OK, so this is like my third fanfiction that I've started, and neither of the other two got past the third chapter, so don't get your hopes up, but I'm really gonna try to keep this story going because I like the characters. Comment if you want to, flame if the urge takes you or if you just need something to scream about, or just read the story and don't comment and make me feel unspecial tear.

Disclaimer: What exactly does disclaimer mean? Rupert is mine. Harry Potter is not mine, but Muffles the purple dog is. Kudos to JK for an awesome idea that I had no part in creating.

Anyways, ONWARD!

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A cool breeze wafted down the cobblestone street, rustling the leaves that were slowly turning brilliant colors in anticipation of autumn. Birds chirped happily from the air, and squirrels chittered as they gathered their precious acorns. The great majority of the human residents living in this particular part of London were strewn about on their slightly parched lawns, some grilling, others mowing, a few trying fruitlessly to restrain screaming children. All in all, it could have been called a perfect summer day. Special emphasis on the words, 'could have been.'

At the very end of this lazy street lay a massive house, one equipped with pillars and marble and pools and gardens and sheds that could only be called sheds because of their relative size compared to the main house. All the locals called the house the 'White House,' on account of its extravagant size, although it didn't really apply since the exterior of the house was a brilliant lime green. The house was rumored to be haunted, and its inhabitants believed to be witches--but of course it was all utter nonsense.

The stillness of the day was suddenly shattered when a yelp emitted from the top window on the fourth floor of the house, although the noise was generally ignored. Only a group of very small children glanced to the green monstrosity, their small eyes trained on the window in question, but no more sound issued and the children slowly lapsed back into a coma-like state.

Hermione Granger was on a mission: to pack for two whole weeks in less than an hour. It wasn't generally like her to procrastinate so badly, but her job at the Ministry, visits from her family, and a severe need for chocolate had left her no other choice. So here she was now, way up on the highest floor of the lime green house, throwing clothes pell-mell around her bedroom in desperation. She was currently trying to find her black sweater, but was temporarily distracted when Rupert decided to poke his head into her room. She let out a shriek of surprise and dropped the article of clothing she was holding. His head immediately disappeared from the center of her brick wall and reappeared, with his body attached, in her doorway. She opened her mouth to let forth a stream of obscenities, but Rupert beat her to it. He hung his transparent head in shame and stared at his feet, his sad voice issuing forth, "My sincere apologies, madam, but 'tis such a hastle to travel all the way around to the doorway."

Hermione softened, quelling the urge to pat his shoulder. "That's quite alright, Rupert. Would you mind doing me a favor and searching my closet for my black sweater?" He nodded his head, eager to help the girl, and immediately dove headfirst through the side of the cabinet. Hermione stifled a chuckle and bent down to look beneath her bed, searching for anything else she may have missed, when a resounding crack! issued from her window. Her bushy head shot up to see Pigwidgeon banging himself against the glass in urgency to get in. She shook her head and opened the window, silently wondering whether it was possible for owls to have ADHD as she snatched the fuzzy bird out of the air.

Ron's untidy scrawl greeted her from the front of the parchment tied to the bird's leg. She rid Pig of his burden and threw an owl treat up in the air to temporarily shut the bird up. The letter rolled open easily, and Hermione was immediately blinded by an obscene amount of glitter reflecting the sunlight.

Hermione-

I know this letter is sort of late and all, seeing as we're leaving in about ten minutes for King's Cross, but I just thought I'd remind you that we're backpacking-- you know, that Muggle way of traveling with a big sack on your back with all your crap in it. I do hope you've got one of those. It was one of Dad's last minute "ingenious ideas," doing things the Muggle way. Mum wasn't too thrilled. Then again, she's not too thrilled that the five of us are going to roam about the continent unsupervised either, but I'm sure you'll hear all about that soon enough. Got to go, Dad's yelling for us to get in the car. Don't bother sending a response, Pig'll get too confused. Bring him with you to the station.

-Ron

P.S. Sorry about all the glitter-- Ginny's going through what Mum calls a "sparkle phase."

Hermione read the letter three times fast in succession, her mind numb and her brow furrowed. How typical of Ron to forget such an important detail until the very last possible second. Where in the name of Pete the basset hound was she to find a friggin backpack? It was at that moment that Rupert decided to emerge from her closet, carrying her sweatshirt in one hand and a ginormous leather-bound book in the other.

He carefully lay the sweatshirt down and held the book up for her to see, commenting as he huffed in effort to keep the book from falling to the ground, "I rather thought you'd like a bit of light reading." He attempted to hide a smile behind one pasty-white hand, but failed miserably since his flesh was translucent. Hermione took the book and was about to set it down when her eyes were again assaulted by shininess. The sun was reflecting off the biggest word on the book, proudly declaring itself a "TRANSFIGURATION" book. She stared at the book, then at the letter, then at her wand, and began to laugh. A memory of herself standing below a great writhing plant resurfaced in Hermione's mind, and the ghost of Harry's voice could be heard yelling at her, "Are you a witch or not?!"

