There's been a long delay, but to be fair this is a rather long chapter.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and again: don't try News Pong at home. It's not physically possible, anyway.
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Episode Four
SWEEPS FRIDAY
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"Fascinating stuff." The anchor moved his notes around in the counter-clockwise direction and flexed his mustache, if that was at all possible. "It's amazing what just a little bit of confetti, some shiny outfits, and a troupe of uncoordinated seven-year-old dancers can do to a guy's emotions. I have to admit, my eyes watered slightly during that piece, Ron."
"Truly heartwarming," the other anchor agreed, looking from his friend to the camera. He rubbed his thumb with his forefinger in the bottom left corner of the screen, a secret handshake of a smirk that developed between the two over their many years working together. "Now, before we wrap up this wonderful day of news and discovery, we want to follow up on a previous story. As most of you watching know, our transmission cut off halfway through Dean Thomas's follow-up piece on the crazed old woman gunner. Unfortunately, she was unable to succeed in killing him - excuse me, I mean, fortunately Dean was not hit by any of the flurry of bullets spraying around him - an honest to God miracle, really - and the only damage sustained by the YTV crew was a busted camera. So for any of you out there worrying about Mr. Thomas, don't."
"Still, our thoughts and prayers are with Dean," said the black-haired anchor carefully, throwing the redhead a meaningful look. "A truly great reporter who fearlessly reports the most dangerous stories."
"From old ladies to girls' swimming to dog shows," added the redhead helpfully.
His counterpart rolled his eyes ever so slightly and smiled at the camera as the end theme began playing. "That's it for us, folks. For my colleague Ron Weasley, our friend Dean Thomas, and the entire YTV London news team, I'm Harry Potter. You stay classy, London."
"Good broadcast," Ron noted, shuffling his papers (the anchors did that a lot - McGonagall said it looked good in the background while the credits played). "My mic's not on, is it? Every time we talk during the end credits I want to cuss but then I think about the Muttering Incident and I've been kind of hesitant."
"I think you can wait thirty seconds, Ron," Harry said dryly. His eyes traveled from Ron to the edge of the stage, just off-camera. He smiled. "Uh oh. Someone looks like she's taken the mickey and she's really not happy about it."
"Who cares? It's just Granger."
But no matter what Ron said, Just Granger was still one of the more intimidating sights Harry had ever seen, and he wasn't one to be easily intimidated (unless it came to crying women). She was seething, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed, her eyes flicking between Harry and Ron and then Harry to stay, and she was, in Harry's humble opinion, absolutely and dangerously beautiful.
"We're off!" Neville called over the music.
And then Hermione was off for the desk. She stopped in front of Harry, leaned up into his face so that he could spell her perfume and practically taste her lip gloss, and hissed in a sultry, maddened tone, "How dare you mock me on live television! Do you have any idea who you're messing with, Potter?"
"Not at the moment," he said, still smiling.
"Not much, more like," Ron snorted.
She fixed him with a quick glare and turned back to Harry. "You patronized me, Potter. It's my first day and you patronized me!"
"It's tradition, Hermione."
"That's Ms. Granger to you."
"Like I said, it's tradition, Hermione," said Harry, easily smiling. But she wasn't and he actually had the sense to gulp. But just a bit. "You're a rookie at the station. You got a ridiculous story, and I ribbed you. It happens to everyone to start off."
"Do I look like I care about tradition, Potter?"
"It was a ridiculous story, Granger," Ron stated, standing and gazing her in the face. He would've looked imposing if it weren't for the pink tie and silly smirk. "Think of it this way: at least you didn't get shot, like Dean did."
"Dean technically didn't get shot," Harry pointed out.
"I know," pouted Ron. "It's a real shame, isn't it? And to think I believed in karma."
"Enough!" Hermione glared at them. "I'll remember this, Potter. You'll regret crossing me."
She stormed off. Harry sighed and looked to a chuckling Ron.
"Shut up," he snapped. "I'm actually frightened of her."
"I thought that turned you on?"
He scowled. "It does. But it's still bloody scary."
"I think you're exaggerating. She's really not that bad."
