Disclaimer: Is this really necessary even after I've restated the fact over and over that I don't own Harry Potter?! It's just depressing now!
Author's Note: This chapter is kind of short which is why I'm updating so soon after posting Chapter Three. Now, let's get this straight once and for all. I like Ron, I genuinely do (Who doesn't?)…I just choose to make him do stupid, frivolous things at times for my personal amusement- so it's nothing personal! *Pats Ron action figure on the head*
Strangely, many people would find it odd that seemingly…normal people with normal appearances and normal lives could be so mentally unstable that it would make them rather…abnormal.
These are people such as David Adonis Granger…the third (quite an evil man). In my opinion, that man had everything; a great family…a great job…a great son-in-law, me, Harry Potter (though he doesn't exactly see it that way)…a great weapon sanctuary…you know, all the normal things a person could need. It never occurred to me that he would ever end up in a psychiatrist chair blubbering over some meaningless toy, a Barbie doll perhaps (most likely…pathetic, is it not?), that his father, David Adonis Granger…the second (a slightly eviler man) never allowed him to have ages ago…Well actually it did, but that's not the point.
A sturdy structured man with sharp features intimidating enough to make a Snape (Ron concluded Snape was a creature rather than a human back in sixth year) turn tail and cry, though soft enough to earn the total love and adoration from my wife- rocked mechanically back and forth, quite in a manner like myself I might add, seemingly forgetting his present surroundings.
"…Er…if you're done then," the young psychiatrist began to say shakily, dropping the tattered hem of his olive green sweater and collecting his notebook and attempting to retreat behind his desk though unintentionally disturbing the man seated ever so intently across from him, probably pondering on how to slaughter some poor innocent…baby animal in the woods…and not the ones that give you rabies; the cute orphan ones like Bambi. He was a very twisted man indeed.
"Where are you going?" The very twisted man (A.K.A. my rather twisted father-in-law) inquired sternly, almost in a deadly tone, jerking his finger to the direction of the clock ticking away a bit faster than usual pace on the back wall of the office. "I still have three minutes left," He informed him, indignantly flicking his thick mane of salt and pepper shaded hair back from his face to reveal the glare he usually reserved for me…The glare of 'I-currently-can't-think-of-a-way-to-murder-you-so-I'll-just-make-you-piss-your-pants-until-I-can'
"It's been an hour!" the man exclaimed in an equally cross manner, his icy blue eyes set aglow.
"What's your point?"
"You only paid for fifteen minutes!" he noted, swiftly throwing own his coat while searching for his hat, "Honestly, how many more horror stories of your father can you have?" The young man questioned exasperatedly, flicking his own obsidian locks in a similar way.
"…Have I ever told you about the time he made me dress up like a girl and took back my name because he felt I wasn't worthy enough to bear his honorable surname…?"
"…These things…I really shouldn't know. For sake of my own sanity. Between your mentally abusive father and your increasingly waning libido, you're causing me hundreds of pounds in therapy, which is pathetic considering I'm-a-psychiatrist!"
"Your sanity, your time, your money, its all about you, isn't it? You should've been a dentist…like me," David Granger whined heatedly, raising himself from his seat not bothering to look the young man in the eye. It's a lot of things to see a grown man, nearing his mid-sixties, whining; like it gives you a feeling of sad and…pathetic. Mostly pathetic in this case.
"Don't you give me that! Do not tell me that after all these years of slaving and studying and listening to bantering old codgers drone on about the fifties that I should have become a dentist!" The psychiatrist went on huffily to the demanding, bitter man, who seemed like he could care less.
"Fine then," Mr. Granger said shortly, doing his best at keeping his cool and looking superior to everyone in the room: the psychiatrist…and…Er…the desk, I suppose.
"Good, leave,"
"What?"
"Go, now!" he commanded once more, though he knew that the man would never take orders from him, as he never had and he never did. It always amazes me that such common acquaintances with this evil man still have most of their limbs in tact, or at least still visible in some…technical way.
Mr. Granger gave a short derisive noise, signifying that…he was a very evil man, a fact that I just can't seem to get over, though if you'd seen what crap he put me through, you'd know why. The young man countered this with a sharp, defiant huffing noise, as he continued to shove all his papers in different directions, in preparation to end his work day.
