards and gives a pointed little cough. If it is possible to cough sarcastically, then this is a textbook example.

"Yes, it was lovely, actually. We went and stayed in this lovely little B & B on the edge of the moors. There was a lovely little pub nearby, too, we had a lovely homemade rabbit pie for dinner."

I must stop saying lovely.

"So you had a good time, then? I'm surprised you managed to persuade Ron to go to a museum, though. Especially on your anniversary."

"Well, it was the day after, and he didn't come with me because he had to play in a Quidditch match in London that afternoon. But he came straight back up here again afterwards. We had afternoon tea at a wonderful little tea room –"

"Was it lovely?" asks Ginny, deadpan.

For a second our eyes meet. "Yes," I say, firmly. "It was very nice, actually. Ron -"

Harry suddenly laughs out loud for no apparent reason other than nerves, and we both turn to look at him, eyebrows raised. He immediately affects sudden interest in the carpet.

"Yes," says Ginny, ignoring him and seizing on this point, "Where is Ron? He is here, I take it?"

I feel my face burning up. "Sorry," I mumble, "He's a bit snowed under with all the cooking."

"Is he actually going to bother to come out and say hello at any point?"

"I'll just go and see."

---

When I push open the kitchen door I find that far from being up to his elbows in potato peelings, Ron is leaning on the kitchen worktop with a large glass of wine in one hand, flicking lazily through the Daily Prophet's special Quidditch Cup Final pullout.

"What are you doing?" I hiss.

He looks up guiltily. "Er..."

"I'm dying out there, for God's sake, at least come and say hello!"

He shrugs and puts the paper down. "Alright. Keep your hair on."

I bite my lip in frustration. I will not argue with him tonight. We need to put on a united front if we are going to get through this.

---

"Oh, so she hasn't got you locked in there, after all?" Ginny says dryly when we emerge. "I was starting to wonder."

"Alright, Gin," says Ron, shiftily. He nods at Harry. "Harry."

"Alright," Harry grins back, the smile vanishing instantly when Ginny shoots a glare at him.

There is a very long, very awkward silence.

"So how are the Cannons doing?" asks Harry brightly, patently resorting to the only other non-contentious subject open to us now we have exhausted the weather.

Ron takes a large gulp of wine. "Not great, actually," he says gloomily, "They've sacked their manager again."

"No way!"

"Yep. Still, after the season we've had, I can't say I blame them."

They proceed to talk animatedly about Quidditch for ten long minutes, Ginny and I reduced to sitting there in silence, staring down into our glasses. She knows a lot about Quidditch, and might have joined in herself if she wasn't making a point of not speaking to Harry. Eventually, however, even this usually reliable subject is exhausted, and the boys' conversation peters out into nothingness.

"Well," says Ron, sardonically, "Can't stand around here chatting all day... if you'll excuse me..."

And he scurries off back to the kitchen like the coward he is, leaving me to face the ensuing prickly silence alone. I can feel Ginny's critical gaze on me and it makes me nervous. Ginny is like Ron; most of the time she's a fairly upbeat, laughing and joking sort of person, but when she's upset about something, boy, do you know about it. I pull my skirt down carefully over my knees. I knew I shouldn't have worn this dress. Of course Ron likes it, that's why he wanted me to wear it. Harry certainly likes it. It's a boy-pleaser of a dress. Which is exactly why I shouldn't have worn it, and why Ginny is giving me that look, the one I recognise so well because I've seen it recently, on my own face, in a pub mirror in Hackney, not three weeks ago. The look that says, I know what you're up to, dressed like that, trying to worm your way into his affections. Well, it won't work. The irony of being on the receiving end of The Look is not lost on me.

"So what did you get Ron, then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"For an anniversary present. What did you get Ron?"

I blush. "Oh. Well... there wasn't really much time. We were out on the moors all weekend, and he was at Quidditch, and -"

"So you didn't get him anything?" Her eyebrows have practically disappeared into her hairline, they're raised so high.

"No, I did, I - it was a silly thing, really. There was one of these Muggle outdoor shops - it was the only shop we passed all weekend, you see - and..." I can feel my face burning up. I wish I had not said it was a silly thing. I might as well have just handed her the gun to shoot me with.

"I got him some waterproof trousers," I tell her, knowing what an unromantic and practical gift that sounds, as though I didn't put any thought into it at all, when in fact, the opposite was the case. They weren't cheap either, they were made from some sort of lightweight techno-futuristic fabric that wicks moisture away from the skin, not like those ones my dad used to wear when we went camping that looked as though he was wearing half a tent and rustled when he walked. At the time, I thought it was a really good present, but now I'm starting to doubt myself. Ginny is looking unimpressed and I feel the need to explain further.

"You know, so he doesn't get wet when he's playing Quidditch in the rain."

A blank stare.

"Because it rained a lot last month and he kept complaining he was getting wet, you see. They're dark green with an orange stripe down the leg. You know, Cannons colours," I add, unnecessarily.

"Yes," she says dryly, "I got that."

"He did really like them," I tell her, in a small voice, "They've got loads of pockets, so he's got somewhere to put his wand and his wallet, and you know... mints... and... stuff..."

I tail off in the face of her contemptuous expression. Mints! Why the hell did I say mints? I hear myself give a nervous little laugh.

"Well, you know, boys are hard to buy for!"

She gives me a scornful look, as if to say, boys you've known for fifteen years shouldn't be.

"So how long until dinner again?" Harry asks, and I offer him silent thanks for giving me an escape route and jump to my feet, gratefully.

"I'll just go and check."

-----

I find Ron leaning on the worktop, munching a cheese sandwich, and for a second I'm too stunned to even form a coherent sentence.

"What... why are... what the... frig... are you doing?"

"Having a sandwich," he says, amiably, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"I can see that, I'm not blind! Why aren't you cooking?"

"It's nearly ready. Don't worry about it, it's all under control."

"Will you please come back out there? I'm running out of things to say."

"Alright."

"Now, please!"

"I'm just gonna finish my sandwich first."

"Ron!" I grab his arm and physically drag him from the room.

"Alright?" says Harry, glancing up at Ron's arrival, "How are we doing?"

"Ten minutes," says Ron, confidently.

There is a small awkward silence. I desperately rack my brains for a nice neutral topic of conversation. The weather... Quidditch... can't talk about the telly because they don't watch it... family... no... work?

"Oh!" Harry exclaims suddenly, with obvious relief, "You'll never guess who Ginny bumped into the other day!"

"Who?"

"Luna!"

Ron chokes on his wine, and for a brief moment we catch each other's eye then look quickly away again.

Harry is looking at me expectantly, and I realise I should probably express an interest in someone who he and Ginny still consider an old friend. "Oh?" I say, trying to make my voice sound as normal as possible, "How is Luna?"