"You're not the one upon whom she's sworn revenge," Harry pointed out. He pushed back his chair and stood, hurrying to the front of the desk. "I'm going to go find her and make sure she doesn't kill me. If my Telly is posthumous I won't be able to accept it, will I?"
Everyone tried to stop Harry in the hall as he followed the crazy wench - Ernie, boasting about his piece and saying something about spit; Dennis, looking nervous and nearly worshipping the ground he walked on; Seamus, looking for a News Pong rematch - because, as he knew, he was one of the five most popular men in the city. (He quietly believed that Ron was barely in the top ten.) He shifted past the road blocks in pursuit of his goal, and while Hermione Granger might have been an immoveable object, Harry Potter was a goddamn unstoppable force, thank you very much.
"Hermione!"
She peeled to the left, thinking it was another hallway, but it was a dead end of candy machines and water fountains, as he'd known. She spun, eyes crazy, reminding him of a trapped, and quite feral, wild animal.
"What?" she spat. Maybe that's what Ernie had been talking about. "Come to say you're sorry?"
"No, actually, because I'm not," he said forcefully. He wasn't just going to kowtow to this woman, was he? That was part of the fun. "But I wanted to mend bridges a bit."
"Fat chance of that, Potter," replied Hermione. "I'll have you know I have a long memory. I'm quite vengeful."
"And I'm the sodding Archbishop of Canterbury but you don't see me boasting about it, do you?"
It was a bad joke and as soon as her sneer deepened he knew he was in trouble.
"All right," he fumed. "All right. If I can't mend bridges, I just want to make sure you're not homicidal. I don't fancy being murdered tonight."
"Oh, I'm in no hurry," she said sweetly. "I'm a patient girl. I'll take my time, Potter, and when you least expect it, that's when I'll strike."
"Whatever you say. I guess I'll just have to squeeze in all my tormenting of Malfoy into the near future." Harry sighed, ran his hand through his hair, and made a vain attempt to smile at her but he just ended up looking constipated. Where was the toilet when you needed it? "Listen, tonight's Sweeps Friday. I know you hate me and want to kill me and dispose of my body in the Thames - bad plan, by the way, and terribly clichéd - but you said yesterday you'd come and I think you'd really enjoy it."
"It's at your house," Hermione noted. "I can't expect to have fun there, can I?"
"You probably won't even see me, honestly. There'll be a pretty good crowd. And the entire team will be there. Even McGonagall, most likely. If you really want to be part of this team - not with me, not with Ron, but with everybody - you might want to come."
He was pleased with his reasoning and doubly pleased when Hermione slowly nodded.
"All right," she said. She reached up, smirked, and traced a long, white finger along his chin, playing with his two-day scruff he'd have to shave before Monday's broadcast. He gulped again. "I'll come, Potter. But you should know - I wasn't planning on dumping your body in the Thames."
"Dumpster?" he suggested weakly.
"No," she whispered, leaning in close to his ear. Her finger trailed up his cheek, warm and icy at the same time. "When I'm done with you, there won't much of a body left. I don't want anything to connect us -" this was said in an especially low voice "- and connect me to the crime, do I?"
"Er… I guess not."
Her finger withdrew and she stood back. He immediately felt more comfortable and it was positively infuriating.
"Good," she said in that same sweet tone. She smoothed her skirt and smiled at him like one of those innocent seven-year-old shiny dancers with all the confetti glittering around them. "I'll see you tonight, Potter."
In a second she was by him but he couldn't move. It was the most threatening and seductive moment of his life and he was enthralled.
"You look like you've just been to hell and back and had a shag along the way," said Ron, surprisingly perceptive after his first shot of the night (taken off of the news desk when McGonagall wasn't looking). "What happened?"
"Hermione's coming," Harry said, shrugging.
"Really?" Ron squinted across the room at her. "Still looks rather uptight, doesn't she? You think she'd relax when that happens to her. By God, she's not even moaning."
"She's coming to the party, dolt."
Ron laughed and slapped Harry on the back. "Come on, mate. The night's still young, but it's aging quickly. It's already getting worry lines and wrinkly skin. We need to hurry before it's completely leathery and unattractive."
