The Weasley family meeting was late to start, primarily because Molly and Arthur were having difficulty with their webcam, resulting in much of the initial discussion being directed at Molly's forehead.

"It's new, you see. Fred bought it for us. So we wouldn't have to use the one in the laptop." Molly's voice was muffled and came over to the room in disjointed gasps.

Ginny threw an impatient look in Fred's direction as she replied, "And he didn't help you set it up?"

"Well no dear, the instructions came in the box." There was a pause as the image went still for a moment, before the webcam toppled and their parents tumbled head over heels before disappearing completely.

Fred shrugged and looked at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his sister's stare on the vulnerable skin of his throat.

A further ten minutes later, with distinctly unhelpful input from Percy and slightly better input from Fred, the image was upright and showed the majority of the two elder Weasleys.

"Now, first order of business is the Delacour paintings. They are coming to the end of their year at the museum and we need to decide whether we want to extend the loan or bring them back here."

The meeting moved at a brisk pace which was unusual for anything Weasley-related but Harry wasn't going to comment in case he started them all off.

"Lastly," he said, hoping his tone transmitted that this really was the final order of business and no-one was permitted to insert anything else in the dying minutes, "I finally got speaking to Caroline over at Finchley Estate about her thoughts on branded products. She really believes there's a market."

"Like what?

"Well, Finchley was known for their banquets way back when; they had a lot of game, plus there's still a massive vegetable and herb garden. So they went down the culinary route. They sell a lot of their own products in their shop and Caroline reckons the fact that they can tie it in with the history of the castle gives it a huge boost."

"And what do we think Ottery's known for?" came Bill's question over the speaker.

"Mould," Fred and George chimed simultaneously and their mother tutted loudly.

"I'm not sure about this at all," Percy began ominously and Ginny shared a look with Harry, "It could cheapen our brand if we don't find exactly the right type of product line. We don't just want any old rubbish. You know Michael once said…"

"Anyway," Ginny cut in loudly, "After Harry spoke to Caroline and got the skinny, I spoke to Mum and Dad and asked if they had any ideas. And that was when Mum said about the hand cream. Tell them, Mum."

"What I was actually thinking of was a type of cold cream," Molly said, lifting a notepad and squinting at it. "Wrote a few notes… hold on."

Percy clicked his tongue and George flicked him with a rubber band that had been holding together some papers.

"Ok, yes…" Another pause. "Yes, your great-grandmother used to make it herself. I remember it as clear as day, that big glass jar on the dressing table."

Molly smiled at the memory; Arthur looked puzzled.

"What was it? Face cream? I don't remember that."

"Oh, nonsense Arthur," Molly squawked, batting her husband tersely, "Of course you do. It was a glass jar with a silver lid. Sat next to her hairbrushes every day of her life."

Arthur shrugged.

Molly shook her head sharply. "Never mind him. I remember it and after we talked Ginny, I went hunting and look!"

She thrust a piece of paper up to the camera, causing the focus to snap back and forward as it tried to accommodate the sudden change.

Ginny saw Ron's head droop towards his chest out of the corner of her eye and she struck the conference table with her pen. A loud crack echoed through the room and Ron's head snapped up.

"Mum, you're giving that webcam a heart attack," Ron straightened himself in his seat as he spoke. "Why don't you just tell us what it says?"

"It's the ingredients! I found it in a book about insects no less. No idea why it was in there but there you have it. So never mind old Caroline Pattison at Finchley making up recipes and pretending they're handed down through generations. We could make your great-grandmother's actual cream!"

As Harry had feared, this set everyone talking at once. The Weasleys truly did not believe in taking turns or hearing each other out. Much better to talk over each other, battering down other people's opinions and get progressively louder until everyone was shouting.

He sat back wearily and swallowed the last of his coffee, making eye contact with Ron who was sitting next him looking bored.

"Got time for a pint after work?" Ron mumbled under his breath.

"I'm meant to be putting Albus through his violin scales. It sets Ginny's teeth on edge."

"If you get out of it and go for a pint with me, I'll stand up right now and take responsibility for the hand cream thing."

Harry considered this for a moment and really, it came down to how much he feared his wife's wrath over how much longer he wanted to sit listening to a roomful of brash redheads berate each other when he could be sitting in a beer garden.