"She's fine, she –"

"Do you want to tell this story, Harry?" Ginny interrupts, irritably.

Harry mumbles an apology and reaches quickly for his glass.

"Like Harry said," continues Ginny, dryly, "She's fine. I bumped into her in Gringotts on my lunch hour and we went for a quick coffee."

"What's she up to these days?"

"Oh, this and that. You know Luna. Mad as a bag of rabbits. She's dyed her hair purple!"

They both fall about laughing, and after a moment's hesitation Ron simply says "Ha," as though that will suffice in place of the genuine merriment he can't quite conjure up.

"So what's she doing now?" I ask, keen to let Ginny enlighten us with the salient facts as quickly as possible so we can move on to a less contentious subject.

"Oh, she makes her own jewellery. Sells it by owl order."

Ginny seems to be finally warming up, and I am grateful. "Sounds like Luna."

"That's what I said," Harry chortles, "I bet it's all covered in runes and stuff..."

"So where's she living now?"

"Cornwall. Been there for a few years apparently."

I can't help myself. "Is she with anyone?"

Ron gives me a pleading look, as though I might be about to spill his sordid little secret.

"Don't think so," replies Ginny, thankfully not noticing, "We didn't really have time to discuss it, to be honest. Oh - she asked after you, Ron..."

Ron and I both freeze, and he deliberately keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the bottom of his wine glass.

"Did she?" he asks, faintly.

"Yeah, she wanted to know if you were still living with us. How did she know that, I wonder?"

Ron gives a small unhappy shrug. "Her dad probably told her. He still lives near Mum and Dad, remember?"

"Oh yeah. That would probably be it, then."

"How are your mum and dad?" I ask, quickly, now desperate to change the subject and hoping it won't be a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire.

Ginny's eyes narrow. "They're fine," she says, crisply, "I'm surprised Ron hasn't told you already."

"Oh, he has," I say hastily, "I just -"

"Can anyone smell burning?" interrupts Harry, suddenly. We all look at Ron, who stares blankly back at us for several long seconds before realisation finally dawns and he swears loudly, jumps up from his seat and makes a dash for the kitchen.

"Oh, dear," says Harry sympathetically, "Do you think that's our pie?"

----

I am torn between staying here and seizing the opportunity to ask some of the questions I wanted to ask Ron, but couldn't, and going to help him in the kitchen. Probably best to leave him. He won't take kindly to being hassled if things are going badly in there.

"So..." I begin, brightly, "What else did Luna have to say for herself?"

"Oh, not much really, we just talked about school, you know."

"Has she seen anyone else from school?"

"I think she said she'd bumped into Ernie MacMillan. Oh, and Michael Corner, he was in my year, you won't remember him. He was my first -"

"Boyfriend," Harry and I chorus together.

Ginny looks flabbergasted. "I didn't think you'd remember!"

"He was an idiot," Harry mutters, darkly.

Ginny glares at him. "At least it didn't take him five years to notice I existed," she says, waspishly.

Harry says nothing, just takes what he evidently considers to be a dignified sip of his wine, and I glance from to one to the other nervously, feeling as though I have walked in on a private argument.

I try again. "So I heard it was your dad's birthday last week, Ginny..."

She transfers her glare from Harry to me. "That's right."

"Was it a good party?"

"Yeah," chips in Harry, obviously grateful for the change of subject, "Molly put on a really good spread. We had this really excellent -"

"The whole family were there," says Ginny pointedly, the clear implication being that as I am no longer family, I was not welcome.

"Victoria sponge," finishes Harry, awkwardly.

There is a very long silence.

"Excuse me," I say, with as much dignity as I can muster, "I'm just going to see if Ron needs a hand."

----

Before I can even get to my feet, however, Ron himself suddenly bursts out of the kitchen, the door banging back against the wall and making us all jump.

"Er..." he says hesitantly, "There might be a slight delay with dinner..."

"Oh, God!" Harry moans, "How much of a delay? I'm starving!"

"Shut up, Harry," hisses Ginny.

"Not long," says Ron, a lightness in his voice that after so many years I recognise as a sign of him bluffing madly.

Harry and Ginny both simultaneously reach for a bottle to refill their glasses, and I take advantage of their temporary distraction to grab Ron and pull him into the kitchen.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," he bluffs, "Everything's under -"

"If you say, "Everything's under control" one more time," I tell him through gritted teeth, "I swear I will kill you."

"I might have sort of forgotten to turn the oven on," he mutters.

"What?!"

"Well, it's your stupid oven," he says, defiantly.

"How do you work that one out?"

"Well," - he turns to the oven to demonstrate - "I turned this one up to 200, like you said, but I didn't realise you had to turn this one on as well, did I? How was I supposed to know you had to turn them both on for it to work? It's not my fault!"

I am confused. "But... if you... so, what was that burning smell, then?"

He shrugs. "Burnt the carrots," he says, in a tone that positively dares me to challenge him on it.

I take a deep calming breath. "So how long until dinner's ready exactly?"

He bites his lip. "About an hour."

"Oh, God!"

"... and a half..."

"Oh, God!" I repeat, hysteria starting to creep in now. "Have we got anything else we can give them?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like a starter. Anything will do."

He shrugs. "I could make sandwiches."

I almost laugh out loud, but instead I let out a sigh, stand on tiptoe, and kiss him on the forehead.

"What was that for?" he asks, bewildered.

"Just because. Now come on, we're going back out there, we're going to smile and be polite, and we're going to pretend that everything's under control..."

---

The next half hour is one of the longest I have ever had to endure. I'd laugh if it wasn't so ridiculous. Ginny isn't speaking to Harry or myself. Harry isn't speaking to Ginny in case she bites his head off. I can't speak to Ginny because she isn't speaking to me, so the only person we can all speak to safely is Ron, and since he keeps disappearing into the kitchen for increasingly long periods on the pretext of "checking on the potatoes", this is not exactly helpful.

---

Of course, all this drinking wine on an empty stomach means it goes straight to their heads. I am on cranberry juice (someone needs to stay sober), so all that happens is that I become increasingly desperate for the loo, but Harry and Ron seem to be having some sort of unofficial drinking contest, both of them having apparently determined that getting as drunk as possible is the only way to survive this experience unscathed. Normally I would expect Ron to win such a contest hands down, but tonight he seems determined to drink himself into a coma. I make a mental note to check the bathroom cabinet for anti-nausea potion, certain that before the night is out, I shall be holding his hair out of his eyes over the toilet bowl again. It doesn't help that Harry has left his wand out on the table for the others to use. How more wizards aren't raging alcoholics when you can just refill your glass with a tap of your wand is beyond me.

