"Get me a drink," said Harry as he walked into the semi-living quarters of the twins above their shop. They each had their own homes, but this space had served as their trusty bachelor pad when they were younger and less innocent.

Fred tossed him a can of chilled firewhiskey. Harry looked at it dubiously, wondered for a moment when non-beer alcoholic beverages got placed in Muggle cans before noticing the "Made in Ireland" small print on it. Ah, Irish. That made it safe, as far as alcohol was concerned. Bad alcohol in Dublin would lead to riots.

"Cheers," muttered Harry as he opened the can and held it aloft. Then he downed the alcohol... and concluded that the reason Dublin remained riotless was that the bad alcohol was exported.

"What is this shit?" he yelled before the aftertaste kicked in. Then it kicked in and he felt his liver taking a Portkey to his colon before returning via Floo and getting lost along the way.

He took a second gulp that was larger than his first. Fred smirked at George, who handed over a galleon.

"Hermione's dead," he said. "Ron and I met her cousin. Jane. That's her. That's her cousin. Her cousin's called Jane. She never told us about Jane. Jane saved Amy from the kidnappers and sent her home to us. Jane said Hermione's dead and that she was also under a Lust Potion."

The twins looked expressionless. Fred made a small Go On gesture. George nodded slightly too. They weren't particularly close to Hermione, but it was hard to believe that she'd get caught using a Lust Potion. Sure, she might use it - they didn't know her enough to say she wouldn't - but getting caught? Hermione had one of the highest ratios of Number of Rules Broken (hundreds) to Number of Detentions Served (one, in first year) at Hogwarts.

"She got pregnant."

Fred and George exchanged looks.

"Twin boys." Harry looked up with a wry, albeit small, grin. "You'd probably like them. She says they take after their Marauder grandfather. And with their mum's brains..."

Indeed, Fred and George were rapidly contemplating the possibilities. Their current generation of Weasley nephews and nieces had produced piss poor heirs to their nefarious legacy, much to their disappointment.

They considered asking Harry how he was sure the kids were his, but opted not to. If Harry was interrupted now, he might realize he was talking and clam up for good.

"Brian," continued Harry, "and Chris. They didn't like me very much." He shrugged. "They liked Ron even less. Disarmed uswithin seconds."

Fred blinked. George was surprised too. Ron might be their stupid kid brother, but he was still a trained Auror. And Harry! Disarmed by a couple of teens - which they would be given how many years had passed since they had last seen Hermione.

"They are ti - " Harry found himself unable to speak, and soon realized he was under some kind of secrecy charm. This wasn't unusual in his line of work, so he ignored it and ploughed on. "Jane gave Ron Veritaserum. She said it was, maybe she lied. Said I owed it to Hermione to hear her side of the story. That's true, you know."

He looked up to see if they were upset at him for his lack of faith in their little brother. They weren't. He realized they had probably forced Ron to drink far more harmful stuff. Then again, they didn't know much harm his next words would bring to Clan Weasley.

"Ron said Hermione was under a Lust Potion too. And that he knew who gave it to her. He said it was Mum."

There was a crack. When he looked up, Harry saw only Fred in the room.

"He also said that Ginny and Ron knew. And that Gin gave me a Love Potion."

The look on Fred's face was not encouraging, and Harry Apparated out with a loud crack.

Like most Felician pubs, the atmosphere inside The Stunned Herring was smoke-free. Beings with a fine sense of smell did not like to spend time in a place that smelled like cat's piss or rancid smoke. The owners paid good money for cleansing charms.

There was a jukebox in the corner; some female Slavic-accented singer was crooning a lovelorn ballad, comparing her past men to spilt milk and fishes that got away. Hermione, having grown up in both Felician and Human society, appreciated that humans might find it funny. But phrases like 'not crying over spilt milk' really entered human society from the Felician one.

Not all feline-associated phrases, though. For example, take 'curiosity killed the cat'. That was definitely a human invention. Cats were too smart, too fast, and too prone to letting dogs test new things for them, to get killed by a mere investigation of the unknown. And of course unknowns would be investigated. Felines were allergic to unknowns, and dealt with this by making them cease to be unknowns.

Which explained why Hermione Jane Granger spent so much time in the library.

And why she was currently deep in the investigation of the unknown that was her fifth glass of Guinness. She didn't even notice if it was spiked with catnip or not.

A woman walked into the bar. The music didn't stop, though a few eyes did glance her way to take not of her slightly canine features (indicating that her Felician half was a cheetah) and her long legs. She was wearing, like all Felicians, Muggle clothes. Of a distinctively summer kind. But she wasn't in heat, and everyone's noses caught that. Heads returned to their beers.

The cheetah woman walked up to where Hermione was sitting.

"Greetings, Granger."

"Go cuff yo'self, Alyx," slurred Hermione. "All three of you."

Actually, that wasn't the effect of the alcohol. Felician pubs had as many mirrors as they had scratching posts, which was quite a lot. Cats were vain, as the hours they spent grooming themselves indicated.

"Your boys sent me," said the shorts-clad cheetah, flicking her tail in the barkeeper's direction in a No More Beer Over Here gesture. "They're worried. Said they met the f--ko called their da."

"'Arry's not a fu-fu-that thing."

Alyx shrugged. She'd never met Harry Potter herself, but what she'd heard of his personal life hadn't been positive. Still, he couldn't be that much of a dog if Hermione cared for him. "Will you come quietly, or do I have to drag you out?" On the other hand, Hermione hadn't been this down since Crookshanks had become a bumper sticker on a moving lorry. (Small animals stuck very well on lorry bumpers.)

She considered her options. A cheetah couldn't drag a tiger out physically. And Alyx was one of the ninety five percent of Felicians who were Muggle, so she couldn't Levitate or Portkey Hermione out. She'd have to go with the persuasion thing.

"There's a tub of ice cream in my freezer with your name on it."

Hermione grimaced. Even if her extra-hard stomach could handle five Guinnesses better than a human stomach, it couldn't fit much new stuff.

"I've got three new books for you to read."

Hermione didn't think her eyes could remain in one place long enough to read any words.

"I'll get you a sobering Potion."

Hermione would have stuck her tongue out if she could remember the correct muscle movements. She didn't want to be sober. That would mean facing reality, and who on earth wanted that?

At that precise moment, somewhere, elsewhere, a Weasley twin was approaching his little brother with another vial of Veritaserum.

A/N: Drinks do not solve your problems. At least, they didn't solve mine. My memory's too good, even when stoned.