Chapter 01: In The Rose and Crown
Christmas at the Weasley's. Hermione knew she should be happy that she didn't have to spend the holidays alone at Hogwarts, but there was something terribly wearing about the permanent volatility inherent in any large family. The only child of sensible slipper-and-pipe dentists couldn't quite reconcile her own regulated home life with the hectic disorder that was life at The Burrow - and was probably her mother's vision of Dante's ninth ring of hell. To make matters worse, Harry had been unable to accept Ron's invitation, so she was going to notice the jar even more keenly as the only non-Weasley resident. She hoped they didn't mind her intrusion too much.
"Ronald! Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley flung open the peeling door to The Burrow and embraced her youngest children.
"Mum!" Ron whined as he tried to disentangle himself from his mother's steel grip, sneaking a side-ways glance at Hermione, who stood smiling to herself behind the happy reunion.
"Oh, and Hermione too! How are you, love?" Mrs. Weasley gestured to Hermione to come forward too, and kissed her affectionately on the cheek.
"Fine thanks, Molly. Journey was pretty, erm, wet." She shook her head vigorously, large droplets of water flying off from the ends of her curling hair.
"What am I thinking? Keeping you all out in this freezing rain, you'll catch your deaths! Come in, come in!" She rounded them all through the door, sweeping them over to three wooden chairs in front of the fire. "Now you'll be wanting something to drink, won't you? As it's your first day back I got some Butterbeers in and did some real home baking this morning. Here you go." She handed them all steaming mugs and home-made biscuits, leaning against the old Aga and surveying her young charges with obvious contentment.
"Where are the others?" Ron said, spraying a mouthful of crumbs down his front. Hermione watched him with disgust; he had taken what she and Harry referred to euphemistically as a 'Ron bite', and swallowed the biscuit whole. Seemingly chewing was for losers, and his incisor teeth had probably not seen any action since emergence. She put her own biscuit down half-way to her mouth, her hunger rapidly evaporating.
"Well, Charlie's still in Romania, hoping to get a couple of days off over Christmas, but not particularly optimistic. Bill is staying in France with Fleur's family, as you know. Percy is… well, I'm sure he's happy." She let out a small sniff, that pulled on Hermione's heartstrings. She knew that Mrs. Weasley was finding it difficult to adjust to her rapidly emptying nest. Her boys were growing up, casting off their mother's protection as an unwanted intrusion. "Fred and George, well, I think they're about somewhere. Fred mentioned something about going into Ottery St. Catchpole; they've become quite attached to the Muggle pub there." She let out another small sniff, that left no doubt to her obvious disapproval.
"How long are they here for?" Ginny said hopefully. She had confided to Hermione that The Burrow was always more lively when the twins were around. Hermione had agreed that they were certainly entertaining, although she had kept the qualifier 'in the same way that French mimes are funny the first time' to herself. It was not that she necessarily disliked the twins - there was no disputing that they were perfectly amiable young men - she just… didn't get them. And they made her feel as though her carefully cultivated conscientiousness was just an unattractive skin, which withered and peeled away under their scrutinising gaze. She got the horrible feeling that they could see through her. She had tried explaining this to Harry before, but he had just looked at her blankly and laughed.
"All the holidays, I think. Or at least for the first fortnight. It depends how popular their mail order service is on whether or not they'll need to work in the shop over Christmas. But of course, they'll still be commuting to Diagon Alley fairly regularly to oversee Verity."
"So, did you say they're in The Rose and Crown?" Ron queried, in what Hermione guessed was an attempt to steer the conversation into safer waters. It was clear from her tone that Mrs. Weasley had still not got over the shock of her two boys dropping out from Hogwarts, sans N.E.W.T.s.
She sighed. "Yes, most probably. Do you know, they didn't come home till two in the morning yesterday – absolutely off their heads, on what smelt suspiciously like cheap Muggle cider. And pray, what property is it in alcohol that convinces every Tom, Dick, and Harry that their inebriated singing voice is so beautiful, that it would be selfishness itself not to share it with the rest of the world, forthwith?"
"Er, false sense of confidence?" Ron butted in helpfully, but was overtaken by the continuation of Molly Weasley's pulpit rant against the evils of the demon drink.
"…And then, would you believe, they come into the kitchen and attempt to make cheese on toast. Only, Fred's so drunk that he falls over on the floor and can't get up again because he can't tell which way is up! All the while, George has decided that, actually, sobriety is the enemy of creative interior design, and has started trying to paint the kitchen walls alternate stripes of shredless marmalade and mayonnaise. Which were not, incidentally, on your father and mine's pinwheel chart when we decorated the cottage."