"…And I thought you were the good son, Donnie…" he muttered under his breath begrudgingly picking up his own coat off the stand unwillingly, though doing it nonetheless.
"…I really think I should listen to Mum when she tells me to call proper authorities when you show up here…
"Mr. Granger," an abrupt, nasally female voice rang through an intercom, interrupting the men's little row.
"What?!" They both snapped in response, David Granger not realizing that he was in the office of another Mr.
Granger, his son David Adonis Granger…the IV, chiefly known as Adonis or Donnie. After being the butt of heated
animosities from most of the men in that family for years, It was clear to me, being the observer that I am, that with
the name came the evil that gave you the incentive to do menial evil things like torture some poor baby deer or torture
some innocent bloke who has no control over his wily hair. Though luckily for me (and all the ickle Bambi's) in the
world, the evil spazzy gene wears down as it goes farther into newer generations. So by the time I'm One hundred
and seven, there'll be a David Adonis Granger who won't care to hunt my blood, something to look forward to in
my opinion.
"Your sister Grace is on line one, and she claims she has important news for you regarding your youngest sister, Hermione…"
_~_~_~_Meanwhile_~_~_~_
Somewhere distant, (very distant as I wouldn't be caught alive within a two mile radius of those two guys without my personal body guard, my 'Mione), Ron and I were bustling around my bedroom, very unlike us to be bustling, mind you.
Moments earlier Ron had swaggered into my house, completed from his frenzied drinking with Matt and looking for bigger things to destroy than the pub (Like my house). Ron found it necessary to make his own key so he would be able to, you know, be very Ron-like and drop in at the worst times. This is very inconvenient if it happens to be three in the morning and I have to lug my drunken (and frequently singing/biting/licking) chum up a flight of stairs only to have Hermione banish him to the couch downstairs, causing me another trip.
At least this night he wasn't blatantly drunk (actually it was rather hard to tell with Ron) so I would be able to drop him off on his parents later.
"…Harry?" My semi-drunken comrade called out, not bothering to show common courtesy and actually make room for me on my own bed as he laid there in a shiftless heap, dangling Hedwig's 'urgent' news over his face.
"What?" I replied at ease (highly irritated in my book), searching desperately to find a pair of matching socks like I had been attempting to do for the last forty-five minutes. By this rate I could've founded and restored the lost city of Atlantis before I ever reached the Burrow, the place where I had bee so hastily invited to by 'Hermione'…
"…This," he started, getting up just to thrust the parchment under my nose (roughly, I might add), "-is not from Hermione." He stated firmly in a proud manner, as if he was deducting the stirring conclusion of some…Scooby Doo murder mystery (I can't believe muggles let their children watch that mind-numbing rubbish about a talking dog and his hippie masters who obviously practice the seventies lifestyle of sex, drugs and rock n' roll)
"…I know that," I responded calmly, ignoring the fact that my rather thick friend would think I'm so…well…thick, as to not know my wife and friend of umpteen year's handwriting.
"It's Ginny's handwriting, you know," he continue to banter on uselessly, hoping in vain that he would throw me a new and such a groundbreaking piece of information that I would probably drop to my knees and dawn him the new Velma or something ridiculous of the sort.
"…I know that."
"…Oh…alright then…" Ron mumbled on, shuffling off to find something else to occupy himself in my bedroom. Of course, being Ron, this means he immediately found himself immersed in a certain someone's Er…unmentionable drawer, and let's just say that he wasn't digging his grubby claws through my briefs (Merlin forbid).
Though this was normal Ron behavior, intoxicated or not, to unconsciously be infatuated with anything that would arouse his…Ahem…raging libido. Simply due to the fact that the half of his brain (the half that was in charge of 'unimportant things' like Potions, Divination…table etiquette) had been engulfed by sex and all the cheap thrills of being a pervert a guy could want.Sadly, that side of his brain and the Quidditch side fused together, making Ron obsessed with playing with his balls, no matter what set you're referring to.