---

"How long again did you say before dinner was ready?" Ginny asks Ron, on one of his rare forays out of the kitchen.

He flushes. "About half an hour," he mumbles. "Forty-five minutes tops."

"You're a terrible liar, Ron," says Ginny, looking both frustrated and amused.

"Maybe a bit longer," he admits, "Sorry."

"Can we help with anything?" she asks, kindly.

He shakes his head. "No, it's fine. It's under cont- it's fine. Thanks."

"You haven't got any crisps or anything, have you?" asks Harry, his stomach rumbling loud enough for all of us to hear. "I haven't had anything to eat since lunchtime."

Ron looks flustered. "No, sorry. I didn't think. Shit. Sorry."

"Oh, well."

"I could make you a sandwich."

"No, you're alright. I'll just wait for dinner."

"Great," says Ron, faintly, and I can tell he's starting to feel pressured again. There's a lot riding on tonight and we both know it.

"Why don't I nip to the shop and get us some crisps?" I offer.

Harry shakes his head. "No, that's fine. Don't want to spoil my dinner!"

"Great," says Ron again, looking rather sick.

There is a short silence.

"So, Ron," begins Ginny in a rather high, tense voice, "I hear you had a weekend away recently."

Ron looks to me immediately for reassurance, a look which once again, Ginny's eagle eyes do not miss.

"Er... yeah. We went up to Yorkshire for the weekend. Well, we're already in Yorkshire, obviously. I mean -"

"And you had a good time, did you?"

Unfortunately, Ron's crimson blush and somewhat abashed grin speak volumes about how much of a good time he had, and which part of the weekend he enjoyed the most. Harry laughs and looks down at his shoes, and Ginny starts drumming her fingers furiously on the table. She clearly thinks he's only back with me for the sex, and the combination of his reaction and me wearing this dress can't be helping her lose that impression. What was it she said to him? "All she has to do is open her legs and you go running back to her"? She obviously has a pretty low opinion of him. Of us. Actually, we held out for almost eighteen hours before jumping back into bed together, which, considering how long it had been for either of us at that point, I would say was impressively restrained, frankly.

"Um..." says Ron, looking highly embarrassed, "Yeah, well, it was nice being out in the country, wasn't it? We were really lucky with the weather as well, we - aargh! Fuck!"

He has reached across me for the nearest bottle of wine and managed to knock my glass flying in the process. Red wine spills across the table and drips off the edge into my lap, soaking rapidly into my new dress. I jump to my feet, and he does too, apologising profusely and cack-handedly attempting to wipe the wine off the front of my dress with his sleeve. Ginny, thank God, has the presence of mind to grab Harry's wand and siphon up the spilled wine, then clean it off me, too.

"Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful.

"Yeah, thanks, Ginny," says Ron, and I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not.

Ginny shoots me an annoyed look, as though it's somehow my fault. She turns back to Ron.

"So did you -"

But he cuts her off before she can even finish the sentence. "Yeah, well, anyway, I'd better get back to the kitchen. Those peas won't cook themselves, ha ha!"

---

"Well!" barks Ginny, turning two years of pent-up fury on me the second he has closed the kitchen door behind him, "I must say, you've done a bang-up job on Ron! He's been here, what, four weeks, and you've already driven him to the bottle!"

I stare at her, not sure if this is some sort of joke. "What? No! I –"

"Two years it's taken for him to even start getting over you, and you just waltz back in to his life as though nothing had happened! I'll give it to you, your timing's impeccable. What did you do, think, oh, he's probably just about recovered now, it's time for me to get back in touch so I can ruin his life all over again?"

"No! It wasn't like that! It was Harry, he -"

Too late, I miss Harry's warning look, and Ginny turns on him at lightning speed. "So this is all your doing, is it? That's brilliant. That's just fantastic. My God, it's just like the old days, isn't it? You three making decisions behind my back and deciding that I'm not important enough to tell!"

Harry looks stricken. "It wasn't like that, Gin, honestly. Hermione asked me to come and help paint her front room - which I did tell you about - and I just thought it was a perfect opportunity to invite Ron as well -"

"Which you didn't tell me about," mutters Ginny.

"No, I know, but only because I never even thought he'd come. He wasn't going to, not until right at the last minute. We sat on the wall outside her flat for about fifteen minutes before he said he'd go in. I wasn't trying to get them back together, I swear. I just thought it was about time they could face being in the same room, that's all. They can't avoid each other forever, can they? I didn't actually think he'd move back in with her. Come on, after everything that's happened? No-one could have predicted that one!"

I stare at him, hurt. Harry is talking as though he didn't want us to get back together, that he thinks it is a mistake. All he wanted was for us to be able to be in the same room without killing each other. Maybe he's just trying to placate Ginny, but that's what it sounds like to me.

"I could have predicted that one," says Ginny, angrily. "This is Ron we're talking about, remember? He's always been a complete idiot where she's concerned."

I'm not having that. "Ginny -"

"Was I talking to you?" she snaps, and I sink back into silence. She turns to Harry again. "You should have told me!"

He shrugs. "I know, and I'm sorry, but like I said, I never actually thought he'd come. What would have been the point of telling you? Why get you all upset for nothing?"

"I'm your girlfriend! You're supposed to tell me everything!"

"Sorry," says Harry, in a small voice, "I will do next time."

"Next time? There better not be a next time! There is no way this ridiculousness is lasting longer than a month, I guarantee you that! And when he comes crawling back - which he will - and starts spending all day in bed with a bottle of Firewhiskey again, you'll have that on your conscience!"

She stops to gasp for air, then dives straight back in where she left off. "I have spent the last two years trying to get him back to his usual self -"

"So have I!" Harry protests, indignantly.

"Then you should have known better, shouldn't you? This is the worst thing you could have done, Harry! I can't believe you did it without asking me first, but I really can't believe you thought it would actually be a good idea in the first place! Couldn't you see what would happen?"

Harry just sits there, cowed and contrite. He hates confrontation, always has. In this circumstance, though, I don't blame him. Ginny can be terrifying when she is fired up with righteous anger like this. Even I - and let's face it, I'm not scared of a good argument - will often back down when faced with Ginny's fury.

"I really want this to work -" I interrupt.

"Oh, shut up! No-one asked for your opinion!" She turns back to Harry. "You've set him back two years by doing this! I just hope you're happy!" She folds her arms angrily across her chest.

I try again. "I really think - "

Ginny ignores me. "He was getting better, Harry."

"He wasn't."

"He was! He's not going to the pub every night anymore. He's joined that Quidditch team... He..." She tails off, obviously trying to think of another example of how Ron is getting better, and failing miserably.

Harry reaches across the table and puts a placating hand over hers. "He wasn't getting better, Gin, and you know it."

"He was," she insists, but without any real conviction.

