Disclaimer:
JK Rowling: British
Me: American
JK Rowling: author of multiple best-selling novels
Me: author of one as-yet-unpublished novel and countless blathering fan fictions
JK Rowling: owns copyright on all these characters, settings, situations etc.
Me: does not.
No copyright infringement is intended.
It was by no means unusual, thought Harry, for The Burrow's kitchen to be filled with noisy, chattering people. The sheer size of the Weasley family ensured that, at least when no one was away at school or work, the worn wooden table would be host to a motley collection of young adults. This was, normally, a heavenly situation when one wanted nothing more than a drink, some empty conversation, and to be left pretty much alone with one's thoughts.
Tonight was no exception to the noisy, chattering people rule: most of the four young men and two young women grouped around the table were talking rather more loudly than was strictly necessary, perhaps owing to the shocking number of empty bottles and glasses on the table in front of them.
The unusually high alcohol content in Molly Weasley's otherwise very respectable kitchen could be attributed to the absence of Mrs. Weasley and her husband on this particular night, owing to the fact that their eldest son had, mere hours before, been joined in wedlock to a disturbingly pretty little blonde French witch who just happened to be one-quarter Veela. The younger Weasleys and their guests had been relegated to the Burrow while the older folks went to cool themselves off--and, in the case of Mrs. Weasley, cry into their soup bowls--at The Leaky Cauldron. Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, Harry and Hermione were under strict instructions from Molly to behave themselves, get to bed at a reasonable time, and restrict their consumption of liquid at the Burrow to water, pumpkin juice or Butterbeer.
Naturally, within five minutes of Molly's departure, every one of the younger Weasleys and their guests--with the exception of Hermione, who took ten minutes--had broken into the liquor supply and were well into their first glass, pint or shot, of wine, hard cider or Firewhiskey. The latter was provided, with a mischievous flourish from beneath their robes, by Fred and George.
Harry found himself, as usual, hanging back from the fun and simply observing it. He had taken, lately, to cataloguing his friends' and others' behavior in his own mind, studying it, keeping tallies on them, if only to keep himself occupied. Keeping his mind busy kept him from thinking about what he really needed to think about, which was the remaining four Horcruxes, and what he really wanted to think about, which was Ginny.
It had been especially hard to keep from thinking about Ginny today: she, together with Fleur's sister, Gabrielle, had been Fleur's bridesmaids. She had walked up the aisle next to Gabby in a gown of pale gold, her hair loosely gathered back and set with tiny white flowers, her cheeks flushed and her mouth unsmiling. She had not smiled, in fact, throughout the entire day, or at any other time since...well, since Dumbledore's funeral.
But she was smiling now.
Harry had noted that her bridesmaid's bouquet contained five white roses and four white lilies and was tied with a gold ribbon. He had counted the flowers to himself many times, today.
Close to two hours after Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's departure to the Leaky Cauldron, Harry's personal tally stood thus:
Soon-to-be seventeen-year-old Harry Potter, slouched at one end of the table and still clothed in his bottle-green dress robes, his eyes dark-ringed and his hair sticking up every which way, had worked his way through:
1/2 bottle of wine
3 ciders
He was well into a fourth pint of hard cider, but did not think it fair to count a drink until he was entirely finished with it. He was also the only one at the table not engaged in raucous conversation; instead, he stared into his pint glass, as though fascinated by the amber liquid.
Immediately beside him, his dress robes half-unbuttoned, his tie askew and a sweaty flush making its way up his neck onto his face, sat Ron Weasley, clutching his fifth cider of the night and gesticulating wildly. One could only assume he was trying to explain some Quidditch technique, as he frequently made a move as though to clutch at a broomstick and rise into the air, only to remember he was seated at a table and nowhere near his broomstick. On the table in front of him, and mainly responsible for his flushed face, were three empty shot glasses, still faintly smoking with the remnants of Mr. Weasley's first, second, and third-ever tastes of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. As Harry watched, Ron polished off his cider, bringing his tally to:
2 glasses wine
5 ciders
3 Firewhiskey shots
Sitting across from Ron, her face just as red and her voice just as loud (when she could get a word in), was Ron's sister, Ginny Weasley. She had only managed:
1 glass wine
1 shot of Firewhiskey
3 ciders
But, being considerably smaller than her brother, the drink had had an equal effect upon her. She was staring huffily at Ron, her arms crossed in front of her, slurring her words whenever she spoke and avoiding Harry's eyes as determinedly as he avoided hers. He concentrated instead on her bouquet, which lay on the table in front of her next to her empty shot glass, the white lilies and roses now wilting, the gold ribbon stained and sodden with spilled red wine. The tiny white flowers had begun to fall from her hair as she tossed her head; they landed on the table and floated in the spilled wine, the petals touching down silently.