"Nice metaphor," Harry commented.
The Mustachean Falcon cut through the early evening, swift and calm and slowly approaching hyperspeed. Dean and Seamus were bumming a ride - "That bastard," Ron had breathed, to which Harry had amusedly asked, "Which one?" - but seeing as the backseat wasn't built to be sat in, per se, their knees were cramped up together and neither looked rather pleased with the turn of events.
"I hate this car," Seamus grumbled.
"I love the car," Dean said. "I just hate the bloody backseat. It's rather useless."
"Enough from you, Thomas," growled Ron. "I don't want to listen to your whiny voice again on this car ride, hear?" He shifted back in his seat and threw his arm over the left windowsill. "Throw it forward, Harry. I just want to get home and get ready to get smashed."
Harry grinned and kicked it up to 110 kilometers per hour on the semi-residential road.
Speed limit: 55.
"Red light, Harry," Dean noted.
"That's interesting," Harry said in a tone that said it wasn't.
Two cars shot across the perpendicular road and somehow Harry squeezed between them.
Dean began to pray and Seamus began to laugh uncontrollably. Ron was unaffected and Harry just whistled a merry tune.
"All right, you maggots," Ron hollered after the two as they hopped out of the car and started stretching their legs with great urgency. Harry went to unlock the front door, but found it already open. "As payment for giving you two a ride, you're going to help us prepare."
"It's the same as always, Ron," said Dean, rolling his eyes. He winced. "Ah, my hamstring feels like a broken guitar string."
"I think the torture inflicted on our legs is a high enough price to pay for that ride," Seamus grumbled.
"Harry!" Fred Weasley held his arms open wide and engulfed Harry in a patented Weasley bear hug. "It's been ages!"
"Nearly twenty hours," Harry agreed. Chuckling, he reached behind his back and pulled off the sign he know Fred had pinned on him during the hug. He held it out in front of him, reading: "`Right dunce. Kicks appreciated.' No, Fred, you misunderstand - Ron's over there!"
"What's this about me?" Ron asked, approaching the door.
Fred grinned and took the sign from Harry. "Nothing, little brother."
"Right," said Ron, suspicions rightly raised. "If you're going to play some prank on me, I'd at least ask you to make it more inventive than a sign on my back. That's just so pathetic."
"It's just a warm-up, Ronniekins," stated George, who was decorating the apartment with balloons and streamers with Lee's welcomed assistance.
"You need warm-ups for pranks? You really are getting old."
"No no - warm-up for you!" Fred corrected, and his smile disarmed even Ron, who'd grown up in
the same house and should have been immune to it by now. But that was probably the reason why it did bother him so; he
knew what Fred could do.
The seven of them - "Seven's a magic number," said Lee in his most serious Lavender Brown impression - decorated the flat for the next thirty minutes and when I say decorated I of course mean that in the most manly sense possible.
"Where's the News Pong set going?" called out Seamus eagerly.
"Outside against that wall," Harry answered as he polished the piano. "Against the stone wall. Where we played two weeks ago."
"And don't rummage through the liquor closet, Finnegan, or I'll know!" Ron warned him. "I know you're Irish, but you can wait until we have company to get properly sloshed!"
The first guests arrived early but it didn't matter; the boys had thrown so many of these little get-togethers that the flat was ready and waiting by the time Colin and Dennis showed up, faces eager and hair slicked back.
"Where's the party, boys?" asked Colin, voice loud and affable.
"Hullo, Creevy brothers," Fred said from his seat at the bar, smiling.
"Uh…" Dennis and Colin had had a little run-in three weeks prior with the Weasley twins - or vice versa - that had involved chicken suits, the pool, and a live alligator, and neither was quite as eager to replay the incident as they were to mingle with the anchormen. The same couldn't be said of Messrs. Fred and George Weasley, the rascals. "Hi, Fred. I think we'll go stand over there…"
"I wouldn't stand right there if I were you," George supplied helpfully when Colin and Dennis took a seat on a settle near Ron's room, situated on the hardwood floor. "Look up, mates."
They did and noticed a large cage above them - and the bottom was open.