Ron himself chooses this moment to reappear from the kitchen, the sudden painful silence making it patently obvious that we have all just been talking about him.

"Everything alright?" Harry asks kindly.

"Half an hour," mutters Ron, and he turns right back around and shuts himself in the kitchen again.

"Nice one, Gin," says Harry, dryly.

"Oh, shut up, Harry."

---

Since Ron is firmly ensconced in the kitchen once more and Ginny is fully occupied squabbling with Harry, it seems safe to finally make a dash to the loo, something which I have been putting off for nearly two hours, not wanting to give Ginny the opportunity to work on Ron in my absence. When I come back downstairs, however, my worst fears are confirmed when I find Harry sitting alone at the dinner table, reading the label on the back of the wine bottle.

"Where's Ginny?"

He nods toward the closed kitchen door.

"Why did you let her go in?" I wail.

He gives a short laugh. "Oh, like I could have stopped her!"

I stare worriedly at the door for nearly half a minute, waiting for them to come out, then reluctantly give up and go and sit opposite Harry at the table, keeping one eye on the kitchen the whole time.

"Can I ask you something, Harry?"

He looks at me. "Ye-ah..." he says, hesitantly.

"Do you think Ron's making a mistake getting back with me?"

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "It's not up to me, is it?"

"I value your opinion, Harry."

He sighs. "You know nothing would make me happier than to see you two back together."

"But..."

"What?"

"I sense a 'but' coming on."

He pulls a face. "I just... You don't think it's all a bit... soon, or anything?"

"No. I don't."

"Right." He looks unconvinced.

"Harry, I've wasted two years already, I don't want to waste any more time."

"Yeah, I get that. I just can't help thinking that maybe you've –" He corrects himself. "That maybe Ron's rushed into this without thinking it through."

I am reminded of Ron's analogy that he feels a bit like he has thrown himself off a cliff without checking to see if his parachute is working first.

"So you're on Ginny's side, are you?" I ask, hotly.

"It's not about sides, Hermione. I'm stuck in the middle of all this. Never being able to see my two best friends in the same room. Only getting to see you about twice a month, and having to make a special appointment because you won't come down to London and Ginny won't have you in the house. Not being able to talk about you in front of them, or them in front of you. Ron and Ginny's rows. Ron's moods. He hasn't been the easiest person to live with this last couple of years, you know. Of course I'd like to see things work out between you. Of course I'd like Ron to get his life back on track again. Of course I'd like to have my house back and my girlfriend all to myself again, I just don't want to have to go through all this again, that's all."

"Nor do I! It hasn't been easy for me either, you know."

"Yeah, but you didn't spend three months drinking yourself stupid and nearly getting sacked, did you?"

"That wasn't my fault!"

"Well, whose fault was it, then?"

We stare at each other.

"I want this to work, Harry," I tell him, "I've never wanted anything more in my life."

He hesitates. "Well... good..." he says, uncertainly.

"I want this to work," I repeat. "I'll do whatever it takes."

He lets out a long sigh. "Fine. I just hope you know what you're doing, that's all. Because Ginny's right about one thing, there better not be a next time..."

He tails off and glances nervously towards the kitchen. Taking his cue, I get to my feet, go over and press my ear to the door. No shouting at least, just a low murmur of conversation.

"What are they saying?" Harry asks.

"Shh! I'm listening!"

I push the door open and they both look up from their conversation and immediately stop talking when they see me standing there.

"Everything alright?" I ask brightly. "I thought you might need a hand, Ron."

Ron and Ginny exchange meaningful glances, then she just shakes her head and pushes past me into the front room, without saying a word.

"Everything alright?" I repeat.

Ron just turns his back and busies himself with the saucepans so he doesn't have to meet my gaze.

"Fine," he says, shortly.

"What did Ginny want?"

A shrug.

"Do you need a hand with anything?"

A shake of the head.

I desperately want to ask what Ginny said to him, but decide to save it for when we are alone. He's obviously stressed enough without me adding to it. My job this evening is to be the calm, reasonable, sober one. It can wait. Instead I go up to him and slide my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his back.

"You do know I love you, don't you?"

He disentangles himself from my arms. "Yeah, can you just get me the gravy powder from the cupboard?"

"Ron!" I say, hurt.

"I've just got a lot to do, Hermione."

"Well, let me give you a hand, then."

"No, can you... can you just..."

"What did Ginny say to you?"

"Nothing," he snaps, "I'm fine. Can you just go and check Harry's got enough to drink or something?"

He lifts his gaze to mine for the first time since I entered the room and I see the pleading look in his eyes. Not now.

"Alright," I sigh, "But let me know if you need any help, OK?"

-----

Ten minutes later, we are all back seated at the dinner table while Harry attempts to lighten up the deathly atmosphere by telling a very long, very rambling joke. Unfortunately jokes are not his forte even when sober - that's always been more Ron's department - and it is falling somewhat flat. Sensing that he isn't going to get to the end of it anytime soon, and that this might be my last chance to make a mercy dash to the corner shop before hostilities commence in earnest, I announce that I am just popping out to get some crisps and snacks. As though a handful of peanuts might undo the damage that two solid hours of drinking cheap supermarket red wine on an empty stomach has done already.

"I'll come with you!" Ron blurts, leaping up from his chair.

I shake my head. "Stay here and keep an eye on the dinner. I'll only be a couple of minutes."

Ron's shoulders sag with disappointment. He follows me into the hallway, grabs me by the arm and hisses, "Don't leave me here!"

"Don't be silly," I say, briskly, wrenching my arm out of his grasp, "I'll only be gone two minutes. What can possibly happen in two minutes?"

"I can hang myself from the light fitting?" he jokes, grimly.

"It'll be fine. Now, do you need anything else from the shop?"

"Some rope?"

"Ron –"

"Can you get us some more wine?" Harry calls from the living room, "This stuff's giving me a headache!"

"Maybe that's just because you're drinking so much of it," I hear Ginny scold.

"Yeah," agrees Ron, fishing in his pocket and handing me a twenty pound note. "Get the strongest stuff they've got. Nothing less than twelve per cent. Get whisky if you like. Gin. Vodka. Anything."

"Ron," I say, worriedly, "This isn't going to help..."

He gives a short laugh. "Oh, like the evening could get any worse!"

I hesitate. "Well... alright, but I'll be back soon, okay?"

"I'll have the chair ready for you to kick away from under me," he says, dryly, giving me an ironic little wave as he closes the front door.

---

When I return from the off-licence ten minutes later with the crisps, three more bottles of wine and some very strong misgivings, I can hear male and female voices shouting halfway up the stairs, but when I walk into the front room I see that the two people having a stand-up row are Ginny and Harry. Ron is just sitting there while they argue over his head, now having given up completely and drinking straight from the bottle.