Next to Ginny sat her older brothers, Fred and George. They were definitely the soberest of the group, despite having put away:
4 Firewhiskey shots
3 ciders
4 glasses wine
...each. Their tolerance was higher than anyone else's, but even they were beginning to go faintly red and their voices starting to slur lazily as they brandished a fresh bottle of Firewhiskey at the young woman sitting across from them.
This young woman was Hermione Granger, perched stiffly on the bench as far from Ron as she could get, wearing her still-umrumpled blue dress robes and sipping at a glass of wine, only her third of the night. (She wasn't even worth a tally.) She sat patiently as the twins plied her with Firewhiskey, but did not seem to be listening to them. She was, instead, gazing down at the tabletop with a tiny frown creasing her face, once in a while shooting a sidelong, disapproving glare at Ron. Her hair was, predictably, falling down from its elegant arrangement of earlier in the day, and wild, curly brown strands were falling into her face.
"Hermione," blurted George, waving the Ogden's bottle in front of her face. "You're the only one who hasn't tried it yet. What are you waiting for?"
"I'm not the only one," said Hermione, irritably shooing away both George's bottle and Ron's hand, which had, in trying to demonstrate a save he had made during the last Quidditch game of the season last term, gesticulated dangerously close to her head. "Harry hasn't had any, either."
"Leave him out of it," said Fred, grabbing the bottle from George and banging it down in front of him. "We're not giving up until you've tried a bit of Firewhiskey."
"Why?" Hermione glared at them directly now. She was getting angry, Harry thought. They'd better stop teasing her soon; he was not at all sure she didn't have her wand on her. "Why are you so keen that I try it?"
Fred leaned toward her, his eyes sliding in and out of focus. "We just wanna see you...loosen up a little." George nudged him in the side and they both laughed.
"You mean, you want to see me act like a fool, just like the rest of you are doing," she said, glancing again at Ron, who, together with Ginny, had broken into peals of raucous laughter, his forehead resting on the sticky tabletop. "Well, no thanks."
"We just wanna..." George began, and then frowned. He cast around the tabletop, finally catching sight of an empty shot glass. He seized it, pried the cork out of the Firewhiskey, and slopped some of the smoking liquid into the glass. The surface of the liquid burst into flame for a few seconds, then extinguished itself and smoked ominously. George shot a crooked smile--remarkably like Ron's smile--at Hermione. "We just wanna...loosen your tongue a bit."
Fred began chortling. "Careful now, George," he said, taking a sip of cider and spilling quite a bit of it down the front of his dress robes. "Loose tongues sink ships...or something..." He frowned. "What was I saying?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's 'loose lips sink ships.' And World War II was a long time ago." She glanced over at Harry, who grinned at her. She grinned back and shrugged at him, shaking her head in a way that clearly said, 'This is hopeless.'
"World War...what?" said George, glancing from Hermione to Harry.
"Loose lips!" said Fred. "Even better. Whaddya say, Ron?" The twins now turned to their brother, whose head still rested on the damp and sticky tabletop, although he had stopped laughing. Fred slapped Ron's shoulder. "Whaddya say to some loose lips, huh?"
Ron raised his head, frowning. "What?"
"Lips," said George, and both twins broke into laughter. "Hermione's lips." Fred spilled most of the rest of his cider as he pushed the smoking shot glass across the table toward Hermione. "Think what we could find out from this bird if we got a bit of the sauce into her, eh?"
"Aw, leave 'er alone," slurred Ron, blinking his eyes very deliberately and looking as though he was trying to come out of a trance. "She won't take it anyway."
Hermione's eyes flashed over at Ron, and she set her wine glass down on the table a little too firmly, so that wine slopped onto the tabletop and over her hand; she did not seem to notice. "I won't what?"
The table fell silent; Hermione's tone had been dangerously sharp, making Harry wonder again whether she had her wand with her. Her dress robes were really too close-fitting to conceal anything, he thought reasonably...but with Hermione, you never knew.