"Don't worry, we don't like to prank the same people in a short time period," said George. He grinned at his twin. "Although that last one was rather excellent, we've got others in mind for that particular device."
"Oh. Good," Dennis breathed as he and Colin hurried over to the couch, sitting down next to each other on the top of the seatback. "How's the business?"
"Going wonderfully. We've signed a great new comedy team, they're going to tear the club to pieces, either literally or figuratively. Luckily we have insurance." George was fiddling with something, although it wasn't quite apparent to either of the estimable brothers what. "We hear there's a new reporter slash anchor. Ronnie doesn't seem to like her."
"Not at all," Dennis agreed. He chewed his nails thoughtfully. "Harry doesn't seem to mind her, though."
Colin laughed. "She could tear those two to pieces. She got into a race with them earlier but they had the Firebolt and she had the van and of course Harry was too quick for her. I wouldn't be surprised to see her get them back."
"Tear them to pieces," murmured George. His eyes traveled to the suspended cage. "I wonder…"
"Creeveys!" Seamus bounded into the room, six-pack in hand and wild grin painted onto his face. "You two have the honor of being the first proper guests! Here, grab yourself a beer for your troubles."
"I thought Ron didn't want you in charge of the liquor," Fred commented.
"This isn't liquor," said Seamus. "It's beer. Big difference."
"Contractual reinterpretation," George agreed happily. "Couldn't have misinterpreted his words better myself."
"Are we early?" were the first words Harry heard after he opened the door.
"Remus, Tonks!" He hugged them both tightly and stepped back to allow them inside. "Wonderful! It's been a while since you've come to one of our get-togethers."
"Remus always thinks we're a bother," Tonks replied, and the laugh in her answer made Remus blush. "Us fogies are too old for you cool cats, or so he says. I'm quite young myself." And she winked prettily.
"So I suppose I'm just a cradle-robber," Remus muttered, unappreciative.
Tonks responded with a saucy kiss to his cheek.
Harry clapped his hands together and chuckled, "Come on in! I'm sorry to say that the Creevey brothers beat you here, but there's over ten of us now. Will Sirius be joining us tonight?"
"I haven't the foggiest," said Remus, holding Tonks's waist and helping her balance as they crossed the threshold of the flat. "I know he's reacquainting himself with the chaps down at the pub tonight, because apparently they missed him terribly while he was gone."
"Ah. Fair enough." Sirius was legendary in taverns all across Europe for his handsome looks (Editor's note: Disregard the prior sentence. Typo.) Sirius was legendary in taverns all across Europe for his low tolerance yet admirable determination to out-drink anyone and everyone around him, an epic drunkard reimagining of `The Little Engine That Could' that had inspired numerous pub songs speaking of Lord Black's noble willingness to chug a thirty-ounce. "I think Ron's in charge of alcohol, although I'm sure that Seamus will be more than willing to appropriate that duty. Either way, just help yourself to anything from the cabinet or the refrigerator."
"Oh, I'm not drinking tonight," Tonks announced brightly. "But I'm sure I can convince Remus to imbibe."
Remus played his part and acted exasperated to play along. "Oh yes, fine, fine. I think I'll go get you some water."
Harry noticed the way his fingers traced her shoulder before he headed for the refrigerator. Grinning, Harry faced Tonks and cleared his throat.
"So, are congratulations in order?"
"Hm, maybe." But it was clear from her smile - from her aura, from her posture, from her radiance - that they were. "Remus, of course, is worrying himself to death. I'm ecstatic, but his insecurity is beginning to bring me down."
"Insecurity?" probed Harry.
"He's convinced he'll be a terrible father. No idea why." She laughed a hollow laugh, and the idea was, indeed, laughable. Remus had been one of the strongest and most consistent father figures in Harry's life - particularly during his teens, when Sirius had been otherwise disposed most of the time and Dumbledore had been working around the clock - and Harry thought any child Remus had would be damned lucky to have such a wonderful father. "Typical Remus."
"I don't understand at all," said Harry. "He'll be fantastic. I've looked up to him since I was thirteen years old and he was, what, in his twenties at that point?"