"This is all your fault! Trying to sort out everyone's problems for them! Why can't you just leave things alone?"

"Because I did that, and that didn't work, did it? Someone had to do something!"

"Excuse me? What do you think I've been doing for the last two years?"

"Yeah, I know, that's not what I -"

"What I don't understand is why you didn't think you could tell me -"

"Because I knew how you'd react!"

"Oh, I'm that predictable, am I? Thanks very much!"

"Ginny -"

"Don't you think you should tell me when you have these stupid half-baked ideas instead of just going ahead and doing them?"

"Well... yeah, probably..."

"Probably?" she shrieks, disbelievingly.

"Will you for once just let me FINISH?" he yells suddenly.

Harry's shouting reduces even Ginny to stunned silence. I take the opportunity to make my presence known with a small cough and Ron jumps up in obvious relief and grabs the bag of wine from my hand.

"About bloody time!"

He uncorks one of the bottles and then looks up at all of us watching him and says brightly, "More wine, anyone?"

Ginny shakes her head but Harry reaches for his glass: "Hell, yeah!"

"Don't you think you've had enough?" she asks, coldly.

"No," says Harry, firmly, holding out his glass to be refilled.

Ron starts to laugh. "Not nearly enough! Here you go, Harry. Drink up!" He waves the bottle at me. "Come on, Hermione, come and join the party!" He says the last word with an ironic grimace.

"Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on the dinner?"

He sighs and hauls himself to his feet, stumbling slightly and nearly knocking over his chair, but managing to catch it just in time.

"See that? Lightning reflexes! Years of Quidditch, that is!"

He gets halfway to the kitchen, then doubles back for the bottle of wine. "Nearly forgot..."

-----

As soon as he has disappeared into the kitchen and closed the door behind him, hopefully to check on the pie but more likely to carry on drinking in peace and quiet, Ginny sinks down into her seat again.

"I told you this was a bad idea," she scolds Harry.

"Why?" he asks, sarcastically, "Are you not enjoying yourself?"

"It's not about me, is it?"

"Oh right, who is it about, then?"

She gives him a deathly look. "I mean, look at the state of him! Does he look happy?"

Harry just shrugs.

"Exactly!"

"He's alright," I interject, regretting it immediately as they both turn to stare at me. "Honestly, he's been fine. The last couple of weeks have been wonderf-" I falter in the face of Ginny's sceptical expression. "I think he was just nervous about tonight, that's all."

Ginny glares at me. "So this is all my fault, is it?"

"No, of course not, I'm just saying -"

"That's exactly what she's saying!" Harry retorts, unhelpfully. "That's my whole point! If we just left them alone to get on with things I'm sure they'd be fine!"

"Oh, you're sure of that, are you? So that's why you stuck your oar in and tried to get them back together, is it?"

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, he's not exactly doing very well on his own, is he? Have you forgotten what happened on his birthday? That was only a few weeks ago!"

"Of course I haven't forgotten! How could I possibly have forgotten? I was there, remember?"

"Hang on," I interrupt urgently, "What happened on his birthday?"

They both turn to look at me warily, then at each other, frowning.

"Why, hasn't he told you?" Ginny asks, gloatingly.

I turn to Harry. "What happened on his birthday?" I plead.

Harry shrugs. "Molly cooked this huge meal for him, all the family were there, and he didn't turn up."

"He did turn up!" interjects Ginny, angrily.

"Well, yeah," concedes Harry, "He did turn up, but he was two and a half hours late, so -"

"Dinner was ruined," snaps Ginny, clearly still furious at the memory.

"And then he had a huge row with Ginny..."

Ginny looks somewhat shamefaced.

"... and after that we didn't see him for about four days."

"What do you mean, you didn't see him?"

"I mean, he didn't come home."

I stare at him. "Where did he go?"

He shrugs. "God knows. Probably slept under his desk again."

Ginny shoots him a "shut up" look.

"Didn't you ask him?"

Another shrug. "He never tells us anything these days."

"Could he have gone to Anna's?"

They both stare at me blankly. Finally Harry asks, curiously, "Who's Anna?"

"Never mind," I say hastily, "Weren't you worried?"

"Of course we were worried!" Ginny shrieks, "You think we don't care?"

"No, of course n-"

"She's not saying that, Ginny," says Harry, wearily, "Of course we were worried. But, you know, he's a grown-up, there's only so much we can do."

"You don't stop caring about someone just because they're an adult!"

"I know," Harry says, patiently, "I'm just saying, if he wants to go for a drink on his birthday, it's up to him, isn't it?

"I think it was rather more than one drink!" she scoffs.

"So? It was his birthday! Christ, if you can't have a drink on your birthday, when can you have one?"

Ginny rounds on him in a flash. "Don't you defend him! Mum cried, Harry! She cried!"

"I know! I was there, remember? I'm just saying; we're not his mum and dad, he can do what he wants. He can stay out all night if he wants to. There isn't a bloody curfew. You have to let him make his own mistakes."

Unfortunately Ginny realises the implications of this statement about the same as I do.

"Oh, so you agree that this is a mistake?" she shrieks.

Harry throws me a pleading look, begging me to intervene and help him out.

"Ginny, he's right, you have to let Ron make his own mistakes."

Ginny stares at me, open-mouthed, as though she cannot believe I have even addressed her, let alone am actually disagreeing with her.

"WHAT?"

"I'm just going to the loo," Harry mumbles, getting quickly to his feet and shooting me an apologetic look. "I'll be two minutes tops," he adds, obviously not wanting to leave us alone together for too long lest Ginny draws her wand and puts a hex on me. As soon as he has gone I turn back to her, determined to take this opportunity to explain how I feel.

"I do understand your point of view..." I start, but she cuts in before I can finish.

"Excuse me? You understand my point of view?"

"Yes. I mean, if it had been the other way around, if you had du - left Harry, I would feel the same way."

"Oh, you would, would you?"

"Yes, I'd be just as upset as you are."

"Well!" she exclaims, her voice high and furious, "I'm sure Harry will find that tremendously reassuring if I ever decide to dump him!"

"I'm just trying to -"

"I know what you're just trying to do, thank you very much!" She leans forward across the table so her face is very close to mine. "Do you remember when I came up here to see you about a month after you'd left?"

I swallow hard. "Of... of course."

"So then you'll remember that I practically begged you to come back and sort things out? That wasn't easy for me, you know. I did it for Ron, because I thought that you coming back and sorting things out was the best thing for both of you. I told you what sort of state he was in, but you didn't give a toss, did you?"

"Of course I -"

"You said you weren't going to come back, you said he had to come and ask you himself. And I said -"

"You said you'd never forgive me."

