"I don't believe this," Hermione muttered angrily, stomping across the floor. Alarmed, the men separated as quickly as their inebriated brains could issue instructions to their feet. "Give me that wand," she said as she ripped Ron's from his unresisting hand, sending a font of bright yellow sparks sizzling from the tip. "And you . . ." Booth took an involuntary step back as she marched toward him, ire in her eyes. She came to a stop directly in front of him, hands on her hips. "Who gave you that wand?"
His searching gaze landed on Brennan standing at the edge of the circle in a similar pose, hands on hips, glaring at him. "Are you two related?" he asked, trying to blink her into focus.
Hermione surveyed the crowd. "I asked," she repeated, her voice in a low hiss, "who owns this wand?"
"It's mine, miss," the young witch hesitated before she stepped forward and removed it from Booth's open hand.
"And do you make a habit of loaning your wand to persons unqualified to use one?" Hermione asked, her tone severe, one brow arched high.
"No, miss," the witch shook her head. "It were just a joke . . ."
"Wand security is not a joke . . ."
"Blimey, Hermione, you sound like ol' Mad Eye," George interrupted, leading a small group of laughing friends through the crowd. "I'm too late for the fun, then? Damn," he huffed. "I wanted to put some galleons on the Muggle."
At her wits end, Hermione stomped her foot. "He's a Muggle!" she screeched. "He can't use a wand! He couldn't win a wizard's duel!"
"You wouldn't think so," George agreed, "but seeing as how it's Ron . . ."
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared. "I'll have you know Ron is very proficient with his wand!" she pronounced loudly.
There was a beat of silence before George snickered then let out a bark of laughter that was soon echoed by most of the crowd. Even Ron, his smile drunkenly lopsided, winked at her and grinned. Blushing a deep crimson, Hermione growled out a sound of frustration.
"Excuse me," Brennan interrupted, "but what exactly did Booth drink? Is it dangerous?" She waved away the smoke that still wafted gently from several of the glasses and lifted one to her nose.
"Firewhiskey," Hermione answered. "I don't think it will be harmful but I can't be sure," she added. "We should probably get them both sober." She considered for a moment. "Harry's home is here in London; we can take them all there while I brew something up."
"Fine," Brennan said. She scooped up Booth's shirt from where he'd tossed it casually over the back of a chair and carried it to where he stood on unsteady legs. When he made no move to take it from her, she huffed and redressed him herself.
"Spoilsport," she heard a woman grumble from the crowd as she buttoned the simple shirt across his broad chest.
Across the floor, Hermione struggled similarly with Ron, her efforts hindered by his sloppy attempts to land a kiss. "Honestly, Ronald," she grumbled, finally placating him momentarily by giving him a noisy buss on the lips.
"How are we going to get to Harry's home?" Brennan asked, slipping around to Booth's side to help him stand upright.
"George, help us with Harry," Hermione ordered before responding to Brennan. "We can flag a car to take us to Grimmauld Place. The driver won't see the house itself but he can get us to the square." Slowly, she walked Ron through the crowd and out of the Leaky Cauldron, the others following in her wake. The laughter they left behind was silenced abruptly as they reached the sidewalk and the door closed after them.
"What is it that you're going to give them?" Brennan asked, out of breath slightly from supporting Booth's weight.
Gesturing to a passing hackney cab, Hermione tossed an arch look over her shoulder. "I know a potion that will sober them right up." Stuffing Ron into the backseat, she helped Brennan fold Booth's legs in while George settled Harry, snoring once more, next to the driver. The women squeezed into the small amount of remaining space in the vehicle.
They released identical deep sighs, rolling their eyes when their husbands immediately began arguing with each other over who was taking up more space in the crowded back seat.
"I hope this . . . potion . . . is especially bad tasting," Brennan said, massaging fingertips into her throbbing temples.
"Oh, it's foul," Hermione said, smiling grimly. "It's made with flobberworm mucus."
.
.
The swell of midday traffic through London meant that by the time the car slid to a stop next to the small park off Grimmauld Place, Booth and Ron were snoring just as loudly as Harry. Hermione and Brennan gratefully escaped the crowded confines of the car and were just beginning to drag the men out when Ginny appeared.
"George sent a message that you were headed this way with the three of them," she answered Hermione's unspoken question. "What happened?" she asked, shaking Harry gently in an attempt to wake him.
"Firewhiskey," Hermione answered, barely saving Ron from tumbling out onto the street when she opened the door next to him. "Ron and Booth were trying to duel."
"With wands?" Ginny's horrified voice matched her expression.
Brennan propped up Booth and turned in time to see 12 Grimmauld Place pushing aside the homes on either side. Her mouth fell open for a second before she closed her eyes and shook her head.
"With wands," Hermione repeated. "Sorry to descend on you like this but I didn't want to chance losing someone by apparating with them. They're probably drunk enough to let go mid-flight!"
