A/N: JK Rowling invented the Potterverse, the name always makes me think of a spinning potters wheel with a little globe on top. It's Wednesday where you are already, right? Close enough...
Thwack! The noise made Hermione and Ginny jump in their seats at the kitchen table. "Broom falls," shouted Molly Weasley breezily. "Set another place girls, if you will?"
Hermione looked curiously at Ginny, who shrugged and pulled a face. She was winning at Gin against the older girl for a change and didn't want to get distracted. The Knave in her hand winked at her and shaped the underside of his moustache with one finger.
"Now!" Molly called sharply, making them both jump again.
Ginny moaned and folded her cards. "Plenty of time for that after dinner, you know the boys will always settle for a hand or two, in between coming up with more money making schemes." Molly laughed as she bustled about and like a cloud of starlings disturbed by her movements, pots and pans took to the air. Hermione ducked, narrowly missing being skewered by a wooden spoon that turned sideways and zoomed around her. She pulled a placemat from the table drawer and set it down, the other mats already on the table rearranged themselves a little sideways to make more space for the extra seating. Ginnys bobbing wand marched cutlery into position and they dropped with a clatter. Hermione set them straight as Ginny returned with a highball glass.
"Wine glass if you please?" called Molly crisply. Hermione raised her eyebrows as Ginny rolled her eyes towards the clock that showed all the Burrows inhabitants. Hermione and Harry were such frequent visitors here that they too had been added and displayed 'Home' and 'Starvacious' respectively. Mollys arm on the clock was wavering towards the large 'WTF' bottom right.
"Really Mother?" said Ginny with a disbelieving sigh.
"Yes dear, I think so," she said, squinting into the steam rising from the washing up soaking in the sink. "Such a nice boy." Molly patted at her hair and dinner whipped itself together in a frenzy.
Ginny snorted, "not," under her breath and turned away. Hermione put her hands on her hips. "Who?" she hissed. "Sir Dick," replied Ginny under her breath and turning back, as if that explained everything. Hermione barely recognised her, her hair was different, the puppy fat on her face had melted away and she could pass for 20.
"What did you do?" Hermione asked incredulously. Pans fell in a cacophony behind them.
"Ginny Weasley!" Mollys voice rang out in a no nonsense tone. "You get yourself upstairs my girl and don't come back down until you have your own face on."
"Shoo!" Molly persisted over Ginnys half-hearted protestations. "Scat!" Ginny scrambled upstairs and out of sight. "Sometimes I swear she's adopted," said Molly holding still so lipstick could apply itself to her face. Hermione stared over nonplussed. "I'll explain later dear," said Molly kindly. "It's a Witch thing." Hermione nodded firmly, compressing her lips. They had had many of these conversations over the years and had been invaluable in the light of Hermiones Muggle parentage.
"Is there anything else I can do?" asked Hermione, scooping up the deck of cards. The Knave card was sticking to the back of the Queen of Hearts card at an awkward angle and Hermione banged the long edge of the deck on the dresser top before squaring it off and shoving them in a drawer, along with the latest edition of Cosmo.
Molly leant over a Muggle golf bag slumped in an alcove and carefully selected a wood iron. "Tell the boys ten minutes and no more before coming in." She handed over the dark headed golf club, "and see if you can do anything about the gnomes on the lawn, we're infested." Sighing, she said, "Arthur barely has any time at all these days what with everything…"
Hermione ran her hands over the curved wooden head, another liberation associated with Mr Weasleys job no doubt. It must be quite old, she knew from her Dads clubs that Persimmon wood as a club head material had fallen out of favour in the face of more stable man-made composites. Hermione recognised the dark, tight grained wood from studying with Olivander over the Summer. He had a veritable forest of native and exotic woods stacked around the place and she had spent an enjoyable week buried up to her nose in reference books and cataloguing paraphernalia, doing his semi-annual stock take for him.
Her favourite moment was on her last day, when he had pulled out a wide, slim drawer filled with carved wooden eggs laid out in a grid of satin nests. Olivander had explained that the miniatures were a precursor to the first step in a wand makers apprenticeship, should she be so enticed. The eggs were all so different, plain, banded, textured or smooth and so many hues. Not one was larger than a blue tits egg and he had asked her to name the timber, origin and maturity. She had of course, done exceptionally well. She had left with a block of immature ironwood no larger than her thumb and the understanding that she would, perhaps, return next Summer with something to show for the intervening time.
