Dedicated to Wiccan PussyKat for being Northern. And being at the top of our reviews page. Yes, that's right. Those are our reasons. Nobody said they had to make sense…
Chapter 1 – Sheer Magnetism
Hermione Granger was by all accounts a bit of a weirdo. Nice, but weird nonetheless. For the people that held this point of view their case was clear: firstly she did not want to leave school, and secondly she kept on claiming that she had no idea what to do when she did leave school, and worried that she would not be able to get a job (which was ridiculous, they said, when you were as talented as that Granger-girl.) Then there was the hair – but that's a side issue.
What they failed to realise was that whilst Hermione was good at a wide range of subjects the only real thing she had a passion for was being good at everything – which gets kind of difficult outside school. The war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters had sapped any idealistic notions she had left out of her – or more precisely had shown her how futile and childish the ones she currently had her. Even though she had been a child when these opinions were formed, the idea that she had ever been childish still rankled. So she had ditched the house-elves and the campaigns for equality on other magical species and focused on the suffering she saw all around her.
There was, she decided only one thing that could be done: take a gap year in Africa while she decided what to do with her life. She had a vague idea that this was what teenagers did when on the cusp of adulthood in an attempt to redefine their priorities, alter their world view and have a generally life-changing experience in order to prepare for the daily grind of nine-to-five life. And even though she had no desire to ever strap a rucksack on her back and see how long she could go without a shower, she went anyway.
To be fair to Miss Granger – which very few people had ever been – she already had a fair bit of experience under her belt in, what with fighting in the grandly named 'Great Battle'. It annoyed her somewhat when people said that and you could just hear the capitals there. Apparently, it was going to be called the 'Final Battle' but as Voldemort had not been there, just his murderous Death Eaters on a killing spree then that title was no longer applicable. Where he had been no-one knew: he had been there one moment, and then the next he had been gone, him and Harry both. Afterward the Quibbler had run a ridiculous story about how Big Ben had been out of action on the day after, but then they had also said that Voldemort had ridden away from the battle on Shergar. All anyone knew was that the Death Eaters had all stopped for a moment as if stunned (which a few of the less Gryffindor among the fighters took advantage of) and their dark marks had disappeared. Whether Voldemort was actually gone, or just banished again, was point of contention among the members of the wizarding world more prone to worrying. Harry Potter's statement that Voldemort had died in an incident orchestrated by Harry showing 'due heroism, disregard for personal safety and a certain panache resulting in Voldemort being dead as a door nail' did little other than show that someone had taught Potter the art of the sound-bite. In the way of most of his studies, he got a bit, but failed at the last hurdle. No-one ever claimed a hero had to be all that bright.
So whereas Harry had become the Boy-who-did-who-knows-what, Hermione had defended herself successfully against innumerable curses (showing that being a swot sometimes does pay off) and completed Hogwarts with a perfect NEWTs score and a few prizes, but still had no idea what to do with herself. So she packed up, brushed up on her French and went to teach English in Africa.
It was sometime during this period that she came up with the idea that would make her famous and rich, and more importantly give her a platform to inflict her new and improved idealistic notions on the rest of the population from. (I never said she was going to be permanently disillusioned did I now?) Funnily enough it was her meeting with a seer that triggered it all off – one with an improved record in the accuracy department this time though. And faced with someone who actually knew what they were talking about, Hermione just couldn't resist finding out how it was done: part talent, part method, and just a dash of showmanship to make the whole thing go down smoothly. Previously her attitude to divination had always been that it was a slackers subject taken by those without the intelligence or application to get a real OWL or NEWT. Although Firenze had been a real seer, no doubt about that, he was somewhat circumspect in his prophesying, so much so you could never be sure if he had known or not (not that anyone would question six feet of solid muscle attached to four massive hooves and a temper to rival Harry in book 5). And as for Sybil Trelawny, the less said the better in Hermione's opinion, who had never been one to poke fun at her intellectual inferiors, or just skewer then with sarcasm, just for the fun of it.
Yet this seer showed her the potential. Apparently prophesies were out there for everyone, about everyone, it was just the job of the seer to pull down the most important one at the best time to give it and deliver it whilst in the presence of the person who could put it to best use. Trouble was, as with most things, there were never enough seers to go round. How the correct prophesy, time and person were matched was a matter of method – which meant that Hermione could replace that intuition a seer had with Arithmancy and log prophesies. In a flash she saw (as if a vision herself) armies of seers, just spouting prophecies they notice and at the same time armies of arithmancers allocating, dating and logging the words of wisdom into records. Records that would be for sale. It took our dear Miss Granger a bit longer to think of a justification for selling them…but in the end she did.