Ron managed to fix her with a steady look, although his head was wobbling a bit. "You won't drink it. I know you won't. You're too...careful. You don't like to lose control. Of anything. Do you?" His voice was quiet, the words still a little slurred, but he sounded more coherent than he had all night. The last two words, in particular, had been very pointed.
Hermione seemed to notice this too; she pressed her lips together, looking straight into his eyes. The others at the table were completely silent, all holding their breath; Ginny gazed from Ron to Hermione with her mouth slightly open, the twins watched them with widened eyes and little smiles crooking their lips. Even Harry looked up from the fascination of his pint glass (now almost empty) to watch Ron sidelong, one eyebrow raised.
When Hermione finally spoke, it was in little more than a tense whisper. "Who are you," she breathed through clenched teeth, "to say what I will, and won't, do?"
All eyes were on Ron as he considered his answer. Finally, he tossed his head to the side and shrugged, swaying a bit as he turned away from her. "Whatever you like," he said. He hunched over his empty bottles and glasses again. A tiny, crooked smile was forming on Ron's lips: you would have had to know him very, very well to even catch sight of it, but Harry did. He turned back to stare into his own glass, hoping Hermione wouldn't notice his own nascent smile. As he did, he couldn't help but catch Ginny's eye; she, too, was looking at Ron and trying to hold back the grin that was tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Hermione seemed too angry to notice anything as subtle as the barely-concealed smiles on the faces of her three best friends. She turned back to the twins with a determined air, her spine suddenly very stiff. She gave the two of them a smirk as they watched her with wary expressions; they'd incurred her wrath far too often not to take her seriously. "Your little brother thinks he knows me so well," she remarked, with quite a lot of emphasis on "little." She clenched her fists on the tabletop and gave a tiny sigh before reaching for the smoking shot glass.
She brought the glass to her lips. No one at the table dared breathe; even Ron did not move, although his smile widened by a fraction. Hermione contemplated the smoking liquid, her nostrils flaring, for only a bare second before casting a final, sidelong glance at Ron. "Perhaps he doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does," she spat. She closed her eyes, lifted the glass to her lips and threw the shot back in one gulp.
The twins grinned at one another in amazement and Ginny giggled softly as Hermione placed the shot glass back on the table. Her eyes were still closed and her face was scrunched up in a manner that suggested she had just swallowed a draught of poison rather than a shot of whiskey. Ron's smile widened still more; he was now positively grinning.
Hermione's expression cleared and she opened her eyes; her head was tilted to the side. She blinked a few times, her eyes watering. She gave a small sigh. Then, she said, in a slow, wondering voice, "That was good."
The entire table, including Harry and Ron, exploded into laughter, Ginny with her head on the table--more of the while flowers fell out of her hair and were plastered on the sticky tabletop--and the twins clinging to one another just to stay upright.
Hermione stared around at them all; her faced flushed and she frowned. "Well, it is," she said, only to be greeted with more raucous laughter. "It's..." She touched her midriff, shifting slightly on the bench. "It's warm," she said.
"What do you think we've been trying to tell you?" Fred shouted. He pulled the shot glass back across the table and refilled it, slopping a bit onto the table. The surface of the liquid burst into flame and then extinguished itself; Fred nervously patted the scorched and smoking patch of tabletop. "We'll fix that later," he murmured.
Hermione drank the second shot without hesitation, grabbing the glass and pouring the Firewhiskey into her mouth with apparent relish, swallowing quickly and shaking her head furiously. This time, when she lowered the glass and pushed it back across the table, she was smiling.
She put away two more shots, for a total of four (Harry was definitely keeping tally, now), with the rest of the table now watching her in silent, almost clinical fascination. By the time she lowered the glass for the fourth time, Hermione was swaying in her seat and her eyes were glazed, her face still flushed. She readjusted herself on the bench and almost fell off, catching herself on the tabletop. The twins and Ginny collapsed in silent laughter.
"I think..." she breathed, and blinked a few times. "I think that's enough."
"Hermione, m'love," George croaked through peals of laughter, "that's more than enough." He reached across the table and patted her hand with the air of a kind visitor comforting an invalid.