Ginny led the way across the street and up a small flight of stairs. "No worries," she said, stepping into the brightly lit entrance hall and holding the door open with one foot as the other two women tugged their burdens inside. "Fortunately, Lily is having a visit with Mum. Let's put your two in James' room," she offered, "as it's only one flight up." She struggled up the narrow stairway with Harry. "Bitsy!" she called over her shoulder.
A tiny house-elf appeared at the end of the hallway behind the stairs. She stopped abruptly when she saw Hermione and ducked behind a tall planter. "Yes, Mistress?" she squeaked, peeping out from between the leaves of the plant, her pointed ears quivering.
"Bitsy, can you go into James' room and split the bed so we can put Ron and our other guest in there? I would be very grateful," Ginny's words huffed out between heavy breaths.
Bitsy ducked lower behind the plant. "Bitsy is happy to help Mistress in any way," her voice piped up, her big round eyes fixed somewhat defiantly on Hermione. With a small pop! she disappeared.
Brennan followed Hermione and Ron, dragging Booth to the first landing. "As soon as we get the men settled," she managed, "I want to know what that was."
The house elf's head appeared around an open door. Catching Brennan's eye, she beckoned her forward with one long finger.
Two long narrow beds filled the floor space in a room obviously normally occupied by a young man. The bedclothes were in shades of red and gold while on the wall, posters of Puddlemere United and The Weird Sisters battled with each other for supremacy, pulling faces and making rude gestures at each other. Brennan and Hermione worked in silence, settling the two men on the beds, removing their shoes and drawing the sheets over them.
"They're like toddlers," Ginny said from the doorway, smiling as she smoothed her ruffled hair and nodding toward the sleeping men. "Lovely when they're asleep and nothing but trouble the rest of the time." The tiny house elf hid behind her legs, peeking out occasionally. Her expression when she looked at Hermione was an odd combination of fear and rebellion.
"It . . . She?" Brennan asked silently, looking at Hermione who nodded. "She seems afraid of you. Why?"
"She's not afraid, exactly," Hermione answered. "She just doesn't understand. None of them understand." She shook her head sadly.
Ginny led the way downstairs. "Perhaps it's not them, Hermione. Maybe it's you." Down another staircase and they entered a long, narrow kitchen. "Cauldron is in that cupboard," Ginny pointed to a heavy, scarred wooden cabinet. "We have a store of basic ingredients right above." She busied herself at the old fashioned stove for a few minutes then waved Brennan to a chair at the table, placing in front of her a steaming cup of tea followed by a plate piled high. "Biscuit?" she offered, taking a seat for herself.
"What is she?" Brennan asked, sipping delicately from her cup.
"She's a house elf," Ginny explained. "They're . . . servants, of a sort."
"Slaves, you mean," Hermione huffed, placing a battered cauldron atop the cupboard with a heavy thump. "Unpaid, overworked, underappreciated slaves."
"Bitsy is not underappreciated or overworked," Ginny responded with the air of someone who'd had this argument many times in the past. "And she's unpaid only because she refuses to take money from us."
"Bitsy is a special case," Hermione admitted. "But in the rest of the wizarding world . . ."
"House elves fare much better now, Hermione," Ginny insisted. "You should know that because it's all due to your efforts. But you can't force them to go against their nature. You should know that, too. Because you failed spectacularly when you tried," she finished, somewhat beneath her breath although it was clear from the loud hrrumph! at the cauldron that Hermione heard her.
"But what are they?" Brennan asked again. "Where do they come from?"
"No one really knows," Ginny shrugged. "They belong to houses, mostly to very old wizarding families. Harry inherited this house from his godfather and with it was this old, very nasty elf, Kreacher."
"Ginny," Hermione admonished with a frown, pouring something slimy into the cauldron.
"Well, he was," Ginny shrugged again. "He got better, after he found out the truth of what happened to his old master but when we started remodeling this place he . . . reverted a bit." She shuddered as she sipped from her cup. "It was awful, this house," she said, looking around. "It was dark and brooding and ugly. Remember that painting of the old hag by the door?" she asked, grinning over her shoulder at Hermione. "Every time someone rang the doorbell she'd start screaming obscenities and insults."
"The painting would scream?" Brennan asked, her cup paused in midair.
"Mmm," Ginny nodded. "It was hung with a permanent sticking charm; we finally had to tear down the wall completely to get rid of it. Kreacher cried for days until we allowed him to hang the painting next to his sleeping place. Creepy little bugger."
"Ginny."
"Hermione, he was tetched in the head. You have to admit that."
"Where is he now?" Brennan asked, interrupting what seemed to be an argument brewing.
"He died several years ago. But not before he tried to get Harry to promise to cut off his head and mount it on the wall." At Brennan's horrified look, she laughed. "Oh, that was another lovely feature of this house. A row of dead house elf heads in the hallway. Needless to say, Harry refused."
"And Bitsy is what, his daughter?"