"Deal."

Ron got to his feet and snatched up Harry's notes. "I'll deal with this. Mum, send me a picture of the recipe. I'll make a few enquiries and get right on it."

Faint grumblings echoed round the room as Harry called the meeting a close, the family sensing they had been cheated out of a robust debate.

"See you in half an hour."

Ron winked at Harry and marched jauntily out of the room, leaving Harry to answer Ginny's raised eyebrow.

OOO

"Whatcha up to there?"

Hermione didn't look up from the pile of dust in front of her and, ignoring his question, continued to carefully comb through the debris with a slim metal spatula. Every so often she paused, poked at something and then moved on.

Outside Ron could hear the growl of the chainsaw pruner. The year had seeped away from them too quickly and Liz had returned from her recuperation to find that few of the tasks she had advised them to prioritise had been gotten around to. It was late in the year to be pollarding the trees but it needed done.

"What," Hermione said now, breaking into his thought stream about tree branches, "Do. You. Want?"

She was leaning closer to the dirt pile now, eyes level with the table, critically giving it the once over with, Ron felt, unnatural enthusiasm.

"What makes you think I want anything?" he replied. "Can't I just drop by, see how your day is going?"

Hermione tilted her head so she could meet his gaze.

"Okay, okay, I need a favour."

How did she always know when he was after something?

Hermione straightened stiffly and rubbed her lower back with one hand before bending again and splicing the dust down the middle with the spatula.

"Of course you do."

Ron rounded the table and knelt next to her. She continued to ignore him, absorbed in her task, so he leant forward, elbows on the table, and cupped his chin in his hand. Moving his head back and forth he 'hmmed' loudly, pretending to consider the grey, grainy substance in front of them.

Eventually, her head whipped round. "What? Just tell me."

"First," Ron responded, dropping his voice to a whisper, "Tell me why we're admiring this pile of dust."

"We aren't doing anything Ron. I'm examining it. For insect casts. I don't know what you are doing, other than making a nuisance of yourself."

Her voice tried hard to be angry but in the end she smiled in response to his grin and she stood up again.

"What do you need?"

"Well, Hermione there's a lot of things I need but right now I need a woman."

Ron enjoyed the almost imperceptible stilling of her body before she frowned and stared at him questioningly.

"Will you come with me to the flower place today? I need an expert eye. Or nose, I suppose."

Hermione crossed her arms. "I'm no expert on flowers. Take Liz."

Ron hopped onto the table, causing the dust pile to crumble a little. "Liz can't. Busy."

"Take Sylvain. He's never doing much of anything."

"Harsh yet true." Ron shook his head. "No, we're making hand cream. Needs to be a girl."

She rolled her eyes and started poking in the dust again.

"I can't even begin to tell you how sexist that is. Anyway, do I not look busy to you?"

"You look like you're sifting through a pile of gritty crap Hermione. C'mon, come with me." He jumped down and stepped closer.

Hermione bit her lip, attempting to pay no heed to the soft, wheedling tone of Ron's voice. "I have a lot to do today Ron."

He swung his arms by his sides impatiently, reminding her of a small child, but it was cute, rather than irritating. Which was annoying in itself.

"You always say that," he replied, scrunching his nose.

"'Cos it's always true."

His shoulders dropped as though defeated and Hermione felt disappointed, realising that she actually really did want to go with him. Maddeningly, she couldn't say it outright, as though it was somehow wrong to want to be near him but fortunately, Ron wasn't put off so easily.

"Look Hermione," he said finally, matter-of-factly, "It's a friggin' gorgeous day outside so you choose. You can A. Continue to poke through insect shit."

Her mouth opened to protest but Ron held up a finger to silence her.

"Or B. You can spend a couple of hours in the fresh air, sniffing flowers and getting some well needed Vitamin D. Honestly, if you spend any more time inside this place you're going to end up with rickets."

She bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from laughing and feigned consideration. But only for a moment.

"Okay. You've convinced me."

Ron beamed and skipped to the door. "Excellent. Meet me at the garage in an hour."

Hermione collected her spatula, trying, and failing, to stop her face breaking into a smile.