"So, erm, they'll be needing dragging home then?"
"…And don't even get me started on the sort of company they've started hanging around with. It's a sad day indeed when a father comes home from work after an honest day's toil, only to find two toothless tramps and one misguided Jehovah's Witness sitting at his dinner table, without so much as an explanation as to how they got there. Didn't even try to-"
"We'll be off then, you won't be wanting us under your feet, I should imagine," Ron said, frantically shepherding Hermione and Ginny out of the door.
"Phew, sorry about that 'Mione," he muttered, as soon as they had scuttled down the path and were out of earshot.
"Yeah, mum can get like that a bit sometimes. Don't know why though; not as if her and Dad haven't woken us up totally sozzled before, trying to convince us that really we want to randomly make chocolate Rice Krispie cakes at three in the morning, or that a game of Twister would actually be great fun." Ginny pulled a face, but Hermione was strangely touched by this discovery. Her own parents were staunch tee-totalists, which she guessed was their own choice, and one which they were free to take, but she couldn't help thinking that it was indicative of their wider personality.
They carried on down the country lane in high spirits, chatting amiably as they enjoyed the feeling of the beginning of the holidays, and the fresh winter air on their bare faces.
"It's so beautiful here," Hermione breathed as they ambled down the middle of the deserted road, looking around in wide-eyed appreciation at the merry hedgerows and freshly ploughed fields.
"You wouldn't say that if you lived here," Ginny groaned, "It's all right for you town girls to come down here and be all appreciative of our rustic lifestyle, but you try living here full-time and it soon wears thin. Give me shopping centres and decent leisure facillities over boring farmer's fields any day of the week."
"What about you, Ron, do you like it?" Hermione had never heard Ron complain about his home, except perhaps once or twice to use the adjective 'quiet' – and after sitting in The Burrow for five minutes, she thought it debatable whether or not that was intended as a negative comment.
"Yeah, it's home, isn't it?" He shrugged, steering Hermione by her elbow to a small path on their left.
"It's a short-cut," Ginny explained, hopping deftly over the style. "Takes us out into the beer gardens of the Rose and Crown."
"Oh, I thought we just said that to Molly to get out of the house?"
"Oh lighten up, 'Mione. One drink won't make you an alcoholic, and you can always have an orange juice," Ron said, sounding perhaps a little harsher than he had intended as he got his trouser leg snagged on a rusty nail.
Hermione frowned. It was not the drink she had the exception to, it was the thought of being thrown in at the deep end so soon, and forced to make conversation with Fred and George. Both sides knowing that they had nothing in common, and would rather be talking to someone else. But why did Ron always have to make her feel like such a spoilsport? Slightly hurt, she hauled herself over the style and followed behind Ron on the narrow path.
"Here we are, welcome to Sodom and Gomorrah," Ginny giggled, stepping out onto an overgrown, scraggly lawn. "Let's get our drinks in then find Freorge." She led the way confidently across the wet grass, past some disused picnic benches and onto an open patio.
"Er, Gin." Hermione tapped the younger girl tentatively on the shoulder. "How are we going to buy drinks when we're underage?"
"Oh, that's easy. We always just send Ron in – who's going to query a six-foot Weasley; it's even odds whether the barman will call him Bill or Charlie."
"What do you girls want to drink then?" Ron said, digging in his pocket for some coins, which he surveyed dismally. "We'll do rounds, yeah?"
"Mine's a gin and tonic," Ginny replied straight away. Hermione hid her surprise. It was not that Ginny was exactly what you would call straight-laced, but she always looked so conveniently innocent. She only had to look at a Hogwarts teachers and politely shake her head, and even Snape would believe that no, sir, she had no idea how the red pen in her hand had come to write such rude things across his classroom wall.
"Make that two," she said quickly, not wanting to seem like she wasn't savvy, although she had been led to believe by popular Muggle soaps that only leather-faced old hags drank gin and tonics, ordering them from youthful barmen with barely contained innuendo that was toe-curlingly embarrassing to watch.
"Right." Ron nodded, then strode into the building. It was one of those establishments that would instantly communicate the word 'quaint' to American tourists, 'expensive' to visiting Scotsmen, and just plain 'local' to natives. It had obviously been built by those famed Lilliputian architects of the eighteenth century, as even Hermione regarded the low wooden beams warily. The stonewalls had been painted an earthy red colour, with scenes depicting pre-industrial English agriculture hanging haphazardly from its uneven contours. Ron led the way through a veritable warren of narrow beer-slopping passages, small drinking rooms that seemed designed for conspiracy rather than comfort, a pretentious eating area, and finally into the main bar. He caught the barman's attention who, sure enough, addressed him as 'Bill' throughout the duration of the smooth transaction.