Ron shot George an exasperated frown, and he hastily withdrew his hand, grinning. Ron's expression had become less amused and more concerned with each gulp of Firewhiskey Hermione swallowed; he had long since ceased laughing, and now covered the rim of her glass with the flat of his palm. "You two having fun?" he asked, glowering at his brothers. He had inched closer to Hermione along the bench and his arm brushed hers; she frowned at him, looking surprised that he was even there.
Harry smiled to himself just as Ginny glanced up at him; his face burned and he looked away. How did she do that: read his mind, like that? When he and Ginny had been going out...mere weeks ago, but it felt like eons...they had made a game out of seeing how many times per day, in those last few weeks of school, Ron and Hermione managed to "accidentally" brush hands or shoulders or feet, or otherwise surreptitiously touch each other. Now that Harry thought about it, that was when he had started keeping other silent tallies in his head, as well: how many times in a day he got to see Ginny, how many times per week the house elves served treacle tart, how many points Snape had docked Gryffindor house unfairly...
"If those two think they're fooling anyone, they're crazy," Ginny would say, rolling her eyes. One Saturday night by the common room fire, Harry and Ginny had half-tricked Ron and Hermione into sitting next to one another on a couch, and the "count" had gone up to twenty-four before Hermione finally slid down to sit on the floor. Ginny had turned to Harry (she'd been sitting against his legs again, and he'd been running his fingers through her gorgeous hair and the memory of that was almost too much), her eyebrows raised, and whispered, "Twenty-four! That's a new record..." The two of them had broken into muffled giggles, and Ron had told them to knock off the mushy stuff or they'd be in for it, and then Hermione had moved to the floor under the guise of wanting to ask Ginny something, and...
Harry shook his head, the wooden table and the amber glow of his pint glass coming back into focus. Thinking like this would get him nowhere.
He tuned back into the conversation in time to hear Fred say, "Oh, we didn't mean any harm, Ronniekins. We didn't force anything on her. And don't worry, your girlfriend--oops, I mean, your friend who is a girl--" At this, Ron shot them another glare. "--will be good as new tomorrow." He recorked the Firewhiskey bottle with a flourish and turned to George. "Our work here is done, d'you reckon, brother?"
"Absolutely," George said. He and Fred turned as one to stare at Hermione, fascinated grins upon their faces. Harry had to grudgingly agree with them: Hermione, drunk, was going to be mighty interesting.
Hermione had, meanwhile, lifted her hand to eye-level, examining it closely. The others watched as she poked herself in the cheek with her forefinger. "I can't..."
"Can't feel it, can you?" asked Ron. His voice was soft and low, still holding a note of concern, though he was smiling again.
"No..." she breathed, waggling her fingers in front of her eyes and watching them, fascinated. "Can't feel anything..."
Fred and George exchanged a decidedly evil glance. Fred handed the half-empty whiskey bottle to George, fumbled inside his robes, and then reached under the table with a sharp, jabbing motion. "Feel that?" he shouted.
Hermione gave a loud yelp and jerked as though she'd been stung by a wasp. She fell backward off the bench, cracking her head hard on the floor and lying sprawled, her dress robes tangled around her legs.
Harry saw Ginny clap a hand to her mouth, her eyes going wide, and knew at once that she could not tell whether to laugh or be concerned.
"Oi." Ron shot to his feet and threw the twins a murderous look. "I thought you said you didn't mean any harm?" He stepped over the bench and knelt beside Hermione, who was sitting up and clutching her head tentatively. "You okay?" he said.
She nodded and looked up at him blearily. "Warm in here, isn't it?" she asked, as he gripped her other hand and helped her back to the table; he let go quickly once she was seated again, and turned back to his empty glasses, throwing the twins a dark look.
" 'Twas only a stinging hex, little brother," said Fred, brandishing his wand above the table; Ron made a grab for it, but Fred was too quick. "And not a strong one, either. Didn't know she'd jump like that."
Hermione, though, seemed slightly dazed, but not at all bothered. She caught Fred's eye across the table and smiled. He grinned back. She giggled; he grinned wider. She bubbled into laughter, throwing her head back, and the rest of the table followed suit, except for Ron, who was still frowning down at his empty glasses.
Hermione stopped laughing and lunged across the table at Fred; she made a lightning-fast grab at his robes; she sat back, triumphant, Fred's wand clutched in her hand.
"Aw no!" Fred yelled, ducking under the table. George followed.