"That's right. And I haven't."

My heart sinks. "And you're not going to."

She shakes her head. "Not now. I might have done, in about ten years time, if I'd bumped into you in the street and Ron had met someone else by then. I might have thought, oh well, it's all ancient history, at least he's happy now. But he isn't. Not yet, anyway. And he's never going to be if you keep stirring things up again. Why can't you just leave him alone? Let him get on with his life."

"I love him," I tell her, hoarsely.

She folds her arms angrily across her chest. "If you loved him, you wouldn't be putting him through this again. You wouldn't have come within a hundred miles of him. I'm sorry, Hermione, I'm sure you think you've got the best intentions in all this, but I really think he's making a horrible, horrible mistake getting back with you."

I want to tell her she's wrong, but the words stick in my throat. As little as two weeks ago I know that Ron and I were both wondering the same thing. Even Harry seems to think this is a mistake. I blink back the tears that threaten to overwhelm me and hold my chin up high to meet her gaze.

"We were friends once."

Her eyes flash. "Yes, we were. Right up until the point where you chose your job over my brother."

"That's not what happened."

"That's what Ron thinks happened."

"I've explained that to him. He knows it's more complicated than that."

"Oh, does he?" she mutters, sceptically.

I sigh. "Ginny... you have to accept, if we stay together..."

"I give it a month."

"Well... that's your opinion."

"Yes, it is."

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"Yes, well... it's just a shame you aren't sorry about some of the other things you've done, isn't it?"

"I am sorry! Ron knows I'm sorry! If I could go back and change what I did, don't you think I would? We both want this to work, Ginny, it's not just me. Ron really wants it to work too."

She gives a disbelieving snort. "Well, of course he does! Of course he wants it to work! He wants the Cannons to win the League as well, but that's not going to happen either!"

"What was that about the Cannons?"

We both look up, guiltily. Ron has come out of the kitchen and is standing in the doorway, holding the pepper mill.

"Nothing," I tell him, in what I hope is a reassuring voice, "We were just -"

"Right," he says, sullenly, clearly not believing a word of it, and I wonder how much he heard from inside the kitchen.

-----

Harry and I spend the next fifteen minutes desperately trying to fill the silence by any means we can. We end up reminiscing about our old teachers, having finally hit on a subject we know we can keep going pretty much indefinitely if we need to. Frankly, at this rate, it's starting to look as though we might.

"Do you remember Professor Binns?" Harry asks, with a slight air of desperation, "He had the most boring voice I've ever heard."

"I know," I admit, "Even I used to have trouble staying awake in his lessons."

"God, that was the dullest subject ever! No wonder I failed my OWL!"

"That might have had something to do with you fainting during your exam, though," Ginny pipes up, her voice hoarse from all the shouting, and Harry is so grateful, so relieved, he throws her a huge smile.

"Yeah, or maybe I just fell asleep 'cos it was so boring! Ha ha!"

"Didn't you actually fall asleep in Trelawney's class once?"

"Oh, God, that's right! Mad old bat..."

Out of the corner of my eye I see Ron pulling the nearest bottle of wine toward him, shakily filling his glass and throwing it down his throat nearly in one go before refilling it once more. He is slumped low in his chair, his chin nearly level with the table, and he's barely looked at any of us or spoken for some time. I squeeze his knee and whisper, "Are you okay?" He lifts his head and glares at me, before returning to his glass. I drag him into the kitchen on the pretext of helping him with the vegetables, and close the door firmly behind us.

"This is all your fault!" he announces accusingly, the second I close the door behind me.

"How do you work that one out?" I ask quietly, trying to keep my voice level.

"Well, you were the one who kept on at me to try and sort things out with Ginny. You wouldn't bloody shut up about it. Well, this is me sorting things out. Happy now?"

"Excuse me, it was your idea, if you remember! You just sprang it on me at the last minute with no warning!"

"Whatever," he mutters; the last resort of someone with no comeback.

"Please, Ron," I beg him. "We haven't got time for this. Please, just... sober up and make an effort, can't you?"

"Sober up?" he laughs, incredulously, "You're joking, aren't you? I don't wanna remember a single second of this disaster! Jesus! This has got to be the worst dinner party ever! That'll teach me to listen to you!"

I take a deep breath. There is no point arguing with him, and this definitely isn't the time or the place. Besides, there have been enough arguments tonight.

-----

Dinner is finally served at ten to eleven. Harry and Ginny are by now so ravenous that they scoff their dinner down in only a few mouthfuls, finally reduced to silence. Ron, whose own appetite seems to have disappeared completely, watches an entire afternoon's hard work disappear in seconds with a resigned sort of expression, then shakes his head and reaches for the nearest bottle. When the scraping of knife on plate has eventually ceased, I say, aloud, "That was lovely, Ron," but he just glares at me, as if to say, "Well, you're the only one who thinks so." I am not helped by Harry's only half-joking, "We haven't got to wait another three hours for pudding, have we?"

"I'll go and check," Ron mutters, leaving his own dinner unfinished and disappearing back into the kitchen, the subsequent muffled thumps sounding remarkably like a size 12 trainer connecting repeatedly with the fridge.

"He's made a real effort tonight," I tell the others, trying to keep the implied judgement from my voice. "He made the pie himself, you know."

Harry looks suitably guilty but Ginny just looks offended.

"I'm not going to be guilt-tripped by you! Why's he even doing all the cooking in the first place? You're the one who should have made an effort! In case you've forgotten, Ron isn't the one who needs to do any apologising!"

Oh, God. I should have seen this coming.

"I'm not - I know, and I would have, only he didn't tell me anything about it until I got home from work tonight. If I'd known he was - I mean, of course I'd -"

"Oh, I wonder why he didn't tell you! Perhaps for the same reason Harry didn't bother to tell me! Perhaps he knew you wouldn't like it!"

Harry looks suitably shamefaced at this obvious dig at him.

"No," I tell her carefully, "That's not it at all. I wanted this. I've been asking him to arrange a meeting with you and the rest of the family for weeks, in fact."

She changes tack at lightning speed. "Oh, so this whole disaster was your idea, was it?"

"No! Well... yes, but -"

"Alright, Ron?" says Harry, loudly.

I stop talking. Ron is coming back, looking rather flushed from his fridge-kicking exertions and pointedly not meeting any of our eyes. He sits back down and glances nervously at his watch. Presumably the apple pie is not yet ready. We all watch him reach automatically across the table for the last bottle of wine and the corkscrew.

"What?" he snaps, seeing us all staring at him.

"How much have you had to drink?" demands Ginny.

Ron just shrugs. "Dunno. A bit."

"I think it's rather more than a bit!"

"Leave it, Gin," mutters Harry, under his breath.