"Here you are, ladies." Ron handed the tall glasses to Hermione and Ginny, reserving the pint of bitter for himself. Hermione took a tentative sip as Ginny led them back through the labyrinth. She nearly spat the mouthful out again as the bitter liquid caught in her throat – no wonder all those old bats on television looked so bloody sour faced!
"They'll be in Traitor's Corner no doubt," Ginny said authoritatively as she turned to face Ron.
"What's Traitors Corner?" Hermione was starting to feel more and more excluded and out of the loop.
"Oh, that's where those two sit of an evening, planning world domination. It's one of those small cupboard rooms we passed on the way to the bar; no one else ever goes in there. Reckon there's a bad feeling in there. Which there probably is – wouldn't have put it past those two to place some sort of disorientatement Charm on their favourite seats. Here we are."
Ginny ducked her head and entered into possibly the smallest room known to beer drinkers throughout the British Isles. Hermione followed after Ron, neatly garrotting her midriff against the edge of a heavy wooden table that, by all laws of logic, space and safety regulation, should not be situated so closely to the entrance.
"Yeah, it's a bit cramped in here," Ron said helpfully as he attempted to snake his tall frame into one of the chairs around the table. Fred and George were sitting grinning on an oak bench, a pint of bitter in front of George and, unless Hermione's eyes were deceiving her, a nasty-looking purple alcopop - complete with luminous party straw - in front of Fred. Ginny stepped aside and breathed in so that Hermione could pass and seat herself beside Ron and opposite the offending drink.
Ginny must have noticed Hermione's eyes on it, for she giggled as she sat down at the head of the small table. "Yeah, that's Fred's preferred drink of choice. And no, he assures us that he's not gay."
"Clever finances, my young friend. If I buy said drink, at 5 proof, for a small investment of ninety-nine pence, and proceed to drink said drink, with this here attractive drinking implement, I will succeed in getting blissfully inebriated at only a fraction of the cost." He took a noisy pull on the straw, as if to demonstrate the point.
"I think your sound financial advice is wasted on such young, unfettered minds, Fred. I appreciate that wisdom, truly I do bro', but until they produce an alcopop that doesn't taste like a children's lollipop I'm afraid I can't bring myself to ditch and switch. And of course, a purple coloured tongue seems to give off very mixed signals to young ladies of the more attractive variety."
Ron snorted. "What would you know about that?"
"More than you, mate." George shot back, eyes critically appraising Ron. "Did you sneeze when mummykins was cutting your hair, or did you actually pay a barber to do that?"
Ron flattened his hair irritably, scowling into his pint. Hermione took another hesitant sip of her drink and found that it didn't travel well; if anything, it was even worse than she remembered. Ginny, however, was happily drinking away, looking to all intents and purposes like the sophisticated city girl Hermione was supposed to be.
Ginny turned and addressed the twins playfully. "Mum was telling us about your latest exploits; seems she thinks The Burrow is beginning to go against the trade descriptions act and should be renamed in honour of Betty Ford. What have you two been getting up to?"
"What does she expect? We came home for Christmas-" Fred began.
"-Just like she wanted-" George interrupted.
"-But there's nothing to do around here but drink."
"It's a sad state of affairs," George leaned forward in his seat, fixing Ginny and Hermione with a somewhat off-centre stare, "When the talk of the village is the unprecedented controversy created by Mrs. Dawson's painting of the sodding garage door to Rose Cottage."
"Now, now, George, you're being a bit unfair there. You're trying to make it sound worse than it actually is to our expectant visitor. You've neglected to mention our enthralling social fixture; that weekly hothouse of intelligent political debate and open-minded adventure that is the Neighbourhood Watch committee."
George slapped a hand to his forehead in mock forgetfulness as Hermione laughed along weakly with Ron and Ginny. It was not that Hermione did not appreciate their humour, she just found it jarringly artificial at times – as though she was being treated to a self-conscious performance of the 'Fred 'n' George' show.
Two hours and too many drinks later their antics were beginning to jar even more, although evidentially they were contagious. Even Ron was in high spirits as he declared that he could 'easily' fit one of the filthy beer mats into his mouth. Hermione sipped her orange juice, watching with quiet disapproval. She wasn't usually like this. She could have fun. So why did Fred and George always have to bring out this horribly sensible side to her? It was as though some divine being in the cosmos was trying to strike a neutral balance.
