Disclaimer: These characters and places don't belong to me, they belong to
the brilliant J.K. Rowling. Hogwarts is her world. I just live
vicariously in it.
This is my first Fan Fiction, and my second piece of creative writing. I hope you enjoy it. Reviews are appreciated, but please be gentle. Thanks. : )
"Unngh." Bloody bird, the red-topped lump of orange blanket thought, Does it have some kind of mental disorder that makes it believe it's a rooster? Why does it have to rudely interrupt my sleep at such an ungodly hour? The lump regretfully opened one blue eye and looked out at streaks of mid summer morning sun busting through the space between orange curtains. Well, I'm awake now, assessed the lump as it slowly, painstakingly removed it's orange covering and revealed itself as a tall, freckly, carrot- topped fifteen year old boy in blue pajama bottoms, a Chudley Cannons t-shirt, and hand knitted maroon socks.
Ron Weasley stood up and stretched, cracking his sleep softened bones. He ran a hand through tousled crimson hair that clashed terribly with his tangerine themed decor. The disturbed little owl started hooting incessantly again. "All right, Pig," he croaked, his voice unused since yesterday, "Hold your pathetic little feathers. I'm coming." He tramped across the room to the little owl's cage, nearly falling over several forgotten objects. He spat out a curse of pain when he stepped on an abandoned quill. The tiny bird chirped shrilly, scolding him. "Shut up Pigwidgeon, you noisy, ineffectual little prat of an owl," he said, with his usual quantity of morning cheerfulness.
He opened the latch on the wire bird cage, and Pigwidgeon immediately started lapping around Ron's bedroom like a tiny brown streak of vociferous energy; chirping madly and announcing his existence to the world in general. Ron pulled out a bag of seed from the top drawer of a dresser beneath the cage and shook it, and Pig immediately parked atop of Ron's shoulder and began nipping playfully at his hair. Ron would never admit it, but he loved the feathered midget dearly. He fed Pigwidgeon, who gratefully quieted down to a level of chirping and hooting that was considerably less threatening to Ron's sense of hearing.
Ron then pulled on some clothes he found lying around his room that smelled clean, pondered for a few seconds about making his bed, but soon thought it useless, since it would ultimately be messy again tomorrow morning. He pulled back the curtains, opened the window, and let Pigwidgeon out for a little flying, and perhaps some hunting, which, for a palm-sized owl like Pigwidgeon, consisted mainly of large and docile insects. The morning was bright and hot, even for the middle of July. He looked out over the green fields and trees in the property his home sat on, and watched the fat chickens waddle about in their endless search for food. He noted the large gaping hole in the lawn, the result of his brothers - Fred and George, of course - who had fustily attempted to fabricate a garden gnome trap. It was supposed to act like an in-ground catapult that would send the pesky gnome into orbit, but it didn't work that way. For some reason, upon it's first test run, it had promptly and violently exploded; leaving the irate and blackened gnome grumbling and snarling, making it's way back into the hedges. The hole was still smoking, and he was sure Fred and George's ears were still ringing from their mother's scolding. Ron chuckled.
He left his window open so that Pigwidgeon could fly back in when he was finished. He heard his stomach growl, and realized that he has very hungry. He made his way down the twisting, crooked stairway into the kitchen, where he was greeted by a batch of redheads, all heavily engrossed in Mrs. Weasley's pancakes and eggs. "Good morning, Ronald," said his prissy brother Percy, from his seat at the far end of the well-scrubbed kitchen table. "A little lie in this morning, huh?" Percy's voice oozed condescendence, and Ron hated being called by his full name. He sat down across from Percy and glared at him. "Morning, Percival," Ron said icily. Percy glared back. Percy couldn't really glare though, his aristocratic face only looking offended when he tried to look infuriated. Ron couldn't help the dopey grin that spread across his freckly face. Percy pursed his lips together and looked questioningly at Ron from the top of his horn- rimmed glasses, then went back to his breakfast.
"Oi, Ron!" said Fred, from further down the table, egg dripping onto his chin and shirt. "Sleep well last night? I heard that little sparrow of an owl screaming like an irritated Mandrake." "We wanted to test our Silencing Sweets on him," George added, "But he'd probably explode or turn pink or something," said Fred. "Not that we wouldn't enjoy it," said George, "but we're in enough trouble as it is for toasting that blasted gnome." The twins gave out a few reminiscing chuckles, and continued inhaling egg and pancake. Percy shot them a disapproving stare, and Ron grinned again.