"Dunno." Ginny made a face. "One day, Kreacher disappeared and when he came back, he had Bitsy with him. He said she was next in line to 'serve the noble House of Black which was now the home of Harry Potter.' It was impossible to say no. Every time we mentioned that we really didn't need or want another house elf, she went into hysterics and Kreacher started beating himself up with the frying pan. Finally, we said we were happy to have Bitsy and two days later, Kreacher died."
"If you'd just give her clothes . . ." Hermione waved her wand beneath the cauldron, creating gentle blue flames that lapped hungrily at the copper.
"Hermione, if you mention clothes again to Bitsy I will hex you," a thread of steel ran through Ginny's voice as she eyed her sister-in-law. "The last time she heard you suggest them she cried for three weeks straight."
"But . . ."
"Three weeks straight, Hermione! Have you ever listened to a house elf sobbing for three weeks straight? No. So don't mention clothes again." Hermione rolled her eyes as she sat down. "I don't understand it and neither I nor Harry particularly like it, but she's happy. House elves are happiest when they're serving a family. You can't force them to change their nature just because you don't agree with it."
Brennan nodded. "I agree with the general principle behind that statement. I've made anthropological studies of many different cultures and while I sometimes found various aspects to be disagreeable or distasteful, it wasn't my place to invalidate their beliefs."
"There you have it, Hermione," Ginny grinned triumphantly. "Anthropology is on my side." A sour smell began to waft from the cauldron. "How long till the potion is ready?"
"An hour or so," Hermione answered, following Ginny's lead and dropping the subject. "When it belches, it's ready."
"Well, then, Dr. Brennan," Ginny pushed her chair back and stood up. "How would you like a tour of the house?"
Close to an hour later they'd reached the attics where Brennan stared in horrified fascination at the mounted heads of deceased house elves. With a soft pop, the house elf appeared in the doorway.
"The gentlemens is waking, mistress," she said in her squeaky voice. "The Mister Wheezy is looking sick."
"Thank you, Bitsy," Ginny said. "Would you check the potion in the kitchen and let me know if it's burping?"
"Bitsy is happy to help Mistress and the sick gentlemens," the house elf answered, and disappeared.
The women followed the sounds of moaning to the bedroom where Ron and Booth were just beginning to wake.
Booth lay curled on his side, his head in his hands. "I'm going to be sick," he whispered.
"Please stop screaming," Ron groaned, eyes closed, his skin tinted a faint green.
Bitsy was back, tugging at Ginny's sleeve and nodding. "Oh, good," Hermione said loudly, smiling victoriously when both men shrank away from the sound of her voice in the room. She put her hand on Ron's forehead and leaned closer. "I'll be back in just a minute with something that will help you feel much better," she yelled.
Brennan and Ginny exchanged glances as she walked out of the room. "Yea, it's never good to get on her bad side," Ginny said with a laugh.
She was back quickly, carrying a mug in one hand and floating two more in front of her, one of which she passed to Ginny who grimaced and headed up to the next level. Passing off the one in her hand to Brennan, she snatched the other out of the air and sat down with a bounce on the bed next to Ron. "Uuuuuuhhhh," he groaned again, burying his face in the pillow beneath his head.
"Here you are," Hermione sang, her voice loud and falsely cheery. "This will make you feel all better!" She lifted his head and put the cup to his lips, tipping the contents into his mouth. With a jerk of her head, she indicated to Brennan that she should do the same.
Booth opened one bloodshot eye when the bed beside him dipped. "I'm dying, baby," he moaned. "Tell the kids I love 'em."
She bit back a smile and lifted his head gently. "You're not dying, Booth. You're just experiencing the after-effects of intoxication." Following Hermione's lead, she poured the foul-smelling glutinous concoction into his mouth. "This will help you feel better."
Simultaneously, he and Ron spluttered and gagged at the taste of the potion. Brennan leaned back in alarm. "Don't worry," Hermione advised. "I added a pinch of crushed silverweed to prevent vomiting." She put the mug to Ron's lips again. "Here you go, drink it up!"
"God, Hermione," Ron rasped when she finally let his head drop back to the pillow. "What is that stuff?"
"Sophrosinian Elixir," she answered. "Nasty, isn't it?"
"I think I'd rather be hung-over," he mumbled, closing his eyes.
"This is all your fault, kid," Booth said, wiggling his fingers as feeling came back into his extremities. "Bones, it's all his fault."
"I very much doubt that, Booth," she said.
He lifted himself up on one elbow and offered her a pale imitation of his usual smile. "You've got to try that stuff, though. Just not this much."
She rolled her eyes and stood up. "At least one good thing has come from your ill-advised drinking binge," she said, smiling grimly. "Neither you nor Ron will be up to that silly little game tonight!"
He and Ron exchanged an alarmed glance before he fell back heavily to his pillow. "Yea, about the match . . ."
.
.
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I miss Dobby. :-(