"Hermione, old girl, you're losing it." she muttered below her breath, before swishing her wand towards her suitcase and watching it morph, flubber-like, into a backpack.

Twenty minutes later and plagued by the hooting, screeching, flying annoyance that was Pigwidgeon, Hermione climbed into the back seat of her car and pulled out her CD player, absentmindedly choosing a disk and letting it play while she flipped through "Backpacking for Idiots."

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"Muffles! Stop eating the palm tree, you disgusting dog, you just peed in that pot five minutes ago." scolded a ruffled Harry Potter as he shoveled down an impromptu breakfast of toast and eggs. The terrier/lab mix shook its great purple head, spraying the carpet with wood shavings. It ambled up to Harry and gave him the classic puppy dog look, forcing the former to surrender the last quarter of toast to the dog.

"Does Muffles want to go hiking? Hmm? You wanna go hiking?" Harry asked the mutt as he headed toward the bathroom, smiling as the dog nodded its head. "Assa good boy…yeahh, good boy!" Muffles panted as his head was scratched expertly. Harry laughed, envious of the simple life his dog led.

Harry had moved into a flat in the pulsing heart of London mere months after his graduation from Hogwarts, and had lived there quite happily with Muffles, albeit messily. Hermione often came to visit and spent hours cleaning the entire apartment, usually when she was PMSing and had the unexplainable urge to dust things. The only problem with the arrangement was that it was surprisingly easy to become lonely. Sure, Muffles was great company and, being a wizard's dog, could understand English, but his comments were rarely more than three words long and hardly ever branched from the subjects of food, food, and the finer points of cat torture.

Harry sighed and stripped himself of his clothes before stepping under the hot spray of water. It wasn't until he was halfway through the process of washing his long black hair that he realized his feet were still encased in now-soaking socks.

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"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Fred, put the gnome down and get your scrawny butt in the car!" Mrs. Weasley yelled to her son, concurrently shoving a box full of muffins into Ginny's outstretched hands and bewitching the dishes to wash themselves. With an impish grin Fred stuck the squealing gnome into his pants pocket when his fuming mother turned her head and bolted out the door, where he gracefully collided with his other half. Crashes resounded, accompanied by the screaming of fireworks and gnomes, a chicken cluck, and the whistle of a train. Ron and Mr. Weasley came bolting around the corner of the house to find Fred and George more entangled than Siamese twins. A squawking chicken lay crushed by George's freckled leg.

Mr. Weasley sighed and went to pick up both of their backpacks, which he smiled fondly at. Ron pulled the chicken from beneath his brother's leg, taking pity on the poor bird that was slowly being crushed, then hopped over the knot of arms and legs to enter the kitchen.

Twenty minutes and thirty three point five accidents later, Ron, Fred, George, and Mr. Weasley all sat in the car, watching the Burrow shrink to nothingness. Ron had his hands clamped onto his ears, both to keep his hands from throttling the two complaining twins in the back seat and to save his ears from the actual complaining. For Fred and George, it seemed, were not happy about having been left on the ground for five minutes without so much as an offer of help.

"I can't believe our own bloody family left us there to die." whined George.

"Did you see the amount of effort it took to get this oaf off of me?" complained Fred, earning a vicious glare from George.

"Are you calling me fat?"

"Not at all, dear brother, merely commenting on your lack of grace."

"My lack of grace? I do believe it was you who stumbled into me."

"No matter. It just would have been much more easy if someone would have helped us."

"I agree. Not so much as a hand up or a word of comfort for a bruised ego."

"I'll never be able to sit down again, much less walk. Might as well just buy the wheelchair now."

George halted for a moment, considering his brother with a look of confusion. "If you can't sit, how are you bloody well going to stay in a wheelchair?"

"Stand up, of course."

George nodded, as though this answer made perfect sense, and went back to moaning about his broken back.

It wasn't until Ron finally snapped and grabbed his emergency stash of duct tape from his pocket that they shut up, eyeing the roll of gray tape with contempt. Ron smirked. Duct tape, fixer of anything: be it broken, leaking, cracked, or annoying brother.

The car made it to the station in one piece, mercifully, with surprisingly few mishaps and only one threat of a straightjacket for George, when he attempted to strangle Ron and steal the duct tape. After parking the car, the backpacks were carefully strapped to everyone's backs, save for Mr. Weasley, who looked at the Muggle contraptions fondly. He hugged each one of his fiery-haired sons in turn, before sending them off with a warning to be careful. As he watched them walk through the doors of the station, a tear fell down his cheek. Parting is such sweet sorrow he thought, climbing into his car. He would probably never see those backpacks again.

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That was interesting. I love Fred and George…heh.