Hermione switched the club from hand to hand as she ambled her way outside, testing the weight and balance with small swings, being careful not to knock it into the walls or door. It made a pleasing swooshing noise and returned equidistant to the mid-point each side like a well-mannered metronome. She made her way to a red and white striped tent that would not have looked out of place on the side of a road under maintenance in the Muggle world. Another spoil collected from the Ministry, courtesy of a possessed manhole cover on the A46 as she recalled. Muffled conversation told her that Harry and Ron were inside.
She twacked at the unsecured door flap with the club and was rewarded with Rons yelp of surprise.
"Don't come in," ordered Harrys voice strongly. It was at least two octaves lower than last Summer she mused and quite musical; her ruminating was cut short by the other occupant.
"Shit," whined Ron, "shiiiit"
"Whats the matter?" asked Hermione, pausing and scrunching up her nose. From the scuffling going on, dressing or something like it was happening. This was not normally a cause for expletives.
"Ron caught a fish," said Harry and dissolved into guffaws.
Hermione stared up at the clouds and decided that the topic was probably going to be unbecoming. They had all been swimming in the man-made pool conjured in the salt marsh and the girls has retreated when the boys had become splashy and, well, boyish. "Your Mum says ten minutes," said Hermione firmly.
"Mum," wailed Ron. "ten minutes," his voice broke.
Hermione sighed and unfurled a poster of local flora, fauna, fish and fowl in her mind. She browsed the columns of titles, pictures and subscripts, looking for anything that referred to salt marshes. "If it's got a red chin, it's a Minnowtaur and doesn't have any teeth, just pull it off and don't touch the top fin because it has barbs on it."
There was an expectant silence, then an unpleasant squishing noise, followed by a damp splat – the sort of sound that wringing wet swimming trunks might make, or a misguided piscine hitting the floor.
Ron made a contented warbling noise
"Ten minutes and company is coming," Hermione finished. She wandered off towards the back lawn, swishing the club ahead of her. Rounding the house, she stopped at the edge of the path; two gnomes were digging molehills, another was carving its initials in the turf, peeling back the top layer of grass and flinging it over his shoulder. Hermione stepped silently across the lawn, widened her stance and raised the club to her shoulder. She bought the club down in a smooth arc that took the head of the turf vandal off at the neck and shot it cleanly into the reeds at the bottom of the garden.
The dumpy body of her victim ran in ever decreasing circles, pawing at its empty neck and causing a shower of greenish brown droplets to splatter unpleasantly on the grass. Toadstools poked up in a circle, brown with green gills and mycelium, pale and grey, shot out to feed off the still warm body that had fallen on its back, drumming it heels feebly in the short grass. Provided one didn't look too closely at the aftermath, the whole thing was quite cathartic, she thought. She shook off the feeling that she was being watched, it was probably just Molly from the kitchen window.
She lined herself up for the next one and waggled her arse for full effect, swung back and hit something bone crunchingly solid on the backswing that grunted. The golf club vibrated unpleasantly in her hands, transferring heavy shudders up her arms.
"Ron!" she yelled, then frowned when she spotted Harry and Ron mooching towards the house, damp towels and swimming shorts loosely wadded in their hands. Ron was mincing a bit, not that that was particularly unusual.
"Bloody Hell!" shouted Ron running over. "You're flippin' dangerous." She turned about, taking in the groaning form laying on its side behind her and holding its ribs.
"Ced?" said Harry.
"Ugh" replied the form. "A little help?" it said lowly. Hermione raised the club behind her neck and held on to both ends, frowning. He had to be a wizard, no-one in the Muggle world wore brown leather flying jackets with a fleece collar anymore, they were so '80's. The boy on the ground looked familiar, but the clothes didn't mesh at all with the memories that she had of his face. It was only when he pulled a hand away from his ribs, raising it for a handshake and groaning, "Cedric Diggory, pleased to make your acquaintance," that she realised who he was from his voice.
Cho Chang had a recording of his voice trapped somehow in a small velvet purse. Depending on how fast or slow one pulled open the neck of the little bag determined the speed at which that voice said 'fuuuck meee.' Captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, head of House for his year, Prefect, Teachers pet, the subject of scandalous but admiring gossip and a Sixth former this year, Cedric 'Sir Dick' Diggory, capitals intended.