"Good morning, Ron, dear," said Molly Weasley as she emerged from the pantry, a dozen more eggs cradled in her arms. She set the eggs down on the scrubbed counter top and patted Ron on the head, smoothing his pillow styled hair. She then proceeded to lubricate a handkerchief with all- purpose Mother Cleaning Agent, her saliva, and began rubbing a patch of dirt on his cheek. "Geez, Mum," he complained, his face squished into an expression of discomfort and humilitation. Fred and George began to laugh, egg squirting out of their mouths. Percy grinned. "Is Mumsy fawning over ickle Ronnikins?" Percy said. Ron glared again. "Shut up, you prat," Ron spat, and Mrs. Weasley stopped cleaning Ron's face to hit him on the head. "Don't talk to your brother like that," she scolded. Ron rubbed his head and glared at Percy again.
She drew her wand from her apron to send a few eggs levitating over the stove, where they cracked perfectly in half and emptied their contents into a frying pan. "Your father will be coming home from work soon, I suspect he's had a hard night of it, so there will be no more unnecessary rudeness, " she said, glaring in Ron's and then the twin's direction. Fred and George looked up at her, feigning wide-eyed innocence. Mrs. Weasley shook her head, red ringlets bouncing, and set a high stack of pancakes and a loving portion of egg on Ron's plate. Ron tucked in without hesitation.
As if on cue, Mr. Weasley came in through the front door, carrying a stuffed briefcase and wearing very tattered, but very clean green robes over his tall, thin frame. His gentle face looked worn out and tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked at his family and smiled, setting his briefcase down beside his seat at the end of the table between Ron and Percy. "Morning, Dad," Ron said in-between mouthfuls of food. "How was work, father?" Percy said, haughtily. "Morning, kids," Mr. Weasley said. He took off his hat to reveal his receding, but vividly red hairline. "Thank Merlin that's over," he said. "We had a problem with an enchanted mirror. It was mistakenly installed into the dressing room of a ladies' boutique, and, in addition to the shock some Muggle women felt over a talking mirror, this particular mirror wasn't very sensitive. Unfortunately, it got smashed during investigation after it made a few comments about our Memory Charm's specialist's backside. I'd heard that Ms. Finucane had been a champion beater. Anyway, what a mess." Mr. Weasley shook his head. "I suspect I'll be hearing about it at work today, then," Percy said, "I'll give you the further detail's of the perpetrator's prosecutions." Percy beamed. "I got a promotion, you know," he reminded them for the fiftieth time that week. Ron rolled his eyes.
Just then, everyone was interrupted by a large "thud" and the sound of a door slamming. "Mail's here," called a chipper voice from the back of the house. Ginny Weasley came bounding into the room, her arms laden with envelopes. "Errol mistook the wall for the window again," she said, "He's a bit dizzy, but he should be fine."
Ginny gingerly took a seat and sorted the envelopes, giving each piece of mail to it's addressee. Ron took his two letters and inspected them. One, written on plain white muggle stationary with a characteristic scrawl of an address written across it, Ron recognized as being from his newly infamous best friend, Harry Potter. Ron felt a twinge of anxiety at the recognition. He knew better than most about the terrible events of the past few months, and he knew how badly they had affected the reluctant champion of the Triwizard Tournament. Ron opened the letter and read.
Dear Ron,
How are things at the Burrow? Things here are just as terrible as ever, yesterday Aunt Petunia made me cut the grass with nothing but a pair of scissors and a ruler, but was so upset over my trimming job that she made me go over it with the mower anyway. She sent me to bed with nothing but an orange rind and a single kernel of corn. Thankfully and somewhat unfortunately, I haven't received any word from Snuffles or anyone else I know, besides you and Hermione. You'll tell me if anything comes up, won't you?
Sincerely, Harry Potter
Ron refolded the letter and felt relieved. It seemed nothing had gone wrong again since school let out, and despite Harry's horrendous maltreatment by his malicious muggle relatives, Harry seemed to be in as good a mood as was to be expected, considering he was the number one entry on You Know Who's hitlist. Ron would certainly inform Harry of any remotely suspicious news the moment he heard it, and he would definitely be willing to fight on Harry's side the moment that conflict arose.
Ron picked up the second and last letter in his pile, also written on muggle stationary, with a painstakingly neat cursive eloquently displaying his name. Hermione. Ron felt a twinge of happiness, she hadn't written yet this summer, but he felt his mood sink when he realized what had probably caused that delay. That ugly, hook nosed, sour faced, evil little Bulgarian twit Vicky. He had asked her visit him in Bulgaria that summer. She had probably rushed over there as soon as summer holiday began, and they had spent the last few weeks prancing about Bulgaria, going to libraries and laughing and talking and . . . fraternizing. Ron's face grew an angry crimson as he thought about Hermione and Krum together.
Doesn't she know he's a student at Durmstrang, a school that makes little effort to hide it's association with the dark arts? The same dark arts that You Know Who has used to try to kill Harry-one of her best friends? Did she actually think he just wanted to be friends and accompany her to Balls and sit in libraries, when he's obviously trying to kill them all? How could Hermione be so brilliant and thick at the same time?