"…Harry?" Ron called out to me once more, idly holding up a pair of lacy bras, most likely judging which one would look best on him. It's not that he's a cross dresser (well…not usually…only when he gets hyped up about that rather odd musical) that's just how Ron judged everything, on how it would benefit him.
"Yes Ron?"
"Why would Ginny want you over my parent's house in the middle of the night?" Ron questioned blankly, deciding on a skimpy scarlet bra, and continuing his quest for a pair of Hermione's knickers that suited him. I decided to ignore his actions, as he was my best friend and I didn't want to risk pondering of what he actually planned to do with women's underwear, sake of I might loose respect for him, not to mention my lunch.
"I have no idea," I said offhandedly, prepared to humor his overly suspicious tone as to keep him quiet. "Maybe she plans to seduce me and she can't do it at her flat because you and Colin are constantly banging on her door looking for a quick snog or a bite to eat…or both…" I added warily, stroking my chin in an inquisitive manner as to turn the tables. At this, Ron got rather flustered, and blushed madly as if I had accused him of-
"You think that-I never-you-that would be incision!"
"…I meant Colin, you dolt. And you mean 'incest', not incision." I corrected him, finally settling on a ragged green sock that somewhat matched my torn and faded black sock…of you kind of squinted your eyes.
"Then what does incision mean?" Ron inquired, clearly baffled as he moved on from the drawers to the closet.
"That's when…you…you know…when you…to a boy, hopefully when he's a baby…" Of course, Ron wasn't as linguistic as I (obvious as he just stared blankly at me like a dull goldfish) so I had to resort to crude sign language. I made my fingers into a scissor like sign and motioned down towards my crotch, "You know…snip, snip…" I said, and then at once Ron got it, as he gasped in horror and recoiled from me as if I had just said something dreadful about his mother.
"That's…that's barbaric! Anyway, that's circumference, not incision…and you call me a dolt," He said haughtily, stepping into the bathroom across the hall, hoarding a shirt and some various little articles of clothing with him.
Oh yes, ignorance is bliss when you're young and stupid (as we had been for many, many years, and I doubt we were going to change anytime soon- not that it mattered. Of course, Hermione burst both our proverbial bubbles about the whole…er…snip-snip-boy-parts-torture thingy later on in life)
"Where do you think you're going?" I asked him, causing him to snap his head back in my direction.
"Well you don't expect me to go to my parent's house smelling like rum, do you? I need to change clothes. In fact…you should take a shower too, Harry," Ron suggested, momentarily disappearing into the bathroom and later emerging with the end of my toothbrush sticking out of his foaming mouth…Eww…
"Why? I didn't spend my evening doing Merlin-knows-what down at the pub with Neville for a free pint,"
"Yeah but," he started again, managing to cover most of my wall with splattered toothpaste, "You're all sweaty and grimy looking…You can't let the enemy see you sweat, then they'll know that you know that they know that you know that they know that you're on to them. Got it…? Wow…is it me, or does this picture really make me look fat?" Ron's mind drifted to a different subject, causing his eyes to wander over to the opposite wall, totally forgetting the toothpaste dripping from his mouth onto my carpet.
"…That's because that's Neville…" I replied with only half an ear to listen to the nonsense Ron was babbling about. I had more important things to think about. Important things other than wondering exactly what Ron plans to do with that very feminine blouse…
An evil omen had just occurred; I actually understood what Ron was saying (not the bit about him being fat because he's actually Neville…that's just drunkard rubbish…well its all really drunkard rubbish though…never mind). Hermione was the enemy in this case, and in order to find out what's behind enemy lines, I'd have to keep my cool…and not burst into the room bawling madly and throwing wild accusations like Ron had suggested when I was positive he was sober.
_~_~_~At the Burrow~_~_~_
Molly Weasley peered around her dining room suspiciously, in pursuit of one of her children, which was not out of the usual in any way for her; in fact, she was quite used to t by now. Now in her late sixties, she and her husband of Merlin-knows-how-long, Arthur Weasley were very rarely left to have the Burrow to themselves, even after having all their children grow up and start their own lives. There was always a twin who had been kicked out after having a row with his wife, or Percy whose constant nagging and whining could only be tolerated by one woman, his mother, and let's not forget our dear Ron, who usually appeared on the porch in the wee hours of the morning, singing rude rhymes about pirates. And that's not even touching the subject of grandchildren.