"…Now, as I wuz jus sayin torun," Fred drawled, swaying from side to side as he thrust a finger under Hermione's nose, "this iz jus to beginen."
Hermione nodded politely, trying to decipher what her Grandmother, untouched by the fetters of political correctness, referred to euphemistically as a 'Glaswegian accent.' She looked to Ron for help, but he was still preoccupied with the beer mat challenge that had literally been keeping him quiet for the last ten minutes. Now she thought about it, she seemed to remember that George had suggested it. In any case, proving that boys really will make a competition out of anything, he seemed to have decided to join Ron in the quest for asphyxiation, and was currently chewing the soggy cardboard of an over-used beer mat in tandem. Ginny had wisely abandoned ship 'Drunken Weasley' long ago, having struck up a conversation with an attractive former friend at the bar. This left Hermione to deal with three increasingly drunk male Weasleys by herself.
Fred got up from the bench and tried to sit on Ginny's vacated chair, missed horribly, and crashed onto the floor. Hermione cringed, certain that that would be another bruise to add to the morning tally of Unidentified Drunken Injuries. Rendered invincible by drink, however, Fred merely grinned at Hermione sheepishly, before groping around with his hand for the chair seat.
"Do you know, Hermnenny, I don appears able to find mon chair." His suddenly lucid eyes fixed on hers, as he picked himself off the floor with a surprising amount of dignity. "Dya mind if I use yours?" He wobbled forward and lunged onto her lap, knocking the wind out of her lungs as his substantial Quidditch weight crushed her legs.
George tried to laugh with half a beer mat successfully lodged in his mouth, which resulted in his face turning a violent puce colour as he doubled over in a choking fit. Ron spluttered indignantly in the background.
"Gerrof her Fred You're squashing her!" he said, suddenly regaining some sobriety as he realised that his position as alpha male was under threat.
"Oh. Am I?" Fred inquired innocently, looking around in confusion as though it were news to him that he was sitting on a sixteen year old girl and not, in actual fact, a hard wood bench. "Do beg your pardon," he said politely and lumbered back over to the bench.
"Ron," Hermione tugged insistently on his sleeve. "Do you think we better be making our way back now? I think Molly will be expecting us for tea."
Ron thought for a moment, opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped by a sudden retching sound emitted by George.
"Yes, leaving would be an excellent idea," he said quickly, shooing Hermione and Fred out of their seats as he grabbed George by the lapels and dragged him after them. "You find Ginny while we, er, wait outside."
Ginny was not particularly difficult to track down. Hermione spotted a flaming red beacon in the far corner of the main bar and wandered over.
"Hermione!" The girl looked up and smiled radiantly. "This here is Seth, Joe, and Finbar," she said, indicating to the three boys in turn.
Hermione nodded politely at each, before turning back to her friend. "We were thinking we better get back now."
"Oh, if you insist." Ginny rolled her eyes and muted the protestations of her drinking companions.
"What sort of state are Freorge in?" she said as they made their way out of the crowded pub. "Roll them home and stick them in the bath-tub mode, or take the long cut back and slap them around the face a bit mode?"
"Is there a third option of leave them in a ditch mode?"
Ginny giggled. "Believe me, being the youngest of six boys earns you a gold star in drinking first-aid. Funnily enough, I'm the only one who can hold their drink - apart from Bill of course. Mum'll flip her nut if they roll up drunk off their faces, though. I don't know how many times she's said that she wants this Christmas to be a special one. I think she's still holding out hope that Percy might come. Oh, and did you see those lads I was with?"
Hermione nodded. "Who were they?"
"Oh, just some village boys. But Seth wants to meet up with me on Saturday. I said I would, but I'm not allowed to go by myself. So I asked if I could bring a friend, and now you're coming to." She finished brightly, trying to dazzle Hermione with a winning smile.
"I am?" Hermione raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"Sure you are! You'll love Finbar, you've got loads in common."
"Like?"
"Well…" Ginny floundered, having obviously expected Hermione to jump at the chance of playing one half of a gooseberry on a reluctant double date.
"…Like the fact we both have friends who fancy the pants off each other so will both be completely ignored for the duration of the evening, leaving us to make that uncomfortable brand of conversation unique to strangers?"
"Exactly!" Ginny's face lit up as her sarcasm detector spectacularly malfunctioned. "Oh come on Mines; it'll be fun." She pouted as they stepped outside and immediately spotted the three boys playing some sort of extreme form of Frisbee that seemed to involve lots of diving into bushes. "The alternative is those three."