Sighing and scowling, Ron opened her letter.
This is my first Fan Fiction, and my second piece of creative writing. I hope you enjoy it. Reviews are appreciated, but please be gentle. Thanks. : )
"Unngh." Bloody bird, the red-topped lump of orange blanket thought, Does it have some kind of mental disorder that makes it believe it's a rooster? Why does it have to rudely interrupt my sleep at such an ungodly hour? The lump regretfully opened one blue eye and looked out at streaks of mid summer morning sun busting through the space between orange curtains. Well, I'm awake now, assessed the lump as it slowly, painstakingly removed it's orange covering and revealed itself as a tall, freckly, carrot- topped fifteen year old boy in blue pajama bottoms, a Chudley Cannons t-shirt, and hand knitted maroon socks.
Ron Weasley stood up and stretched, cracking his sleep softened bones. He ran a hand through tousled crimson hair that clashed terribly with his tangerine themed decor. The disturbed little owl started hooting incessantly again. "All right, Pig," he croaked, his voice unused since yesterday, "Hold your pathetic little feathers. I'm coming." He tramped across the room to the little owl's cage, nearly falling over several forgotten objects. He spat out a curse of pain when he stepped on an abandoned quill. The tiny bird chirped shrilly, scolding him. "Shut up Pigwidgeon, you noisy, ineffectual little prat of an owl," he said, with his usual quantity of morning cheerfulness.
He opened the latch on the wire bird cage, and Pigwidgeon immediately started lapping around Ron's bedroom like a tiny brown streak of vociferous energy; chirping madly and announcing his existence to the world in general. Ron pulled out a bag of seed from the top drawer of a dresser beneath the cage and shook it, and Pig immediately parked atop of Ron's shoulder and began nipping playfully at his hair. Ron would never admit it, but he loved the feathered midget dearly. He fed Pigwidgeon, who gratefully quieted down to a level of chirping and hooting that was considerably less threatening to Ron's sense of hearing.
Ron then pulled on some clothes he found lying around his room that smelled clean, pondered for a few seconds about making his bed, but soon thought it useless, since it would ultimately be messy again tomorrow morning. He pulled back the curtains, opened the window, and let Pigwidgeon out for a little flying, and perhaps some hunting, which, for a palm-sized owl like Pigwidgeon, consisted mainly of large and docile insects. The morning was bright and hot, even for the middle of July. He looked out over the green fields and trees in the property his home sat on, and watched the fat chickens waddle about in their endless search for food. He noted the large gaping hole in the lawn, the result of his brothers - Fred and George, of course - who had fustily attempted to fabricate a garden gnome trap. It was supposed to act like an in-ground catapult that would send the pesky gnome into orbit, but it didn't work that way. For some reason, upon it's first test run, it had promptly and violently exploded; leaving the irate and blackened gnome grumbling and snarling, making it's way back into the hedges. The hole was still smoking, and he was sure Fred and George's ears were still ringing from their mother's scolding. Ron chuckled.
He left his window open so that Pigwidgeon could fly back in when he was finished. He heard his stomach growl, and realized that he has very hungry. He made his way down the twisting, crooked stairway into the kitchen, where he was greeted by a batch of redheads, all heavily engrossed in Mrs. Weasley's pancakes and eggs. "Good morning, Ronald," said his prissy brother Percy, from his seat at the far end of the well-scrubbed kitchen table. "A little lie in this morning, huh?" Percy's voice oozed condescendence, and Ron hated being called by his full name. He sat down across from Percy and glared at him. "Morning, Percival," Ron said icily. Percy glared back. Percy couldn't really glare though, his aristocratic face only looking offended when he tried to look infuriated. Ron couldn't help the dopey grin that spread across his freckly face. Percy pursed his lips together and looked questioningly at Ron from the top of his horn- rimmed glasses, then went back to his breakfast.
"Oi, Ron!" said Fred, from further down the table, egg dripping onto his chin and shirt. "Sleep well last night? I heard that little sparrow of an owl screaming like an irritated Mandrake." "We wanted to test our Silencing Sweets on him," George added, "But he'd probably explode or turn pink or something," said Fred. "Not that we wouldn't enjoy it," said George, "but we're in enough trouble as it is for toasting that blasted gnome." The twins gave out a few reminiscing chuckles, and continued inhaling egg and pancake. Percy shot them a disapproving stare, and Ron grinned again.