"I know." She coughed and, in a perfect imitation of the selfless Mr. Lupin's voice said, "`Oh, Dora, I'm too old for you. Too insecure to be a father. Bla bla bla."
"Well, I guess he was right on the latter part," Harry joked.
Tonks's indignant glare answered him.
"Er… just kidding. He'll be fabulous."
"Obviously," Tonks agreed. "And if you quit making jokes like that -" Harry flushed and Tonks smirked "- and Remus eventually comes around, I imagine he'll have a proposal for you."
And Harry of course was oblivious to whatever her point might have been.
"Eh?"
"Of course," sighed Tonks, "if he never gets the courage to ask and you're too unquestionably Harry to realize what he's getting at, I suppose my baby will have no godfather."
"Hang on - what?" Harry stammered. He thought about it for a second, considered the possibilities. "Really?"
"Well, yes. We can't properly ask Sirius, can we? He's already got one godson who's more than a handful for anyone to handle. Besides, you're young and Remus has always regarded you as family. He's more confident in your ability to be a father than his own. Which is really…"
"Just Remus," Harry finished.
"I hope you weren't talking about me while I was away."
Remus was back with a glass of water.
"I thought you'd never arrive," said Tonks, taking the glass from him and downing it in five seconds. "What took you so long?"
"Ran into Ron and got into a small chat," Remus replied. He retrieved the empty glass from her hands with some amusement, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Harry. "It seems Seamus has been in the alcohol already."
At that moment Lavender and Romilda Vane pulled up to Harry and grabbed his attention, excitedly talking about something or other ("That Lee Jordan let us in," Lavender enthused. "His hair is rather cute, don't you think?") and he lost the Lupins somewhere in the slow-building madness.
Remus had been a friend of his parents, although several years younger than each of them - more than anything, Harry's father, James, had seen Remus as a little brother (as Remus told it), and Remus had fostered a boyhood crush on the beautiful Lily Evans (as Remus admitted). He had been there for their wedding and Harry's baptism - the irascible, stoic Sirius had actually wept, Remus claimed - and was full of stories about Harry's family, each of which the latter cherished.
After the Potters' deaths Sirius had taken in Remus as his own blood but there had been trouble between Sirius and a former friend by the name of Pettigrew and Sirius had escaped to Belgium for several years. Remus had gone on to study journalism and had, for a brief year, been the school newspaper sponsor that had originally piqued Harry's interest in the area of study. His own television and radio career had been wrecked by the development of nearly monthly bouts of vocal weakness and tenderness, although he had succeeded in print and continued to serve as one of Harry's role models and had recently been a favorite contributor to The Radio Hour (he was one of the few men Snape respected, and the intellectual arguments between the two always drew great numbers).
"Evening, Potter," said McGonagall, face flushed and blouse bright red. "I hope this soiree won't end with anyone catching on fire?"
"Oh! Hello, Minerva." Harry smiled and shook himself from his reverie. "And no, we're hoping to avoid that. Although to be fair, Percy didn't suffer any serious burns and was only in the hospital for one or two nights."
Elsewhere Ron sat at the bar in a great humph, moodily glaring at anyone and everyone who might pass.
"What's gotten up your arse?" George asked bitterly after Ron snapped at him for no reason at all.
"Nothing," huffed his younger brother.
"Are you sure?" Fred questioned, walking over from the cabinet. "We're missing the margarita shaker and I'd appreciate it if you could at least check."
"Very funny, Fred."
"No, I'm serious, Dennis wanted a margarita."
Dennis. As in Dennis Creevey. What was it with names that started with the letter d? Were all of them bastards? Ron shuddered at the thought of meeting a Darren or Damon or Devon if the other two were anything to go by.
For Dean at least he could slightly empathize. While he was mostly blind to his little sister's maturation into a woman, Ron did know that she was an absolute magnet for poor suckers like Colin and that she kept her pull on them until they'd served their purpose. He'd always thought Dean too strong to fall to desecrating and despoiling the sole Weasley daughter, but he'd been wrong before.
