Birthday Party

It was the perfect birthday present, of course.

Lois was aware of that. Three days off work. Three days without two demanding toddlers. Without a husband whom she loved dearly, but who could be just as challenging as his sons – if not more so. Time for long, lonely walks in the blooming countryside around the Hogwarts' visitors' cottages. Time to finish the historical novel she'd started months before the twins' were born. Time to spend a quiet mother-and-daughter evening with Alina.

Yes, it was the perfect present.

It was also very Molly.

Hiding behind her glass of sparkling May-wine, Lois watched the rotund witch. Both arms full of wiggling, giggling twins, she managed to quell an incipient toddler-brawl between Scorpius "Pi" Malfoy and James-Hermes "Jam-Ham" Potter with one hard look – while chatting knitting patterns with Fleur and keeping an eye on Teddy at the same time. The boy was playing with a treasure-trove of Wheezes, hair red with excitement.

Peaceful relations re-established, Pi grabbed Jam's hand and pulled the baby off to the rose beds, gibbering at him non-stop. Jam, at nine months not quite ready for walking, swayed and dropped to all fours, but followed eagerly all the same. What was wrong with the roses? Lois frowned. Then she glimpsed the gnome. Probably trying to sneak closer to the cakes, it was stuck between two decorative rocks. Waving crooked little legs and knobby little arms, it was desperately trying to get free. The boys plopped down before the creature, giggling and clapping. Blond and black, they should have been a study in contrasts. But sitting there, pudgy, pink-cheeked, and happy, they looked very much alike. And sweet enough to eat.

Lois caught Hannah's gaze and they shared a smile. Almost automatically, Lois turned to describe the scene to Harry. But due to his recent separation from Ginny, he wasn't there; wisely giving the Weasley clan an opportunity to gossip, argue, and decide how to deal with The Situation. And Ginny's presence had been the exception rather than the rule ever since she took up training again three months after her son's birth. But on the opposite side of the table, Luna Lovegood (soon-to-be Scamander) glowed with the happiness of early pregnancy at the sight of Kuno and Hugo waving at her from Molly's arms.

"May I?" she asked Lois, hesitating before reaching for the nearest twin.

Lois laughed at that uncharacteristic shyness. "Sure. He won't break."

Before she could reach for Hugo herself, George snatched up his nephew. "Mum, sit down, enjoy a cuppa. Honest, you act as if there are no House-elves around. – No, Lois, you can't have your son back yet. It's been what? Three days since I last had the opportunity to spoil my godson rotten. Can't have that, can we?"

And off they were. Lois blinked. "You'd think that after four years I'd be used to it," she muttered.

"I've lived with them all my life," chuckled Ron, "and I feel as steam-rollered as you look right now." Under the table, he squeezed her hand. Happiness warmed her from within. Her husband had his faults, certainly. But he was a genuinely kind man, and she loved him for that.

In spite of Lois' assurance concerning Kuno's fragility, Luna was exceedingly careful as she cuddled the toddler. When he made a game of gripping long strands of her dirty-blond hair in his fists, tugging at them fiercely, she remained unfazed. Gently disentangling herself, she simply swept up her hair – not even wincing when Kuno managed to rip out a few hairs in the process.

Smiling, Ron nodded at Luna and his squirming son. "I think I can see why you're so good with magical creatures. I've seen Hannah lose her patience with those little monkeys."

Luna laughed. "Natural born genius, that's all it takes." Her eyes protruded a little more than normally, when she added, "I hope …"

Ron cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Speaking of your genius," he said slowly, "I'm actually rather counting on it."

Bouncing Kuno on her knees, Luna focused on Ron. "Yes?"

"A few days ago I had a strange customer at the shop, and I was wondering if you could maybe tell me something about – him – it –" Ron shrugged, obviously unsure about the proper classification.

"Can you describe your customer for me? What he, or it, looked like, sounded like – everything that you remember?" Suddenly her usual vagueness and ditziness were gone, leaving behind an internationally renowned specialist for magical creatures.

"Well," Ron started, "first I thought it was a House-elf. But it was too small, and looked more like a cherub. Only not fat enough. And there were no wings that I could see." He rubbed at his nose. "Then I thought it might be some weird kind of Muggle."

He glanced apologetically at Lois, who had to bite her tongue, hard. Not because of the expression, but because Ron of all people should know that only Muggles with passports approved by the wizarding authorities could enter Diagon Alley.

"Well," Ron continued, his ears flushing with embarrassment, "it had those long, golden locks. And … it sang. Well, at first it only hummed. But at the end, it sang. So the only thing I could think was that it's one of those weird Muggles you told me about, Lois. Those, Hoppies, Happies – well, those, those … flowerchildren."

She must have rolled her eyes, because he turned defensive. "It was small! Knee-high. What was I supposed to think? It was no House-elf and no goblin, either."

"That's quite all right, Ron," Luna soothed. "There really are dangerous magical creatures hiding among Muggles. Wechselbälger and Rauschgoldengel for example – you really want to stay clear of those."

"Do you have any idea what it was?" Ron leant forward, strangely desperate.

Luna smiled serenely. "Oh, yes, I do. It's sort of the African version of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack."

"Well, what the hell WAS it?" Ron snapped.

"An Oompa-Loompa."

oooOooo

A/N: Please take another look at the disclaimer for this story. Everything in this story that you recognise from the works of Roald Dahl, including, but not limited to, Oompa-Loompas, and Cavity-Filling Caramels, does, in fact, belong to Roald Dahl.