"And Hermione?"

Ron paused by the door and she raised her head.

"Wash your bloody hands before you get into my car."

OOO

Sixty minutes later, Hermione made her way to the back of the castle where a row of ramshackle outhouses had been converted into five garages, each with an ancient roller shutter. As was the Ottery way, anything that wasn't in public view took a back seat in terms of maintenance and money invested so the buildings were in want of shoring up and more than a little elbow grease.

She had only ever been in the first two to the left, which housed tools, random broken things and cans of oil and paint. The middle garage was open, displaying the aged Land Rover the Weasleys used as a communal vehicle.

So she was surprised to see Ron come out of the very last garage, ducking underneath the lowered shutter. He smiled when he saw her and beckoned her closer.

"Aren't we taking the Land Rover?" she queried, gesturing behind her.

"It's too nice a day for that old fridge. I think you'll like this better."

Dramatically, and with all the pride of a child showing off his most prized possession, Ron whipped up the roller shutter, allowing light into the dim garage and revealing a diminutive red sports car.

Hermione gasped and Ron's grin widened.

"Isn't she great?"

She took a few steps forward and put her hand on the little roadster. It was a beautiful car in some respects; glossy scarlet paintwork, gleaming chrome and bulbous, curvaceous lines that made it seem almost cartoonish. But, even in the gloom she could see where work needed done. Rust had set in on the wheel arch and the stitching of the black leather seats was loose along the top.

Still, when she looked up at Ron's face, shining with delight, Hermione could tell that none of that affected how much he loved this car.

"She's lovely," Hermione replied finally, sensing his need for approval. "I had no idea you had a sports car."

Ron opened the passenger door, ushering her in.

"I like to keep a few surprises up my sleeve." He loped round to the other side of the car and slid in next to her. "Wouldn't be much of a playboy Lord of the Manor if I didn't have a few ways to wow the ladies, now would I?"

Hermione bobbed her head. "Naturally. What sort of car is this?"

"Ford 850 Spider. 1968." Ron spoke with reverence as he ran his hands over the steering wheel. "She was my grandfather's, on my Dad's side. Gnarly as hell to run and thirrrsty. But if you know what you're doing, she's sweet."

He turned the ignition, the car started with a guttural roar and they pulled slowly into the yard. As the car made its way through the grounds and up the drive, Ron pointed out the various dials and switches on the dash, anxious that Hermione understand the minutiae of the Ford's workings.

"Have you ever thought about restoring it?" she asked as they turned onto the main road. Ron threw her a patient look and she understood. "Of course. Money."

"Yep," he replied airily, "And not just money. Time too. To do it justice would require a serious investment of both. And I have neither to spare. To be honest I'm thankful she's still running."

Silence descended on the pair for a moment and Hermione leant back, appreciating the sun on her face. She couldn't recall if she had ever been in a topless car before but it didn't seem likely. People with hair as unruly and downright tangly as hers should never expose it to that much rushing wind.

Still, that didn't seem to bother her right now. Instead she found her mind, usually so busy with boring, odd little details, was mellow in the pleasure of sitting next to this man, in a red, vintage sports car on a Summer day.

"Of course, if we did restore it," Ron spoke again, voice beaten back by the breeze, "Then we would have a conundrum."

Hermione rooted in her handbag for her sunglasses and didn't look up as she responded, "What conundrum?"

"Whether or not to sell it. I mean, these cars are very rare. They rust, you see. A fully restored 1968 Spider is worth upwards of fifteen grand."

Her fingers tightened around the glasses case.

"Seriously?"

Ron smiled a tad sheepishly.

"I know what you're going to say..."

"Of course you know what I'm going to say," Hermione interrupted incredulously. "Do you know what that money could do for Ottery?" She paused before looking at him again. "No, of course you know. So why don't you do it?"

Ron was quiet for a moment. "I dunno really. Every so often it'll come up at the wild old time that is the Weasley family meeting. And we'll weigh up the pros and cons..."

"Oh come on Ron, the pros and cons?" Hermione wedged her sunglasses firmly onto her face as she spoke. "How can anything match up to all that spare cash?"

He smiled ruefully. "You sound like Percy. He isn't remotely sentimental either."