Suddenly, Molly's livid eyes rested on a scene in front of her; One of the twins, most likely Fred, Molly noted, sitting across and holding a light conversation with a figure who automatically shielded her face from her mother's prying eyes, and proceeded to sink down into her seat in hopes of disappearing, quite a difficult feat when her fiery hair blatantly shown out against the dark chair.
"You two articles, there…" An elderly (though you wouldn't know it by the way she acted) and still plump Molly Weasley called gently to her one and only daughter as she tentatively dapped her flour and muck covered hands onto her apron unconsciously.
Ginny, who was seated at the dining room table quite contently, didn't bother to look up at the worrisome expression her mother was sure to be sporting. She immersed herself deeper into the Witch Weekly article on 'The Illusive Stubby Boardman', determined not to face her mother's inquiry.
"Wow, she's forgotten our names already and she's only, what…? Sixty-nine? That means George wins the bet…" Fred noted disconcertedly, drumming his fingers idly against the table.
"You'd think she'd remember the name of the only girl in the family…"
"Ginny dear," Fred started to say in a rather serious tone, "I know we've had our rough patches with Percy but that's no reason to disregard him from our family!"
"Ginny…"
"I'm reading Mummy Dearest…" Ginny replied in a meek voice, continuing to hide behind her magazine.
"Thanks Gin," Fred spoke up, snatching the magazine from Ginny's fingers swiftly, with a haughty grin plastered on his slightly worn, though mischievous face. "Stumpy Boardman is my idol," he explained in an eerily sincere voice to his mother and sister.
"It's Stubby," Ginny began to say, turning to face her mother now that she had no choice.
"Ginny," Molly started, towering over her daughter.
"…Mum…" Ginny spoke softly, attempting to suppress a knowing grin.
"…Fred," Fred spoke up, interrupting the still silence suddenly, "Now that we're all sure who each other are, let's get on with it."
"…Can we talk?"
"Would you be awfully offended I said 'no'?"
Ignoring Ginny's rather serious question Molly took a seat next to Fred, across from Ginny.
"…I sense there's a problem." She stated flatly, crossing her arms across her buxom chest.
"…You don't say?" Ginny commented lightly, the tips of her ears reddening slightly- never a good sign.
"Damn that paternal sixth sense!" Fred exclaimed, seemingly out of nowhere.
"Er, whatever would give you that idea?" Ginny questioned sweetly, putting on a false falsetto voice.
"Well…for one, Hermione just kicked me out of my own kitchen which she is currently filling with rice pudding," Mrs. Weasley dejected, rather bluntly motioning to the kitchen doorway which was slowly but surely filling with an ominous smoke cloud as a pleasant aroma drifted past them.
"Ah…the ultimate comfort food." Fred pointed out brightly, anticipating the treats yet to come.
"I thought that was potatoes," Ginny responded blankly, eager to change the subject.
"Yeah, and last week you said it was whip cream…" Fred said skeptically, putting down the article.
"Only if you mix it with chocolate," Ginny said with a slight frown daunting her delicate features.
"Everything tastes better with chocolate," Fred confirmed, a knowing smirk dawning on his freckled face.
"Like cherries…"
"Or nuts," Fred added, smacking his lips as he flicked his tongue in a slight lewd manner.
"Or how about…peanut butter?" Ginny struggled to continue the conversation in hope to distract her prying mother.
"…Or tacos…" Fred inserted yet another choice food, earning questioning though disgusted looks from both Mrs. Weasley and Ginny.
"The point is-" Ginny started to say before being interrupted by Fred.
"-That you've run out of interesting topics to delude our loving mother away from the topic of Hermione's condition?"
"…Pretty much…" Ginny stated dismissively, turning back to the magazine, dropping the subject manner and leaving it to Fred to finish up.
"Er…Don't worry Mum, I'm sure when Harry and ickle Ronnikens get here they'll have loads of surprises other than the disastrous amounts of rice pudding overtaking our kitchen…" Fred concluded, a dark though anxious tone lurking in his voice.