But Dennis? Standing there, chatting with her? Couldn't he tell that he was boring her? (When her eyes sparkled like so it meant that she had become disinterested. Ron knew this because he'd observed many of her conversations with Ernie; Luna wasn't the only one who could read people.) Couldn't he tell that she wanted to be elsewhere? (Her head would tilt to one side occasionally. He hoped that she wanted to look at him but he knew it was stupid to hope.) Couldn't he tell that she was just too good for him? (She was too good for anybody, to be honest.)
And really - a margarita?
Unforgiveable.
"Oh, so she's what's up your arse," said George quietly. Ron made no move to dismiss his brother's theory. "Funny. I didn't know you were into that type of stuff, but I guess I see the appeal of a dominant woman. With a strap-on, in your case."
"Go fuck yourself, George."
For his part, George blinked, understood that Ron was serious, and left his brother to wallow in his own misery.
"I wouldn't go near him if I were you, Harry," muttered George as he passed by Harry, who had noticed his best friend's sullen attitude. "He's being a right prick."
Harry sighed, patted George on the shoulder, and prepared for Ron Weasley at his worst.
He could poke and prod Ron all night, he knew, and the git wouldn't budge an inch. Sometimes you had to slap a child once or twice. Not that Harry condoned slapping children. From personal experience he could testify that it only bred discontent and hatred.
"Get up," he ordered. "You're getting up."
"I'm fine," grunted Ron.
"No, you're getting up." Harry grabbed Ron by the shoulders and forcefully lifted him to his feet. Shifting his hands to his friend's cheeks, he leaned his head forward so that they were almost mustache to mustache. "I get it. You don't know how to approach her. You're scared of actually falling for someone. You want to pound poor Dennis Creevey into a bloody mess of cameraman. I understand, I really do. But you're not going to spend this entire party sulking and pissing about by the bar. You're going to get up, you're going to walk over there, and you're going to be your normal charming self and she's going to fucking love you. Granted, it'll look a lot less impressive if I have to bodily drag you over there, but I'll do what I have to do to see that stupid grin on your face again."
Ron stared into his hands, rolled his shoulders back, and set his famous jaw into place. He didn't stand, he leapt; he didn't seem sure of himself, he exuded confidence; he didn't look determined, he looked ready to venture into Hades and grab poor Eurydice without glancing back.
"Thanks, Harry. I needed to hear that." He straightened his jacket, adjusted his tie-less collar. "I need to stop being a bitch. I look damn good and it's time to use that to my advantage. Mate, I couldn't live without you and in a completely heterosexual way I'm pretty sure you're one of the loves of my life. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go get the other one."
And so the noble, red-headed, and mustachioed Orpheus went forth to defend his lady's honor. Harry smiled at his back and congratulated himself on a job well done.
"Where the hell's the food?" Seamus boomed out.
"You've got beer, why d'you need food, too?" Fred snapped. "Just hang onto your pants, Finnegan. The caterers should be here any second."
Fred must've been magic because at that moment the doorbell rung.
Harry smiled, waved the twin off - "I'll get it."
Ten paces to the door, creak (Harry noted that he needed to get some oil for that), and surprise!
"You're not the caterers," Harry deadpanned.
"Not quite." Hermione Granger threw her hair over her shoulder and sighed. You're wasting my time, she seemed to say. "I thought you said I wouldn't have to see you."
"I'm sorry, excuse me for not doing a good job of avoiding you." Even in his foul disposition Harry noted the elegant curve of her hip, the face devoid of almost any make-up or artistry. "And you won't have to see me. Come on in and I'll try to busy myself and stay out of your way."
She regarded him for a long moment. For a fleeting millisecond he thought she was going to say, "No, it's all right, you're not that bad," and part of him still thought she wanted to say it, but she didn't. It was a matchup of two proud individuals, the alpha male and the feminist alpha female, Cromwell vs Ireland, Lennon vs McCartney, the USA vs the USSR. It was the equivalent of a boxing match between good old Jesus H. Christ and the savvy Mr. Lucifer, Jesus in his spiffy gold trunks and Lucifer with his red gloves.
"Don't look for me," she said and passed him.