"Nice one," said Ron, clapping her on the back and then withdrawing his hand hastily as Hermione pointed the wand at the ceiling and began wordlessly conjuring violet-feathered sparrows, the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth in her concentration. Harry shook his head, watching the neon-bright birds as they swooped around the ceiling, calling loudly to one another.
"You know, conjuring is even a bit easier when you're...like this," said Hermione.
"Is it?" asked Ginny, her eyebrows now raised to the extreme. She was eyeing the wavering wand in Hermione's hand and looked as if she'd like nothing more than to duck under the table to join her brothers.
Her brothers, however, had poked their heads up to table-level again. They watched Hermione cautiously; then, apparently convinced they were out of danger for the present, they rose and sat on the bench again.
"You're fun when you're loaded," said George, grinning.
"Am I?" Hermione was watching her birds and giggling again, her face very red, her hair now falling down in wild curls around her shoulders. Harry, who saw that Ron had not looked away from Hermione for some minutes, was sure his friend had not missed the fact that Hermione was looking very pretty now that she was smiling and her hair was loose.
"Yeah," said Fred. "You don't scold nearly as much."
She looked away from a small bird tapping on the windowpane and leveled a glassy-eyed stare at him. "I do not..." She pointed her finger at him. "Scold."
Ginny could no longer contain herself; Harry's stomach turned over as her laughter, like ringing bells, filled the air. "Hermione," she croaked. "That's, like, all you do."
Hermione swung her head around to face Ginny, who laughed even harder as Hermione blinked rapidly, perhaps trying to focus on her. "I do not...do I?" Hermione asked.
Ginny nodded, her face scrunched up with mirth.
"Sorry, darlin', but it's true," said Fred, shaking his head and pouring himself some more red wine. "If you'd only just use your brain power for evil, instead of good..."
"Like we did..." said George.
"You'd be much better off." Fred took a swig from his glass. George grabbed the wine bottle from his brother and took a drink directly from its mouth.
"Gross!" squealed Ginny. "Don't do that, I don't want your backwash."
"So don't have any more wine," George slurred, brandishing the bottle at his sister, who grabbed it from him with a smirk and began wiping off the rim with the hem of her bridesmaid's dress. "Anyway," George continued, "Fred's right. You should come to work for us, Hermione. If we had someone like you doing R-and-D for us..."
"Think of it," said Fred. "We'd put Zonko's out of business."
"Like I'm going to waste my time..." Hermione began, but paused to hiccough. "Doing that," she finished, reaching for the wine bottle from Ginny and topping off her own glass. "We've got other...things to do this year. Haven't we, boys." It didn't seem to be a question.
Ron glanced at Harry, eyes widened in alarm, and Harry shook his head almost imperceptibly. If this was the way the conversation was going to go, it would have to be stopped. Harry turned to Ginny, hoping she had caught nothing of this exchange, and caught her looking quickly away from him. She was too smart for her own good, he thought. She always had been.
After Hermione had poured far more wine onto the table than into her glass, Ron gently took the bottle from her and slid it down the table toward Harry, who stowed it safely on the floor by his foot. No one would be having any more wine, at least.
"Ah, well," said Fred, waving his hand and ignoring Hermione's last comment; perhaps he had caught Harry and Ron's silent exchange, as well. "It was a long shot anyway. With our luck, you'll end up Minister of Magic, and pass a law banning joke shops or something."
"I wouldn't do that. I think your shop is in-tred-ibly in-cer-esting..." She frowned. "Oh, dear."
This time even Ron grudgingly chuckled as Fred, George and Ginny collapsed against each other, laughing.
"Oh, Hermione," said George, slapping the tabletop. "You're great. We have to do this at all our parties from now on, Fred. I doubt even Bill and Fleur are having this good a time right now."
"Oh, now, don't say that," Fred interrupted. "First night of their honeymoon, mate."
"I don't care, this is better...Bill couldn't possibly...even if he is with...although, now that you mention it...yeah, he probably is having a pretty good time."
"Well, he was Bed Hoy of Hogwarts, wasn't he?" Hermione paused as the three across from her dissolved into tearful laughter again. "I mean, Head Boy?"
"Stop it..." panted George. "Can't... take it. My sides hurt. Bed Hoy...oh Lord..."
"Yeah, what's being Bed Hoy of Hogwarts have to do with the price of Floo Powder?" said Ginny, who was rocking back and forth, clutching her sides.