Hermione flinched.

"He thinks we should scrounge together enough money to do a decent restoration and then sell her on. Mum agrees. And Bill. Charlie's on the fence. He learnt to drive in this car. I mean, we all did but he remembers my grandad driving it. My dad really doesn't want to sell it; neither do the twins. Ginny usually sides with Dad, because she knows how much it means to him to keep the car in the family."

"And I can guess which side you take," Hermione said, pulling a wave of hair clear of her vision.

Ron laughed. "Actually, I'm the hardest to convince- I can't decide. When we're shovelling water out of the cellar with buckets or deciding which rooms we should heat because there isn't enough budget for all of them, I can't imagine a scenario where keeping the Spider is the best option. Then, I see a photo of my grandad standing next to her, proud as punch, or I take her out for a spin on a day like today and... I can't imagine parting with her."

Hermione was silent and Ron regarded her out of the corner of his eye. "I know you think I'm mad. You can say it."

"Not mad. Just… I don't know what the word is for it."

"For what?"

"I suppose I don't understand your priorities. You love Ottery and we're coming up with all these schemes to raise money to keep it going, make all the necessary repairs. It just seems odd to leave fifteen thousand pounds in a garage rusting."

Ron pursed his lips. "Ouch. Don't hold back Hermione. Say what you really mean."

She felt guilt trickle down her neck. "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."

He sighed and slowed the car, indicating left. "You didn't. I know what you're saying. I say the same thing sometimes."

As they pulled up outside the entrance to the flower farm, Ron explained that Jonna was an old girlfriend of Fred's and, thankfully, the split had not been acrimonious. Three years ago she had joined forces with a woman who made natural cosmetics and now provided all of the plant ingredients for Martha's 'various lotions and potions' as Ron referred to them dismissively.

"I sent her over the brief last week so she should have fairly good idea of what we're looking for."

Jonna turned out to be delightfully eccentric, with a deep, almost empathic understanding of the flowers she cared for. She apologized that Martha wasn't there that day to go through it with them but she had reviewed the brief and had made detailed notes that they were able to work from.

"Martha can make it pretty much the way it would have been made when your great-nan was using it," she said enthusiastically as they pored over Martha's small, neat script, "So it will very authentic."

"It doesn't matter that it was originally cold cream and not actually hand cream?" Hermione interjected.

Jonna shook her head. "No, that shouldn't matter. We'll test it out first, of course. The only thing you didn't specify was the scent you wanted to add."

Ron's face was a blank. Eventually he said, "Isn't there a standard…hand cream scent?"

"I think Jonna means what flower do you want to use?" Hermione suppressed a smile. He threw a pleading look her way, so she added, "Perhaps you could give us a few ideas Jonna."

Fifteen minutes later, after a thorough tour of the hothouse and many buds pressed under their noses, they found themselves outside.

"If you want to be completely classic," Jonna said, gesturing in front of them, "Then this would be my choice."

The rose garden was almost overwhelming in experience; the colour a riotous assault on the eyes and the distinctive scent undulating through the air as they passed by. Jonna pointed out several varieties of rose that they might consider using. True to form, Ron nodded and chatted, while Hermione made detailed notes in her pad.

When they reached one end of the garden, Jonna left them to walk back at their own pace and Ron forced Hermione to put the notebook away.

"You can take more notes later," he said, as she reluctantly tucked it back into her bag. "Let's have a little walk and enjoy the sunshine. Okay?"

She acquiesced and they strolled companionably up and down the rose beds, admiring the blowsy summer blooms and commenting on bumblebees zigzagging lazily by.

Conversation was light at first and they touched on the success of Steve and Mariam's wedding, which had led to a sprinkling of further wedding enquiries. However, discussion of the wedding wound the conversation back to Ottery finances. Which was how they found themselves talking about the sale of the Spider again.

"It's poor financial sense not to seriously consider selling it Ron. You have to know that."

"I do," he agreed, "But not every decision is made with a financial brain, Hermione."

"How can it not be? When the roof is literally coming in?"

Ron exhaled a sharp breath. "There's no good answer to that. Except… my dad would be devastated."

Hermione didn't reply.