Nothing could have made up her mind quicker as Hermione graciously accepted an invitation which had rapidly transformed itself into a golden ticket.
"First thing's first, we have to get Freorge home without mum noticing anything's wrong. Oh, Ron should be easy enough," Ginny piped up when she noticed Hermione looking sceptically at him, "We just roll our eyes and say indulgently 'Ron will be Ron' and I swear she will understand. His drunken behaviour is comparatively normal."
Hermione was incredulous until they began the long walk back to The Burrow. Eventually, they managed to walk five abreast down the road, propping up the twins between them; Ron as the tallest relegated to the middle of the human pyramid.
"Is it always like this?" Hermione said desperately as they attempted to manoeuvre Fred and George through the back gate of The Burrow – Ron having seemingly absorbed Ginny and Hermione's sobriety through some form of osmosis.
"Pretty much. I have no idea how they cope when I'm not around. I'm just waiting for the call one day that George has been found trapped in a rhododendron bush suffering from hypothermia, or Fred arrested for lewd behaviour in a public place. Oh God, there's no way we can get these past mum!" Ginny groaned as Fred collapsed at her feet in a fit of hysterical giggles.
"Don't you Wizards have any antidote for alcohol; some sort of potion, perhaps?" Hermione wailed.
"Not on the open market, no. You'd get all sorts of drunks filling their blood with lethal amounts of alcohol, blocking off their body's natural rejection system," Ginny said bossily, just as Fred's natural rejection system kicked in spectacularly to her left.
"Well, it's a good job the Muggle world has more foresight. Ron, can you sneak in and get two cups of strong black coffee and do you have any Wotsits… no? Hula Hoops? Okay, what about Monster Munch?" Hermione reeled the crisp brands off with increasing desperation as Ron shook his head with increasing bewilderment to each to each item. "Well, anything carbohydrate-based then."
Ron returned five minutes later with two steaming mugs and half a loaf of bread.
"Mum's started laying the table," he announced grimly as he attempted to force feed George a thick crust.
"If we could just get them upstairs…" Ginny trailed off thoughtfully, before looking up suddenly with a light in her eyes. "Ron, you distract mum while we sneak them up to bed."
Ron pulled a face. "Why me?"
"Because she's more likely to pay full attention to you," she replied, pulling Fred up and placing his arm over her shoulder as she attempted to support him around the waist. "Now go!"
They counted to sixty before setting off toward the house, Hermione lumbering slowly under the weight of George. She heard Ron inquiring politely about his mother's views on the economic crisis in Chile as she successfully scuttled around the corner and reached the stairs without detection.
"You know, Minny, youza good sort, really," George mumbled as Hermione managed to manoeuvre him onto Charlie's bed. She could hear Fred banging around causing a raucous in his room next door, shouting something incomprehensible about a craving for seagull meat kebabs. "I always thought that, always stuck up for you, when Fred's slagged yoff. 'Fred,' I says 'she's a good sort really.'"
"Thank you," Hermione said tight-lipped as she placed a glass of water by his bedside. "There's a compliment that will keep me going through the darkest days. Next time Malfoy calls me a buck-toothed Mudblood I'll remember those kind words."
He reached out suddenly and grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her down and towards him, so that she landed clumsily on her knees, nose to freckled nose.
"Don't mean it like that. Don't lissen to Fred or Rons, dunno what theys talken about." His eyes scanned her face keenly. "I know what it feels like."
"Know what what feels like?" she replied tartly, unable to break away from his gaze.
"To be alone."
Hermione laughed harshly in his face, stirring the hair around his temples. "What makes you write me off as some sort of loner, in need of your pity?" she said angrily, trying to wrench her hand away. George tightened his pincer grip around her wrist and placed a hand behind her, cradling the back of her head in his palm.
"I've watched you. You have friends, but they don unnerstand you, don't see what you is capable of."
"You're wrong!" she flared, shaking her head as she tried to dislodge George's steadying hand. "This isn't the 1950's, and I'm not some sort of under-appreciated stay-at-home-and-cook-for-the-boys drudge. And how dare you presume to lecture me on solitude; you, what would you know about such things?"
"More than you'd think," he replied slowly, breaking his gaze and staring contemplatively away for a moment. "More than anyone thinks, in fact. There's nothing quite so lonely as constant company. I can't escape, Hermione, I can't escape!" he said shrilly, voice rising in panic as he dug his fingernails painfully into her flesh.
"For heavens sake, you're a brother, not a conjoined twin!" she snapped, finally succeeding in wrenching her arm away. George closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on making the room stop spinning round as Hermione slammed the door cruelly.
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