Hermione rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in front of her. "I just meant that...the Head Boy and Girl always had unlimited access to the Sestricted...the Resictered..." She slammed her hand on the table, making everyone jump, and shook her head. "Restricted Section of the library," she finished finally, a triumphant look on her face.
Ron frowned and turned to her. "So?"
She smiled in what Harry thought was a most un-Hermione-ish way, just one corner of her mouth curling up, and shot a mischievous look around the table. "Let's just say... there's more in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library than spells to make your nose-hairs grow into ringlets."
There was silence around the table. The twins were staring at Hermione with widened eyes, their expressions transcendent, apropos of Christmas coming early.
Ron had gone bright red and refused to meet anyone's eyes; at the same time, he looked a little curious. "What do you mean?" he asked, in that quiet voice of his, frowning.
Hermione smiled again and stared into her glass of red wine as she swirled it in lazy circles in front of her. "Well...you know how there's chess, and then there's...Wizard's Chess?"
"Yeah."
She giggled and hiccoughed again. "Well, um...you know. There's sex, and then, there's..." She held out her hand, palm up, in front of her, inviting the rest of them to fill in the blank.
They did.
"OH." Ron's eyes went as round as the twins', and he looked down, suddenly very interested in the cracks in the tabletop.
"Yeah." Hermione took another sip of wine, glancing up at the twins with raised eyebrows.
"OH." Fred and George spoke as one, glanced at one another, then settled themselves more comfortably on the bench. "Do tell."
Next to them, Ginny had gone uncharacteristically silent; glancing at her, Fred made a move to cover her ears with his palms. Ginny batted his hands away with a contemptuous look and turned her attention back to Hermione as the twins began firing questions at her. The pit of Harry's stomach burned. Don't look at Ginny, he told himself. Don't do it. Don't look at Ginny.
George spoke first. "Are you telling me, there's a book in the Hogwarts library, all about..."
"There's almost a whole shelf full of books," Hermione corrected, pointing Fred's wand at him and grinning down at her wine glass. The tip of the wand emitted a burst of purplish sparks.
The twins half-ducked, then exchanged a glance and leaned across the table toward Hermione.
"So what did you find?"
"How did you find out about this, anyway?"
"How come we never..."
"Is it a spell, or what? A potion?"
Hermione held up her hand to silence them, dropping the wand; it was a mark of how fascinating the conversation was that no one, not even the twins, made a move to grab it. "There are potions, of course," she said, speaking so softly that Harry, despite himself, leaned forward to hear her. "And certain...incantations." Ron stared at the tabletop, unmoving. Harry did not look at Ginny.
"And...what are they?" said Fred.
Hermione laughed softly and began swirling her wine in front of her again, staring into it as she spoke. "You two obviously didn't spend as much time in the library as I did. I expect you're sorry for that now...of course, you can always go back and finish your seventh year..."
George looked mutinous. "No way. You're lying. No one ever told me about..."
Hermione caught his eye. "Did you honestly expect your parents to tell you there are contraceptive potions during the birds-and-bees talk? And potions and spells to...er...well...make it more...um..." She shrugged lopsidedly. "Do you think anyone actually wants us to know about this, especially our parents?"
George seemed to consider this for a moment; then, his freckled face scrunched into a look of abject horror. "Oh God! My parents! Oh God! No..."
Fred clapped him on the shoulder, looking as though he was barely concealing an identically horrified look. "Do yourself a favor, mate. Don't think about it."
"Too late." George lowered his head onto his arms.
Ginny rolled her eyes at the two of them before turning her attention back to Hermione. "Do a lot of people...know about this?" Harry's burning stomach turned to ice; he gripped his pint glass so hard he was surprised it didn't shatter in his hand.
Hermione swayed slightly and frowned as she turned to Ginny, as though just remembering she was there. "Well, I'd have to say that almost every adult probably does."
"Even the teachers?"
"Of course. It's just not something that gets talked about. Especially around Sogwarts hudents." No one commented on her speech impediment this time; everyone at the table was concentrating too hard on listening to her. "You know, there's a reason you need special permission to go into the Restricted Section. They don't want students...well, spreading this around the school."
Fred looked up from comforting his brother and fixed Hermione with a look of incredulity. "Why the hell not?"
Hermione shook her head at him, a look of pity on her face.