"Anyway," he said, perking up, "There are lots of other things we can do to raise money. Selling hand cream for one. And maybe Muriel's cold, steel-trap of a heart will finally pack in and she'll leave us a nice big pot of gold."

Hermione thought about the elderly woman she had seen in several photographs around the castle; the tough, intimidating expression and grey hair like spun sugar. She had the supercilious look of someone who was accustomed to the world opening up at her command.

"Can't she help? I don't know much about her but the way George talks, she's incredibly wealthy. It doesn't seem right to have so much money and not offer it."

Ron lifted a glut of magenta petals that had fallen from a rose and rubbed them between his fingers. "It's not that she won't help. She does, on occasion, when the mood takes her. Sometimes she'll make 'donations' for the care of the antiquities, a 'concerned patron of the arts' she likes to call herself. I'm not delighted about taking them but Mum says it's her way of being kind."

He laughed mirthlessly. "If that's true, it's the only way she's bloody kind. I think she's disappointed in us, you know. Thinks we haven't tried hard enough."

This exasperated Hermione. "How can she think that? You all do so much. Doesn't she want to help her family?"

"I dunno. I think sometimes she doesn't like to think of us as her family. It's sort of a complicated story. The castle passed down from my great-grandfather- Muriel's brother- to my grandad. Muriel is my great-great aunt, I think, but everyone just calls her Aunt Muriel. And then it should have passed to the next male but both my uncles died in their twenties. So it passed to Mum."

"Where was Muriel at this point?"

"Oh, off somewhere having a great old time," Ron replied contemptuously. "She made, as she likes to call it, a good match. A bloody excellent one actually. He was loaded and shit-hot with investments. She's been in the pink ever since. Which was good because the line of inheritance completely cuts her out. She'd have nothing without her husband's dosh."

Ron reached across and gently tugged the collar of her shirt. "Your neck'll burn."

She smiled her gratitude and they continued walking in silence until Ron spoke again.

"When Mum met Dad, she knew she wanted to marry him and she wasn't interested in whether or not he had any family money. They married really quickly. When her family realised that actually the marriage wasn't going to be as lucrative as they thought, I think there was a lot of tension. Family squabbles."

"They blamed her for not marrying well?"

"Yeah, I think so," Ron replied, allowing the petals to trickle from his hand as they walked. "I think they accused her of knowing that the Weasley family weren't rich and marrying Dad anyway. It wasn't considered the 'done thing', coming from a supposedly loaded family and marrying someone poor."

"And did she? Know?"

Ron grinned. "Definitely."

Hermione echoed his grin. "She didn't care."

"Nope. Not at all. Took months for everyone to be on speaking terms and then my grandad died soon afterwards and everything went to Mum. Ottery was a friggin' mess when Mum and Dad took it over apparently; took them years to get the business on an even keel. Which is why Muriel bugs me so much. She talks like she remembers the good old days- when the Prewetts entertained royalty and were actually bloody loaded- but she didn't live them. By the time my great-grandad took over they were already scrabbling about for cash, hence Muriel marrying a juicy, rich husband."

Ron sighed heavily. "Now the one with the real money is Muriel and I think the only reason she gives us anything is because of some misguided idea of keeping up the castle legacy. She's caught up in an Ottery that hasn't existed for well over a century I reckon."

Hermione tried to sound upbeat as she said, "Well at least she helps. We have to be grateful for that."

"Yep. Although a lot of it is pretty ridiculous."

"Meaning?

They reached the top of the hill and paused, looking down over the considerately planted beds. Ron stuffed his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath before he answered.

"Because Muriel considers herself quite fancy, mixing with the upper class hobnobs, she wants us to do it too. Not Mum and Dad, not anymore. But the kids, me and my brothers and Ginny. She puts a lot of money and effort into creating opportunities for us to meet wealthy people. Part of it is that she's obsessed with us marrying well and each time one of us gets married and disappoints her, she just doubles her efforts on the rest of us."

"What sort of things does she make you do?"