And so the self-fulfilling prophecy fridge magnet was born.
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Ron, on the other hand was feeling a lot like an indistinguishable back-up friend, except that with his hair he was, and always would be a Weasley. Unless they disowned him, when he'd be a conspicuous reject-Weasley. But for the moment he remained an indistinguishable back-up friend who was most definitely a Weasley. The dream team had broken up, Hermione heading off to the back of beyond, possibly even to Africa, and Harry had ventured into the more savage wilds of London. No-one knew exactly what he was doing, but Ron knew for sure that he was in London.
As the days passed in Ottery St. Catchpole Ron remained aware of very little except a growing sense of dissatisfaction and that he was no longer where he belonged. For a long time he had believed that his place was at Harry's side, or Harry's at his and the distinction hadn't mattered. But the separation had brought on a feeling of restlessness that was entirely new. He was convinced that if he just concentrated hard enough he would be able to point in the direction Harry was, and even had momentary flashes of what Harry was doing. Or maybe what he would be doing, since Ron had no frame of reference for these kind of things. It was ludicrous, Ron told himself, that he could be this needy, or this clued in to what was going on, given as how he had always showed psychic aptitude akin to a rhino ballet dancing, yet it was happening, and the awareness kept growing.
Of course it had taken Ron several months of moping and time wasting to come to these conclusions. He wouldn't be Ron Weasley if his first response had been anywhere near correct. Living at home, in the now virtually empty Burrow, still sprawling, winding and confusing, but unnaturally silent and spacious without a flurry of red hair and shouting, it was easy to attribute the sense of loss onto the dispersed family.
Bill had moved out long ago, and since his involvement with the Order had ended, he had left the country again. He had settled permanently near his beloved pyramids and taken up curse breaking once again after his sojourn behind a desk.
Charlie, too had moved away from the rain back to Romania, his long desired solitude being safeguarded by the alarm dragon he had recently installed, and the dragon colony, and by all accounts was having the time of his life. Just as well really, but we'll get back to that later.
After Percy's marriage to Penelope, the only girl to ever give him a second glance, little surprise that he jumped at the chance, they had moved to a nice new-build in Surrey. They had, by all accounts turned into the kind of people the Dursleys would have been more than happy to invite over to a dinner or cocktail party. So long as they had promised to wear normal clothes.
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Wearing normal clothes, was of course something Fred and George could be relied upon not to do. They had, relying upon their flair for the unusual and disregard for the conventional, bought one of the mansions that had been up for auction after the end of the war. A lot of property had been confiscated, and sold as part of the penalty for getting caught and beaten, proving once and for all that the victor is always right. Even when they are wrong.
As a result Fred and George now possessed a large and gothic mansion, into which they had moved their household and workshop. There were black towers, crenulations, tall pointed railing (black) and suitably placed storm clouds. You get the picture. Big, dark, scary. Rather like a certain gentlemen of our acquaintance…
The dungeons were, conventionally, filled with a honeycomb of irregularly shaped rooms and erratic passages, and rather solid looking doors (handles on outside only) and now sported the miscellany of experimental material the twins possessed. Masses of glassware, interlinked and filled with bubbling, coloured liquid, as possessed by every bona fide mad scientist, filled many of the spaces as did piles of boxes, crates and scattered jars filled with odd looking things. The also had a stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling. Don't ask us why, but it did fit the rest of the décor. On every space there were notes and tags, detailing what the other twin was doing, and what not to do to remain vaguely safe. With respect to themselves, it seemed, they did not approve of practical jokes.
What they approved of even less was Ginny running away with a Quidditch player. Quite discounting the fact that they too had left Hogwarts before graduating, they were shocked, horrified and appalled by her actions. Not much was know about Dodecahedrous Umfraville before he turned up at Hogwarts to replace Madame Hooch after her unfortunate wet-night shirt induced blindness turned out to be permanent. He was a small time Quidditch player for the Tornados who had been relegated to the bench when they had started to get good. After having eloped, with a certain sixth year by the name of Ginny Weasley to somewhere on the continent, and all the Hogwarts' broomstick stores (which upset some of the younger boys the most) he became somewhat better known. Sketchy life histories were printed in the Daily Prophet, that proved just how much people didn't know, so later editions added in salacious extra details that were entirely untrue. But it wasn't like Umfraville could come back to protest.
References:
Terry Pratchett
The HP Lexicon