Ginny piped up beside Fred. "Come on, guys. Think about it. Remember the Yule Ball? Slughorn's Christmas party?" Ron glanced sharply at Hermione at this; she stared into her swirling wine again and seemed totally unaware of him. Ginny continued, "Remember...well, remember last year?" Ron looked around at Ginny this time and found her staring straight at him; he reddened and lowered his gaze to his hands. Ginny looked around the table, at everyone but Harry. Harry did not know where to look. "Do you know how many teenagers there are roaming the halls of that school? If this got out, there'd be a couple in every broom closet, and the Room of Requirement would have a waiting list to get in. There's so many hormones floating in the air, it's practically..."
She finally caught Harry's eye; he didn't know what expression he had on his face, but whatever it was froze Ginny's into a blank mask. She stopped speaking immediately and began studying her own hands as they shredded the golden ribbon attached to her bouquet. The silence which followed was quite uncomfortable.
Finally, George's curiosity seemed to overcome his horror. He raised his head from his arms and sat up straight, narrowing his eyes across at Hermione. "And you know all this because..."
Hermione shrugged, a bit of a smile creeping back onto her face.
Ron turned to her again, frowning. "Wait a minute. How long have you known about this?"
Hermione snorted and swayed in place, refusing to look at him. "You're kidding, right?"
"No, I'm not kidding."
"Well, remember second year, when I got permission from Lockhart to get that book from the Restricted Section of the library? Well, when I brought it back," she paused to hiccough again, "Madame Pince was rather distracted because that was the day Eloise Midgen tried to curse her pimples off, remember? So I just slipped into the Restricted Section myself, while she was busy holding poor Eloise's nose on, and..."
Ron's mouth popped open. He stared at her. "No...way."
She nodded and took a rather large gulp of wine.
"That's really sick, Hermione."
"Why is it sick?" Her voice was high and squeaky, and she was grinning into her wine.
"Well, because...Lockhart was your teacher."
Hermione looked around at him, horrified. "I wasn't...I mean, I didn't do it because of Lockhart. No way. I wasn't even...I mean, I found the shelf by accident, it's right across from the P's." She was squirming in her seat now. "It's way up high near the ceiling in a corner, smack in the middle of this section about transplanting Snargaluff stumps; like anyone would want to do that. And...well, I was up there anyway. I was just...curious. Wouldn't you be?"
"No!" Ron spat. Everyone at the table looked around at him. "Well, okay. Yeah."
The twins guffawed loudly, and Ron shot them a glare before turning back to Hermione.
"Wait a second," Ron said slowly. Harry closed his eyes and silently begged Ron not to ask the question he was about to ask. But Ron plowed on: "That means you knew about this when...Krum and...McLaggen..."
"WHAT?" It was Hermione's turn to go beet-red, but it wasn't from embarrassment. She was staring at Ron, her eyes popping, so angry Harry could almost feel sparks rising off of her.
Ron stared at his hands sheepishly. "Well, if you knew...what exactly..."
"What, exactly, are you asking?" Hermione's face was contorted with rage; she slammed her hand on the tabletop on the last word, toppling her wine glass and taking absolutely no notice as the sweet red liquid spilled into her lap.
"Um..." Ron squirmed and eyed the flittering violet sparrows, now grouped around the kitchen window. George reached across the table and pulled Fred's wand out of Hermione's reach.
"That's a really insulting question, Ron," said Ginny. Harry raised his head; Ginny was staring at her brother. Ron, although he had not yet asked said question, looked back at her briefly, then turned his attention back to his hands, twisting on the table in front of him. A bit of Hermione's spilled wine was soaking into the sleeve of his dress robes, but he did not seem to notice.
Hermione, who had been sputtering beside him, finally overcame her anger enough to speak again. "I haven't...I mean, I never...of course I didn't! How could you..."
Ron did not look up. "Well, I didn't think...not really. But..." Harry felt the atmosphere at the table shift, subtly but clearly, so that Ron and Hermione were in the center and everyone else was superfluous. He felt as though he was intruding on a private conversation, now; he glanced back at Ginny, and could tell from the way her mouth was screwed up to the side and the way she was busily shredding the ribbon that she felt the same. His heart gave a pang, but as she tried to meet his eye again, he turned quickly back to Ron.
Hermione was watching Ron too, her face twisted into the kind of withering glare she seemed to have copyrighted. "Are you saying that if you'd found out about this, you'd go out and bed the first witch you saw, just to see what it's like?"