"Oh, you know. Polo, tennis, charity benefits. She bankrolls the lot. She's completely funding Charlie's work in Africa with endangered wildlife because a good friend of hers is head of the foundation he's working with. She's so hypocritical. She non-stop moans at us for being broke, wrecking the castle, never visiting, blah blah blah. Honestly you'd think we were spitting in her tea every morning. But when these boring-ass events come up, she's on the phone straight away, wanting us to attend."

"With her?"

Ron stuck his tongue out. "Not usually thank God. Still, I'm not keen on being trotted out as one of the family when she makes us feel like the poor relations. Mum and Dad used to be at her beck and call and when they stopped being able to do it we took over. She likes our faces being out there. We only do it because it makes Mum feel better about the donations."

Ron sounded bored with the concept and Hermione tried to imagine what it would be like to have a rich benefactor who paid your way, allowing you to experience things most people only dreamed about. It didn't seem boring.

"Isn't it…" He looked at her. "Nice?" Ron pouted his bottom lip. "Oh, come on. Not even a little bit? Drinking champagne and eating little canapés? Yachts and sports tournaments." His eyebrows raised. "Oh yes," Hermione continued, "I read 'Hello' magazine every now and then. You can't tell me it isn't nice to be able to do those things. You should consider yourself very fortunate."

"I'd rather," he answered wistfully, "Stay at home and get on with my life. I don't want to be anywhere else."

Just then, Jonna called to them from the greenhouse and the discussion was dropped.

After very little deliberation- much to Hermione's chagrin- Ron decided on English rose and plum violet.

"Can Martha make up a sample batch of each?" he asked as Jonna walked them back to their car. "If I choose something without giving the family a chance to argue about it, I'll never hear the end of it."

"She will make a very small batch of each so you can try it out and experience the scent," Jonna answered, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun, "Once you decide which scent you want, she'll make the bigger batch and then send it to be bottled."

"Sounds good." Ron flicked the back of Hermione's pad as she wrote.

"Just make sure you are all in agreement about the scent. Once she starts preparing the cream the way you ordered it, there's no going back. She makes it in big batches to keep the cost down for the customer. Making one jar is much more expensive than making a hundred, just because of the wastage and effort that goes into it. Of course, you can order whatever you please, but the price…"

"Nope," Ron cut in firmly, slicing his hand through the air, "I'm good with what we agreed. This is a gamble as it is. I'll make sure they pick just one. Thanks Jonna."

"Stare decisis?" Hermione asked as she lowered herself into the car.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Stare bloody decisis, Hermione."

The drive back to the castle was subdued and when they returned to the garage, she could see Ron's doleful expression as he closed the shutter.

"Thank you for inviting me today Ron," she said, touching his arm. "Your car is beautiful. I had a really nice time."

Ron looked pleasantly surprised, the area around his eyes crinkling in pleasure. His mouth opened but he seemed to think better of it. In the end he simply said, "Thanks for coming."

They parted ways at the entrance and Hermione headed to her office via the kitchen so she could fill her water bottle. It was late in the afternoon and the kitchen was quiet. Hermione didn't notice Mag sitting in the corner peeling potatoes until it was too late to back away.

Fighting her desire to run in the other direction, she braced her shoulders and walked confidently to the sink. When Mag looked up, Hermione said, "Good afternoon Mag."

There was a pause before Mag replied, "Hello."

Progress.

Hermione risked further conversation. "It's a lovely day out there. Ron took me out in the car to the flower farm."

"Did he now?"

Dazed by her success, Hermione babbled on. "Yes! We were picking the scent for the new hand cream. Well Ron was, I just tagged along. Such a lovely place. Do you know they grow eighteen types of roses alone? Eighteen!"

Shut up Hermione, for God's sake.

Mag continued to scrub at the potatoes in the pot in front of her and Hermione figured this probably meant her luck had run out.

But as she screwed the top onto her bottle and turned to leave Mag suddenly said, "I thought the Land Rover was having its clutch fixed."

"Is it? I have no idea. We went in Ron's grandad's car."

At this Mag looked up. "The Spider?"

Hermione nodded, taken aback by Mag's interested tone. "Yes. Why?"

Just as quickly as the spark had ignited in Mag's face it sputtered out and she shrugged.

Hermione walked across the kitchen to the door. Just as she passed through, she heard Mag say quietly, almost speculatively, "He never takes anyone out in that car."