A/N: A few people noted that there was a bit of a formatting issue with this chapter, so it's now fixed. Next chapter should be up soon.
Chapter 6
As Charlie and George walked up to Old Mrs Fawcett's house, they could see a figure dressed in muggle overalls and a battered straw hat digging in the vegetable patch. As they stepped closer, Charlie could see that it was Zinnia, hat decorated with what looked to be used owl feather quills and fresh daisies, pulling at weeds with dragonhide gloves.
"'Lo Zinnia," Charlie called out.
Zinnia looked up.
"Oh hey. Sorry guys, I lost track of time." She pulled her gloves off and stuffed them in the front pocket of her overalls. She offered a hand to shake. "You're George, right? I'm Zinnia."
George though was staring past her. "…were you going to use all those thistles for anything in particular?"
Zinnia tilted her head to one side. "Uh, no?" she hazarded, dropping her hand, because George was obviously distracted. By thistles. Which she had indeed, not had any particular plans for outside of "not in the garden" unless the compost patch counted, which going by the expression on George's face she was going to guess it didn't.
"Mind if I take them off your hands then?" George asked. "Only I've got this one product I've been developing for the joke shop and it suddenly occurs to me that those thistles would be absolutely perfect for my needs."
Zinnia looked past George to Charlie, who was reacting like this all made sense and was even a good thing, so Zinnia decided that yes, the younger Weasley probably was serious.
She decided she didn't want to know. "You know what? Knock yourself out. Take all the thistles you want."
George paused. "What did you want in trade?" he asked.
Zinnia blinked. "Uhhhh my usual going rate?" She raised her eyebrows at Charlie, but found no help there, as he too was staring at her like she was being ridiculously generous.
"Zinnia, I know Mum's cooking is fantastic, but honestly, this many thistles are worth more than knuts," Charlie said. "Besides, you keep giving her preserves, and all that tea, so you're already more than even on that."
Zinnia folded her arms in front of her. "Don't be ridiculous. Your Mum's cooking is like upper end gastro-pub quality, and even better, it means I don't have to tackle the medieval set up Aunty Rose was living with for some goddessforsaken reason. And I have more preserves than I could feasibly eat in 5 years, I get the impression that Aunty Rose had been stocking up for the apocalypse." She looked over the two Weasley men and realised from their flat expressions that they were going to be stubborn about this. She threw up her hands. "Okay fine! Offer me something else to trade then!"
George tilted his head to one side, obviously considering. He looked Zinnia up and down.
"I'll think on it," he said.
Zinnia rolled her eyes. "You do that." She dusted off the front of her overalls, and turned to head inside, pausing to call over her shoulder, "You guys coming in, or what? Aunty Rose already had a scarecrow out, the job's taken!"
Charlie and George turned instinctively to see a scarecrow decked that looked suspiciously like…
"Holy shit," breathed George. "Can you remember if they ever found Axton Goyle dead or alive?"
Charlie shook his head slowly. "I'm pretty sure they didn't. He was in my year, so I'd been keeping half an ear out…" he gulped. "That's either a very, very good likeness and a complete coincidence, or…"
The two of them exchanged glanced. "Naaaah," they both agreed.
Old Mrs Fawcett had always been a crochetty old lady who nonetheless brought them homemade cake and biscuits when they occasionally did chores for her. They couldn't imagine her keeping a transfigured Death Eater in her garden.
"You coming boys?" Zinnia asked. "I ended up not able to find any Indiana Jones movies that weren't already borrowed, but I did find this new release. It's by the Monty Python guys, I think you'll like it. It's called 'George of the Jungle'..."
….
Halfway through the movie Zinnia looks up to see that George is taking notes with what looks to be a feather quill.
But then it's the scene with the horses, so she looks back at Charlie in time to see him appreciating Brendan Fraser's physique and consequently Zinnia gets distracted.
"I know, right?" she murmurs, nudging Charlie a little, teasing as she pours them both a fresh drink from the cumquat brandy jar.
Charlie practically sculls his next glass, but doesn't disagree with her insinuation.
….
"I'm not good enough for her, my Angel," George slurs.
The movie has been over with for some time, and the three of them have been just telling stories.
"Nah mate," Zinnia argues, "it's not about you thinking you're good enough for her, it's about her deciding you're good enough for her." She studied the way the light hit the brandy in her glass, and then took another sip. "And you deciding that she's good for you. Is she good for you?" she squints to get a better look at George. "Does she treat you right?"
"Yeah," says George. "She's too good for me."
"Well then," says Zinnia, "that means you've got to put the work in, but if she says you're good enough, and you're trying to be good enough, then I say close enough." She nodded sagely.
Charlie, sprawled out on the couch, snored loudly, glass loosely held in one hand.
George reached over and deftly removed the glass before it dropped.
"My brother," he said solemnly, "is a total lightweight."
Zinnia just snickered and poured herself another glass.
….
When George woke up, it was to Zinnia's startled exclamation, "Oh, how did you get in here!"
Scrubbing at his face with one hand, he noted that he had fallen asleep in the armchair last night, with his feet propped up on the coffee table. He dropped his feet from said table with a groan, feeling mildly stiff around the knees, and spotted Errol flapping irritably on Charlie's chest.