Ginny gasped, but Hermione simply narrowed her eyes and waited for his reply.
"Of course I wouldn't." Ron looked around at her now, his ears going red. "I've never..." He stopped himself, his eyes widening, and quickly turned his attention back to his empty shot glasses. Everyone looked away from him, including Hermione, who sagged and swayed a little in her seat, giving another soft hiccough. Harry wondered if everyone else at the table, like him, was thinking of Lavender Brown and breathing a silent sigh of relief.
"Well, I haven't either," said Hermione quietly, looking down at the table.
"Well, okay then." Ron sagged in his seat too; Harry did not miss the tiny smile trying, again, to creep onto his face.
"Okay then."
Silence reigned for a full minute. Hermione was still staring at the table, and Ron was studying his clenched hands in front of him. The twins , who had been watching Ron and Hermione with raised eyebrows, now glanced at each other, then rose as one and began to stretch exaggeratedly, gathering up several bottles in their vicinity still containing trace amounts of beverage.
"Gotta go."
"Big day tomorrow."
"It's been lovely, all."
"Yeah, lovely wedding, lovely food, lovely drink."
"Lovely...company."
"And educational."
"Oh yes. Very informative."
"In-tred-ibly in-cer-esting."
"Later."
The two disapparated on the spot, leaving more silence in their wake. Despite himself, Harry found himself looking once more over at Ginny; she was still impossibly lovely, with her long hair falling around her shoulders and her delicate face cast downward. She looked up and caught his eye, and this time held it for a moment. Then she, too, jumped up from the table and mumbled something about heading up to bed. She left the room without a backward glance, holding her wilting bouquet in one hand and shedding dried and yellowing rose petals as she went.
Harry sat where he was for a moment, his stomach feeling like molten lead. He raised his glass and downed the rest of the cider in one gulp.
Final count for Harry Potter:
1/2 bottle of wine
4 ciders
He stood, slowly, swayed for a moment, and then found his balance. "Night, guys," he said. He thought he heard Ron mumble something in reply as he walked away, but Hermione was silent.
He hadn't even reached the second stair when he heard Ron say, in a very quiet voice, "I'm sorry."
"What for?" Hermione asked. She was quiet too, but there was a dangerous edge to her voice. Harry knew that, despite what she might say to the contrary, Ron's earlier comment about Hermione not liking to lose control had been dead-on accurate. However bad her headache was going to be tomorrow (and, if it was anything like the one already starting as a niggling little pain behind Harry's left eye, it was going to be a bad one), he was sure she'd remember what she'd said tonight, and that she'd regret it. It was possible that she was already regretting it.
"I'm sorry I made you..." Ron's voice grew more faint as Harry mounted the steps toward Ron's attic bedroom.
"You didn't make me do anything." Hermione's voice carried very clearly up the stairs, wavering slightly but still quite loud. Whatever Ron said in reply, Harry did not hear it; he was too far away.
Harry passed the landing where Ginny's bedroom door stood, closed tight. He paused, and had even raised his hand to knock on the purple door decorated with scarlet-and-gold stars and Gryffindor lions, before he caught himself. He heard absolutely no sound from behind the door, but he had no doubt that she was sitting in there, listening to him pass. Maybe even hoping he'd knock on her door. Realizing, as he did, that after revelations like those which had been made tonight, Ron and Hermione were unlikely to leave the kitchen and come up to bed for quite a while yet, if ever. That however much they tried to disguise their feelings behind, alternately, ignoring and raging at one another, eventually they would have to face the fact that everyone else knew: they were deeply, madly in love, and now, thanks to him, Harry, they were in real danger of losing one another forever.
Harry clenched his fists at his sides and walked past Ginny's door, continuing up the stairs with the blood pounding in his ears and his chin trembling.
He lay awake for many hours that night, listening for Ron's heavy footsteps, or Ginny's lighter ones, on the stairs leading to the attic bedroom, but hearing neither. He lay on his back with his hands tucked behind his head, thinking that, after all, Fred and George had gotten their wish; tongues had been loosened. But it hadn't done any good; in fact, it may have done the opposite. The night's conversation was becoming a confused jumble in his head; by the time he dropped off to sleep as the sun was rising, he was feeling slightly nauseous, and could remember nothing but the look on Ginny's face as she stood to leave, and the withered rose petals he himself had crushed underfoot.