Yeah! Cookies for me! I finally updated! Sorry it took so long…school started…ugh. A warm thanks to all my faithful reviewers :)

Disclaimer: HP= JK's.

"And then, even though the policeman told her not to, she looked. There, hanging by his neck from a tree, was her boyfriend, his foot knocking steadily against the roof of the car. Knock…knock…knock…." finished Ron, his voice barely audible even with the Silencing Spell in effect. Hermione gave a muffled scream and involuntarily moved away from Ron, winding up halfway in George's lap. George looked surprised for a moment, but decided not to move her so as to not make her even more upset…or so he told himself. The aforementioned girl buried her face in her hands and took a shaky breath, glaring as menacingly as a girl can when terrified out of her wits at Ron. "I hate ghost stories." she whined to him.

George could feel her whole body convulsing in fear, her thigh twitching against his. George's stomach decided to give a little jolt, causing him to frown and wonder if that seasickness charm was wearing off already. He raised his wand to refresh the spell, completely ignoring the furious looks Harry was shooting him; he figured the Muggles were too busy re-examining the cupcakes they ate in first grade to worry about magic anyways. In doing so he accidentally poked the fear-struck creature sitting on him in the back, causing Hermione's head to turn as quick as an owl's. She whipped the unlucky twin in the face with her hair in the process, but she ignored his pain as she realized their current seating arrangement.

Hermione glowered with the intensity of a thousand suns at George, making him squirm with discomfort; the fact that his brothers and friend were throwing in their fair share of fire was making it even worse. He attempted to stutter an "I'm sorry" to her, but it was the apologetic puppy dog look in his cerulean eyes that finally provoked Hermione into moving herself.

She shot away from George, sending herself flying into yet another Weasley, and barely avoided ending up in his lap. With a more controlled scoot she decided on a median between the brothers, carefully pulling in her elbows and making sure nothing even remotely on her person was touching anything remotely on theirs. Her paranoia-filled eyes darted around everywhere, jumping whenever anyone accidentally touched her, or, in Fred's case, 'accidentally' played footsie with her, just to get a rise. It wasn't that Hermione was still afraid of the Ron's story; she was more afraid of the deep blue pools lazily residing in George's face. And it wasn't even that she was really afraid of his eyes, oh no; she was most afraid of the incredible acrobatic performance her internal organs had put on while she tried to fight the swirling blueness. She was about ninety percent sure that her heart now resided somewhere near her bladder and her stomach was acting as a third lung.

A slight bump shuddered throughout the ship and a sharp blasting sound issued from above their heads, signaling that they had made it to Calais, France. The sky was still spitting down a few small kittens and Chihuahuas, but the rain for the most part had ended, leaving a somewhat dry group standing on the boat docks. The males all turned to Hermione for directions. She mumbled under her breath about the incompetence of men, but she led the way anyways, first to the bathrooms to relieve her gerbil-sized bladder, then up to the street, where she stuck out her right hand, thumb up.

It was quite a pity that the fresh graduates couldn't Apparate yet, but Dumbledore had been called by an old friend in the middle of a lesson (Hermione hadn't quite heard the name, but it sounded something like Gondorf) asking if the professor wanted to go bathtub-racing, for old time's sake. Dumbledore had politely excused himself, before Apparating out of the room, leaving the students less than a week away from getting their licenses; this had happened a week ago, and no one had seen him since.

A girly-sounding TOOT! brought Hermione crashing back to reality, and she barely had the foresight to move her foot before it was run over by an eighty-foot long hot pink limousine. A collective gasp of surprise issued from the men as they surveyed the fluorescent monstrosity. Harry even went so far as to clap his hand over his eyes to keep from being blinded by the pinkness. Hermione saw a perfect opportunity to pretend she was a guide book, and launched into an explanatory speech, "Le Petit Marie, the car you see here, was manufactured in 1354 by Calais' blacksmith, a resident genius of his time, out of magically enhanced iron. The wheel was too inefficient for such a heavy vehicle, so Blimbus Dumbledore (the many-times-great grandfather of our old Headmaster) charmed the vehicle to fly." Hermione proudly spouted, and as they all looked down they saw that it was, indeed, hovering six inches off the ground.

"And whose ingenious idea was it to paint the car pink?" asked Fred, a look of disgust on his face.

"Well…as far as we know, the blacksmith's." mumbled Hermione.

"What?!"

"Apparently he grew tired of black all day long." she replied, making all the boys go into fits of unmanly giggles.

"That he did, miss." said a timid voice from the rear of the vehicle. But if you don't mind, we'd like to be off, so if you'll just be so kind to step in…"

The group filed towards a petite French woman dressed in (what else) pink, stepped through the tiny door and were immediately floored- not only by the immense size of the interior but by the speed with which the driver took off. He soon had them flying through the slightly cloudy sky at a leisurely pace, a greatly appreciated feature when compared to England's Knight Bus.

Hermione began speaking to the driver in flawless French, telling him their final destination. Ron watched Hermione in awe, jumping her once the driver had agreed on a price.

"You never told us you spoke French!" he exclaimed in her direction, earning a cool look in return.

"You never asked." she replied snootily, and turned to continue examining the inside of the flying vehicle. It was quite amazing what magic could do to a seemingly normal limo; there were a full four stories ("to show up the English" explained Hermione), three chandeliers, a plethora of day couches and plush arm chairs, along with writing desks and bookshelves lining the walls. Their ride was almost too short aboard the Marie, since the driver set the vehicle down gently onto a small grassy hill not twenty minutes after takeoff.

The group exited and heard the rumbling limo take off behind them. Only after it had gone did they realize that they were standing on top of a hill, surrounded by wildflowers and grasses and rabbits and small trees and all the happy sounds of nature…not a road or city or person to be seen. For some reason, the male components weren't too happy with this last part.

"Um…where are we?" asked Harry, the first to break the increasingly confused silence.

"France." answered Hermione simply, an impish grin spreading over her face.

"Really? Hadn't noticed." George put in, sarcasm hanging on every word.

"Seriously, Hermione…this isn't funny. Where the hell are we?" asked a slightly panicked Ron.

"I already told you, France!" she called over her shoulder; she had already begun to walk down the hill, tightening the straps on her backpack as she went.

"Damn it, Granger, get us out of here!"

"I am."

Ron noticed that she was already far away from him, and took off sprinting down the hill. He promptly tripped over a rock and found himself barreling down the hill at increasingly terrifying speeds, finally reaching the bottom and crashing into a rotten old log. He quickly dusted himself off and then threw himself at Hermione, grabbing her around the stomach and mercilessly digging his fingers into her sides. George could vaguely hear his voice waft up the hillside, "If you don't tell me, I'll just tickle it out of you!" quickly followed by a shriek of laughter. George momentarily grimaced, wishing…no. He didn't wish that. Did he? Oh, shit. He did.