"Gerroff Errol," Charlie grumbled into the couch cushion.
"Wait," said Zinnia. "That's Errol?"
"Yes?" said Charlie clearly not understanding her confusion. He plucked the letter from Errol's leg, tore it open and quickly scanned the contents before groaning.
"George, did you have plans for today?" Charlie asked. It sounded rhetorical.
George blinked. Nothing came to mind, though the beginnings of a mild hangover were doing nothing to increase his ability to draw up any details… oh.
"Bugger," muttered George. "Forgot I was meeting Angelina." He sat forward in the chair, massaging his temples. "What time is it?"
He looked up to see Zinnia look at the mantel clock and wince. "It's eleven-thirty."
"Shit and botheration," George swore. He'd said he'd meet her at ten. "Who's the letter from?"
Charlie sat up and passed it over.
"Dad. Apparently Angelina came looking for you at the Burrow when she couldn't find you at the shop." Charlie shook his head. "Don't worry, Mum didn't end up in a tizzy, she was going to spend the morning at her knitting group with Mrs Latchlock and Mrs Hooke remember?"
George sighed in relief. "Well that's at least something." He stood up and sketched a bow to Zinnia, who was staring at Errol with an odd expression. "Thankyou most kindly for the libations and the entertainment," he said, "forgive me, but I must now abandon your most excellent company and leave you only my brutish brother as solace." George winced. "I have an abject apology to make to a certain Angel."
Zinnia scoffed at his grandiose manner, but she was smiling, so George knew she was at least a little
amused. "Off you go then," she said, making shooing motions with her hands. "Go reassure your Angel that I didn't trap you in Aunty Rose's cellar, and I'll make sure your lightweight brother gets home in one piece."
"Oi," said Charlie from where he had flopped back onto the couch, one hand over his eyes. "I resemble that remark."
Zinnia shook her head and left the sitting room for the kitchen, muttering something about rustling up some tea, and George disapparated.
….
Zinnia jumped. That loud cracking noise again!
She whirled around to see that George had disappeared once her back was turned.
Curiouser and curiouser. Now that Zinnia thought about it, every time she heard that noise, it was just before someone appeared or disappeared. At first she had thought it was just a coincidence, but…
Homing owls that delivered letters. Yeah, no. There was absolutely no way that Zinnia was willing to believe that was normal, no matter how blasé the Weasleys seemed to be about it. There was something really weird going on here, and Zinnia was starting to get the impression that it was all part of a bigger picture that she was missing.
As though summoned by her thoughts, Errol fluttered into the kitchen and perched on the counter, staring at her expectantly.
Zinnia hummed to herself. That expression looked suspiciously like Ichabod demanding treats. She opened the fridge and saw that there was some leftover spaghetti from the night before, a few condiments and a carton of eggs, but nothing that shouted "owl food" to her.
"How do you feel about a bit of stale bread," she asked Errol, not really expecting an answer.
The owl's feathers ruffled, and Zinnia got the impression that Errol was not impressed with her offering.
"Well I'm sorry," she scowled, putting her hands on her hips, "but I don't have any mice on me…" she paused, as Ichabod, with previously undiscovered talent for comic timing, dropped a dead mouse on her foot.
Zinnia looked incredulously at Ichabod. Ichabod mewed like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and sat on his haunches.
Zinnia picked up the dead mouse by the tail and offered it to Errol. "Is this more to your liking your majesty?"
Errol puffed up his chest, then snatched the mouse out of her hand, gulped it down, then flew out the half-open kitchen window, thus explaining the mystery of how the owl had managed to enter her place in the first place.
"Rude," Zinnia huffed, folding her arms over her chest.
"Well, you did try to fob him off with a stale breadcrust," Charlie said, grinning from the doorway.
Zinnia threw her hands into the air. "Well how was I supposed to know that Ichabod was going to develop a sudden and previously unseen knack for hospitality?" She stared down at her extremely self-satisfied looking cat. "Usually his idea of being nice is to not attempt to fillet any guests I have."
Which come to think of it, Ichabod had been on a rare good behaviour streak when it came to terrorizing guests recently. He had taken a swipe at Molly, but that might have been more because he was wary of being sat on than any specific antipathy. Just another bizarre trend that Zinnia had noticed since moving into her great-aunt's house. Still, she would be here for at least another couple of months. Plenty of time to get to the bottom of whatever secret the Weasleys all seemed to have.
Charlie started laughing, and then moaned and held his head. "Ooooh that was a bad idea," he grumbled.
Zinnia smiled sympathetically. "That cumquat brandy packed a bit of a punch, didn't it?"
Charlie grinned ruefully. "You could say that." The last time he'd had a hangover this bad, it had been his first weekend at the Reserve – it was tradition to get any new staff dead drunk and then make them clean away the dung-heaps first thing in the morning, with the shoutiest of the Master dragonkeepers (Maryska thought making them all cringe was funny) supervising. People tended to get the message then – drink all you wanted, but expect hell the next morning. It deterred all but the most determined alcoholics from indulging on a regular basis.
The kettle whistled, and Charlie winced again. He could really use some of Zinnia's ginger tea.
...