Harry reached for the outstretched hand and Cedrics face showed for barely an instant that he was not the desired recipient. He took it nonetheless and heaved himself up, doubled over and still holding his ribs, looped his arm over Harrys shoulders and leaned heavily on him.
"Tell Molly, Company has arrived," Hermione instructed Ron, "and while you're at it, ask her to pull out the Skelefix and Arnica." She eyed Cedric in a business-like manner, "what exactly were you doing behind me?"
He smiled sheepishly at the ground, "admiring your stroke?" Hermione snorted in a very unladylike manner and then went bright red. This was not Ron and she was highly embarrassed at damaging what appeared to be the Weasleys houseguest.
He squinted up at her through his lashes and chuckled uncomfortably at her unimpressed countenance. "You'd get more distance if you rotate your hips properly though and your follow through is short because your shoulders are too tight." He grinned, but his eyes were tight with pain. "I'd show you, but I'm a little incapacitated…"
Sorry seemed to be such an inappropriate thing to say, thought Hermione, so she didn't - he shouldn't have been there and his explanation, plausible as it was, seemed unlikely in the light of Ginnys naming convention. She peeled his arm away from his injured side, ignoring the muffled groan and steered him towards the kitchen, uncomfortably aware of how much larger he was up close.
"Come on," she sighed and used resignation to mask the fact that the arm newly resting over her shoulder was pressing no weight on her at all and the tips of his curled fingers were drifting embarrassingly close to her chest that had appeared over the summer. Ron trotted on ahead with an uneven gait.
A chair had been pulled out from the kitchen table and a white bottle with a flip top lid in the macabre shape of a grinning skull had been left off centre, along with a tube bearing an impression of something herby. Noises off indicated that Molly and Ron had reached the top of the stairs, Mollys sharp voice saying, "stupid boy," rang out before a door slammed, cutting off Rons whimper .
Harry and Hermione eased Cedric into the seat, he was hissing under his breath. Hermione picked up a shot glass and poured out a generous measure of the gloopy mixture and handed it to him. It was familiar territory to her, given how accident prone Ron seemed to be around her.
Cedric mock saluted Harry and lifted it to drink, twisting his face into a grimace at the chalky taste. Hermione did what she would normally do with her usual patient and hitched up his shirt to check out the afflicted area. Cedric hiccoughed in surprise, raising his elbow out the way and lifting his eyebrows in surprise at Harry, while Hermione inspected his ribs. The skin wasn't broken, but was shaping up to be the most glorious shade of purple.
Harry shrugged and pulled the tab on a can of cola, taking a long pull before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Hermione took up the tube of ointment and carefully rolled the crimped end up to dispel the irritating waist that had been squeezed into the middle. Cedric opened his mouth to comment, but thought better of it when she squirted a dollop of Arnica cream out of the tube into her hand and rubbed it briskly into his side.
"Haaahh…" he started.
"Don't be such a baby," scolded Hermione. "It will make the bruising go down." He was warm under her touch, very warm and very still, unlike Rons normally squirming response. Hermiones hand slowed as the topography of her patient assimilated itself into parts of her brain normally safely dormant. Ron didn't have an 'innie', or any hair in a narrow trail down his stomach either, or if he did it was too pale to see. Cedrics stomach was sucked in and to look at his chest, he wasn't breathing, which was…odd. She was close enough to read clearly part of the name printed on the waistband of his underwear rising jauntily above the belt line of his trousers and the second word not visible was probably not going to be Hobbes.
A buzzer went off on the cooker. Hermione jerked away, face on fire, dropping Cedrics shirt-tail and screwing the top on the Arnica tube so tight that it cracked.
Cedric caught at her wrist and said earnestly, "thanks, I really appreciate it." Hermione told herself that it was fine, sort of, except for the way that his voice reminded her of cookies. Dark, naughty delights you hid from your friends because they were too good to share, double choc chip death by chocolate cookies. And until he finished the sentence with "Ginny."
A/N: The thing about Persimmon is true. The same species has the tree that produces Sharon Fruit. Alledgedly you can also tell what next Winter will be like if you cut a fuit open and it has something that looks like a knife or a fork in it. I am sure that the expression WTF is universal and requires no explanation.
This story will update every 7-10 days. It is written, but I find to my dismay that I am a freaking tweakaholic.