Her eyes flash. "No! I won't leave it! Maybe you don't care what happens to him, but I do! I mean, look at the state of him!"

Harry shrugs. "Looks happy enough to me."

"He's not happy!" she shouts, furiously, "If he was happy would he be trying to drown himself in red wine?"

"Maybe he's trying to drown himself so he doesn't have to listen to you shouting!" Harry yells back.

"Not tryin' drown m'self," Ron mumbles, but everyone ignores him.

"Have you forgotten what we all went through when this first happened? You've set him back two years! And you think that's for the best?"

"Well, why don't you ask him?"

"Fine, I will! Ron!"

Ron jumps at the sound of his name, and we all turn to look at him. He blinks in the headlights of our collective gaze. "'Least 'm gettin' laid," he says, brightly.

There is a small silence, during which I think, thank you, Ron, that was not helpful, then Harry starts to laugh.

"Well, there you go! Can't say fairer than that now, can you?"

Ginny just looks disgusted. "Yes, well, he's hardly the judge of what's best for him, is he?"

"Oh, and you are, I suppose?"

"He's my brother! Of course I want what's best for him!"

"So do I!"

"I am here," mutters Ron.

"So you think that what's best for him is to try and get him back together with the girl who dumped him in the first place, do you?"

I'm not having that. "I didn't dump him!" I protest, indignantly, "It was a misunderstanding!"

Ginny laughs. "Oh, well, that makes all the difference! It was a misunderstanding! Did you hear that, Harry? Apparently it was just a misunderstanding! Oh, well, that's alright, then!"

"Ginny -" starts Harry.

Ron stands up suddenly and we all watch him apprehensively. "Just gonna check the pudding," he mutters, and hurries into the kitchen, closing the door firmly behind him.

Ginny rounds on me, her eyes blazing. "You have no idea what you put him through, do you?"

"Of course I do."

"No. You don't."

"I do, Ginny. He's told me."

"Oh, has he?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

I nod, although a jolt goes through me at the thought that there might be more - worse - he still hasn't told me.

An expression of something like triumph flashes across her face. "And despite all that you're quite happy to put him through it all over again?"

I stare at her. "No, of course not."

"I mean, don't you think you've done enough damage for the time being?"

"He said he's fine," Harry pipes up, "He said -"

"Yes, I heard what he said!" she snaps back, "'At least I'm getting laid!' At least? What does that tell you?"

"It was a joke," I whisper, adding with a rueful smile in Harry's direction, "I hope..."

He grins back at me, but Ginny just snaps, "Very funny!"

"It was a bit funny..." mumbles Harry, attempting to rearrange his expression into a serious one, and I stifle a laugh.

"Oh, my God!" she exclaims, "Am I the only person in this room who's taking this seriously?"

Harry tries to pat her arm soothingly but she wrenches it away. "No, of course not, Gin..."

"Look," I say, determined to remain calm, "We're all here for the same reason, aren't we?"

"Drinking ourselves stupid and getting food poisoning?" suggests Harry, helpfully.

I ignore him. "We all care about Ron."

"Huh!" Ginny spits, "We do, yes!"

She sinks into her chair, exhausted, and throws back the rest of her wine angrily.

"So do I," I tell her, "Very much. It was me who wanted to see you again, in fact. I wanted a chance to explain."

"Well, go on, then."

"What?"

"Explain."

She folds her arms across her chest and waits. Across the table I see Harry surreptitiously refill his glass.

I take a deep breath. "Well -"

There is a sudden loud bang from the kitchen followed by a torrent of swearing. We all stop and stare at the closed kitchen door fearfully. Ginny starts to get to her feet but I am quicker.

"It's fine, I'll go. You stay there and finish your argu - wine..."

-----

"Don't come in! Oh, it's you..."

Ron - who is quite crimson in the face and looks close to tears - is standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a square tin foil container with an apple pie in it. Or rather, the remnants of a tin foil container, with the remnants of what I can only assume was once an apple pie.

"Don't say anything!" he snaps, "I don't need it, alright?"

"I wasn't going to."

"Yeah, well, you don't need to, do you? Look at it!" He thrusts it under my nose. "Your bloody oven did that!"

I frown. "What do you mean? I thought we'd sorted out the problem with the oven. How can -" Realisation dawns. "Please, Ron, please don't tell me you put it in the microwave."

He freezes. "Well, we didn't want to be eating the pudding at half past sodding midnight, did we?" he says, defensively, "After my chicken pie disaster... I just thought this would be quicker, that's all."

He retrieves the box from the bin and shows it to me. "Look! Heat in the microwave! Two minutes! And I did that, and look what happened!"

He prods the dead apple pie with his finger tentatively, as though it might move. "It's gone all weird..."

I am having trouble not laughing. "You've never used a microwave before, have you?"

He falters. "Well... no, but... Look, it says two minutes!"

I bat away the box he is thrusting under my nose. "You're not supposed to put metal in the microwave, Ron," I tell him, as gently as I can, "It explodes."

I peer into the microwave, which is blackened and giving off the unpleasant, acrid smell of charred plastic.

"I think you've broken it."

"FUCK!" he exclaims suddenly, slamming his fist down hard on the kitchen worktop and making me jump. "Fine! Fine! I give up! I don't care anymore! Can't even cook fucking dinner without fucking it up! Well -"

He glances around wildly, grabs the nearest bottle of wine, and upends it down his throat, spilling quite a lot of it down himself but neither seeming to notice or care. He lets out a hysterical laugh, then slides down the kitchen door in a heap, still clutching the bottle of wine.

"This is the worst dinner party in the history of the world!" he giggles.

I lean back against the kitchen counter, and run my hands wearily through my hair.

"Ginny's right, I should have cooked."

"Oh, right, because you would have done a better job, I suppose!"

"No," I say gently, "Because I'm the one who needs to make it up to her, not you."

"What do you have to make it up to her for?" he sneers, "She wasn't the one you dumped, was she?"

I stare at him, too tired for this. "Please, Ron, just have some coffee or something and help me. What are we going to serve for pudding? We can't serve this."

He shrugs. "I could go to the corner shop."

I have visions of him catapulting down the stairs and breaking his neck.

"No," I say firmly, "You aren't going anywhere. And give me that -"

I grab the bottle from his hand before it reaches his mouth and pour the contents down the sink.

"Hey!" he protests, feebly.

I am opening cupboards frantically for something to replace the nuked dessert. "Did you get anything to have with the apple pie, Ron?"

Ron has closed his eyes and leant his head back against the kitchen door. I kick his foot. "Ron!

"Whaaat?" he whines, pulling his legs up out of my way.

"Did you get anything to have with the pie?"

"Ice-cream," he mumbles, holding his head in his hands and moaning softly. "My head hurts..."