"Good morning, Ron, dear," said Molly Weasley as she emerged from the pantry, a dozen more eggs cradled in her arms. She set the eggs down on the scrubbed counter top and patted Ron on the head, smoothing his pillow styled hair. She then proceeded to lubricate a handkerchief with all- purpose Mother Cleaning Agent, her saliva, and began rubbing a patch of dirt on his cheek. "Geez, Mum," he complained, his face squished into an expression of discomfort and humilitation. Fred and George began to laugh, egg squirting out of their mouths. Percy grinned. "Is Mumsy fawning over ickle Ronnikins?" Percy said. Ron glared again. "Shut up, you prat," Ron spat, and Mrs. Weasley stopped cleaning Ron's face to hit him on the head. "Don't talk to your brother like that," she scolded. Ron rubbed his head and glared at Percy again.
She drew her wand from her apron to send a few eggs levitating over the stove, where they cracked perfectly in half and emptied their contents into a frying pan. "Your father will be coming home from work soon, I suspect he's had a hard night of it, so there will be no more unnecessary rudeness, " she said, glaring in Ron's and then the twin's direction. Fred and George looked up at her, feigning wide-eyed innocence. Mrs. Weasley shook her head, red ringlets bouncing, and set a high stack of pancakes and a loving portion of egg on Ron's plate. Ron tucked in without hesitation.
As if on cue, Mr. Weasley came in through the front door, carrying a stuffed briefcase and wearing very tattered, but very clean green robes over his tall, thin frame. His gentle face looked worn out and tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked at his family and smiled, setting his briefcase down beside his seat at the end of the table between Ron and Percy. "Morning, Dad," Ron said in-between mouthfuls of food. "How was work, father?" Percy said, haughtily. "Morning, kids," Mr. Weasley said. He took off his hat to reveal his receding, but vividly red hairline. "Thank Merlin that's over," he said. "We had a problem with an enchanted mirror. It was mistakenly installed into the dressing room of a ladies' boutique, and, in addition to the shock some Muggle women felt over a talking mirror, this particular mirror wasn't very sensitive. Unfortunately, it got smashed during investigation after it made a few comments about our Memory Charm's specialist's backside. I'd heard that Ms. Finucane had been a champion beater. Anyway, what a mess." Mr. Weasley shook his head. "I suspect I'll be hearing about it at work today, then," Percy said, "I'll give you the further detail's of the perpetrator's prosecutions." Percy beamed. "I got a promotion, you know," he reminded them for the fiftieth time that week. Ron rolled his eyes.
Just then, everyone was interrupted by a large "thud" and the sound of a door slamming. "Mail's here," called a chipper voice from the back of the house. Ginny Weasley came bounding into the room, her arms laden with envelopes. "Errol mistook the wall for the window again," she said, "He's a bit dizzy, but he should be fine."
Ginny gingerly took a seat and sorted the envelopes, giving each piece of mail to it's addressee. Ron took his two letters and inspected them. One, written on plain white muggle stationary with a characteristic scrawl of an address written across it, Ron recognized as being from his newly infamous best friend, Harry Potter. Ron felt a twinge of anxiety at the recognition. He knew better than most about the terrible events of the past few months, and he knew how badly they had affected the reluctant champion of the Triwizard Tournament. Ron opened the letter and read.
Dear Ron,
How are things at the Burrow? Things here are just as terrible as ever, yesterday Aunt Petunia made me cut the grass with nothing but a pair of scissors and a ruler, but was so upset over my trimming job that she made me go over it with the mower anyway. She sent me to bed with nothing but an orange rind and a single kernel of corn. Thankfully and somewhat unfortunately, I haven't received any word from Snuffles or anyone else I know, besides you and Hermione. You'll tell me if anything comes up, won't you?
Sincerely, Harry Potter
Ron refolded the letter and felt relieved. It seemed nothing had gone wrong again since school let out, and despite Harry's horrendous maltreatment by his malicious muggle relatives, Harry seemed to be in as good a mood as was to be expected, considering he was the number one entry on You Know Who's hitlist. Ron would certainly inform Harry of any remotely suspicious news the moment he heard it, and he would definitely be willing to fight on Harry's side the moment that conflict arose.
Ron picked up the second and last letter in his pile, also written on muggle stationary, with a painstakingly neat cursive eloquently displaying his name. Hermione. Ron felt a twinge of happiness, she hadn't written yet this summer, but he felt his mood sink when he realized what had probably caused that delay. That ugly, hook nosed, sour faced, evil little Bulgarian twit Vicky. He had asked her visit him in Bulgaria that summer. She had probably rushed over there as soon as summer holiday began, and they had spent the last few weeks prancing about Bulgaria, going to libraries and laughing and talking and . . . fraternizing. Ron's face grew an angry crimson as he thought about Hermione and Krum together.
Doesn't she know he's a student at Durmstrang, a school that makes little effort to hide it's association with the dark arts? The same dark arts that You Know Who has used to try to kill Harry-one of her best friends? Did she actually think he just wanted to be friends and accompany her to Balls and sit in libraries, when he's obviously trying to kill them all? How could Hermione be so brilliant and thick at the same time?
Sighing and scowling, Ron opened her letter.