"Well, you shouldn't have drunk so much wine, should you?"

He makes a frustrated sort of noise.

I ignore him and set about pulling bowls and spoons from the cupboard and the tub of ice cream from the freezer. It's vanilla, of course. I open the cupboards again, pointlessly hoping there will be something there to liven up our very dull pudding offering. Another low moan from Ron, whose legs have slid down across the floor again, and whose feet are resting against the units opposite the door. I turn around and look at him, still with his head in his hands, and my heart melts. I crouch down in front of him and pull his hands away from his face.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, tearfully, "I'm sorry this has been such a disaster."

I lean forward and plant a kiss in the middle of his forehead. "It doesn't matter. You meant well, and that's the most important thing."

"I thought it would help. You know, if she could see that I'm alright here..."

"I know, Ron. I know how much work you put into tonight. It's not your fault it all went - Well, anyway, thank you."

"Thank you?" he exclaims incredulously, "What for?"

"For trying. And listen... I don't care what anyone else thinks, I know I love you, and that's all that matters. Ginny..." - I search my exhausted brain for the right words - "Ginny can go fuck herself."

He laughs out loud in shock, clapping his hand to his mouth.

I ruffle his hair and get stiffly to my feet again, feeling my knees crack as I do so. "Come on, we only have to do this for another half hour or so." I offer my hand to help him up too, but he doesn't take it.

"I can't do it without you," I plead. "Come on, I'll make you a cup of tea. And drink some water, or you'll have a cracker of a headache tomorrow."

"I've got a cracker of a headache now," he says, smiling ruefully.

I hold my hand out again and this time he takes it, letting me pull him to his feet. He staggers slightly, grabbing my waist for support, and just about manages to remain upright. We look at each other.

"I dented your fridge," he says, in a small voice.

I bend my head into his chest, close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, then look up at him again.

"Well, fortunately, Ron, your girlfriend is a witch, so she can fix it."

"I'm sorry," he says, dolefully, "I just wanted the evening to be over. I couldn't bear to sit there for another half hour waiting for the sodding pie to cook and everyone arguing with each other. I just wanted them to go home, so I could put my pyjamas on and go to bed."

"Maybe you should."

"What, go to bed?"

"Put your pyjamas on. My uncle used to do that with guests he thought had outstayed their welcome. He'd disappear upstairs and then come back down in his pyjamas, yawning. People got the hint pretty quickly."

"Ha," he says, weakly. "Oh, God. I'm too tired to even laugh..."

"I tell you what, if they haven't gone home in the next half an hour, I'll go and get changed into my pyjamas, then they can blame me instead. Ginny hates me anyway, so I've got nothing to lose. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful," he mumbles.

"Ok, then. Now give me a hug."

He dutifully does so, and we stand there leaning into each other for several minutes until I remember the rapidly melting ice-cream and reluctantly let go.

"Drink two pints of water and I'll see you back out there in a couple of minutes, okay?"

"'kay," he nods.

"And don't eat any of that ice-cream, it doesn't mix well with red wine, believe me..."

I take a deep breath and force a smile on my face, balance the three bowls of ice-cream in my arms, and go back out there.

-----

"Everything alright?" asks Ginny, raising her eyebrows at the suspicious appearance of only me from the kitchen.

"Fine!" I say, breezily. "Ice-cream, Harry?"

Harry, whose reactions are slowed by drink, glances up in surprise. "Eh?"

"Ice-cream?"

He frowns. "What happened to the apple pie?"

"We're having ice-cream instead."

"Can I not have pie, then?"

I am struggling to keep my temper. "No," I smile, through gritted teeth, "We're having ice-cream."

Ginny gives a derisory snort. "Did he forget to turn the oven on again?"

"No," I say, carefully, "It's -"

"Oh, give it a rest, Gin!" Harry suddenly snaps.

Ginny and I both turn to stare at him, me impressed and grateful, her angry and offended.

"Excuse me?" she demands, "What did you just say?"

Harry decides to pretend that nothing has happened. "What?" he asks, grinning crazily at us.

Ginny jumps to her feet, her chair scraping back, and her eyes flashing with barely suppressed fury. "Right! That's it! I've had enough! We're going home!"

"What about my ice-cream?" Harry whines.

"Come on!" she hisses, clearly in no mood to brook an argument.

Harry climbs to his feet with a massive sigh, giving me an apologetic look. Ginny refuses to even look in my direction.

Ron chooses that precise moment to amble out from the kitchen, with a cup of tea in one hand and a small plate of toast in the other. He takes in the little tableau - all three of us on our feet and clearly mid-argument - and a small bemused grin appears on his face.

"Shall I go out and come back in again?" he offers. I stifle a nervous laugh.

"Well!" announces Ginny, in a high, brittle tone, "Thank you both for a lovely evening!" and she turns on her heel and heads for the door.

Harry gives us an embarrassed shrug. "Thanks. It's been... um... interesting..." He hesitates. "Look, I –"

"Come on!" calls Ginny impatiently from the hall.

"Better go," Harry mumbles, raising his hand slightly in farewell and backing out of the room after her. "Sorry about... you know."

---

The door closes behind them and in the sudden, welcome silence I turn to look at Ron, who is standing there munching a piece of toast as though nothing has happened. He pulls up a chair and sits down at the debris-strewn table, and after a moment's hesitation, I sink into the chair opposite him and prise my shoes off my aching feet, stretching out my toes in relief. He pushes the plate silently across to me, and for several minutes we just sit there in silence, munching our toast, the bowls of ice-cream sitting melting and forgotten beside us. When we have finished Ron takes a few large gulps of tea to wash down his toast, and we just look at each other.

"Hey."

"They've gone."

"Yes, they have."

"And we're still here."

I can't help a small smile. "Yes, we are."

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly too. "Hey, Hermione?"

"What?"

"Everything's under control..."

We both start laughing with the sudden release of tension and for several minutes it's all we can do, we just laugh and laugh with the whole mad giddy euphoria of it until our ribs hurt and we can hardly breathe, and it is glorious.

-----

----------------------------

Author's Note: Because... God knows we all needed a bit of light relief after the unrelenting misery that was the Two Years Earlier segment. Also, I know a lot of you wanted to see Ginny make an appearance. You cross one Weasley, you cross them all!

Do Google "Scotch egg", by the way. I'm sure the non-Brits among you will imagine it to be some kind of exotic delicacy; well, let me tell you, it's one of the finest culinary inventions of our modern age. If you ever get a chance to taste one, you won't be disappointed, I promise you. Especially dipped in Salad Cream. You might want to Google that as well...

Oh, and one last little reminder... P L E A S E . L E A V E . A . R E V I E W ! ! ! (and THEN you can go and Google "Scotch egg"...)