He watched her go and slammed the door shut on the unfortunate caterer who had been waiting behind her.
"These graphics are insane," breathed Justin Finch-Fletchley in wonder, staring over Dean's shoulder at the TV. "How do they do that?"
"They're so lifelike," Romilda whispered.
"They're just white lines on a black screen," Hermione observed as she walked up to the sofa.
"I feel like I'm watching a tennis match," Justin continued, face never twitching. "Bjorn vs Connors."
"I'm Connors," Dean announced. He leaned forward, twisted the dial left, and let out a long note of accomplishment when the 4-pixel ball floated by the opposing white line segment. "Ha! Suck it, Swede! Two-nil Connors!"
"Thirty-love, if you're going by tennis scores," said Luna, who appeared unperturbed that she had lost the point. "Did you know that Cornelius Fudge recently used Pong to settle a dispute with the Gringotts bank over the stagnation of capital due to the current OPEC embargo?"
Dean blinked and stammered, "Uh, no," but no one could tell if it was from Luna's bizarre aside or Ron's pointed glare.
"I myself am more a fan of Breakout," Ernie Macmillan declared to the crowd around the television. He nodded to Hermione. "You fancy a good old game of Breakout? Oh, a piano! Do you play? I play a few pieces myself, love the Moonlight Sonata, although Lennon completely ripped that off."
So Ernie grabbed her in the middle of his rant - figuratively, not literally, since Hermione was carrying pepper spray - and dragged her like a dog over to the piano to show her his immeasurable prowess on God's favorite instrument, although in this case the dog was reluctantly going along with the owner's leash and was privately much more interested in the piss it had smelled over near the mailbox. Again, figuratively.
Harry, upon seeing that the She-Witch had left the immediate area, took a seat next to Ron and leaned into his ear: "Did you talk to Luna?"
"Some. Then she started playing this game and seemed so interested that I just decided to watch."
"From fifteen feet away?"
"She's intimidating."
"No balls," Harry sighed. He frowned. "Where's Dennis?"
Ron's hands came to his face to cover his cough. "He's not quite as brave as Dean."
"Territorial pissings," was all Harry could mutter, and when he looked from the dog near the piano to the dog sitting next to him it was no wonder they had so many problems with each other. Goddamn territorial pissings!
"Quit it with this game!" screamed Seamus, who had abandoned his jacket and unbuttoned the top half of his shirt. His tie was wrapped around his head, guerilla-style. "News Pong is set up and I challenge all you pansies to defeat me!"
"I'll play," Ron piped up. His eyes were on Luna, but she was either oblivious or high.
"I'll be on your team, Seamus," Dean said.
And Ron spat, "Never mind. I'll sit out 'til the next round."
It ended up the Creevey brothers vs Seamus and Dean and this irritated Ron immensely because he wanted both sides to lose and that obviously wasn't going to happen unless they both caught on fire by accident (and so far Percy was the only person he'd ever seen catch fire besides that busker downtown).
Seamus and Dean won after Dennis vomited into the bushes ("Can't even hold his liquor," Ron muttered) and they high-fived each other.
"I guess that's us," Harry sighed. He dragged Ron to his feet. "What? She obviously wasn't going to volunteer, and I wasn't going to take the chance that you'd team up with Ernie or someone and hit them in the face with a paddle because you're sulking."
"How do you know I won't hit you in the face?"
"Too quick." Luna chewed on a straw over by the television. "It was a good try, mate."
Ron: "I know."
"Who's playing against the Dynamic Duo?" Seamus asked.
Those were the magic words. Dynamic Duo. From the piano to the back patio Hermione Granger flew, hair wild and resolve emboldened to take some chauvinists down a peg or two.
"I'll play," she said.
"I'll join you," Luna offered.
"Fuck me," Ron groaned.
"Battle of the sexes!" Seamus whooped.
Harry, frowning at Hermione, asked, "Do you even know how to play?"
"Of course I know how to play News Pong, Potter." She took up a paddle and handed the ball to Luna. "Not scared, are you?"
"No. I just think this violates the restraining order you set against me."
Usually at this part in the story - especially if it's a love story, which this is, and especially if it's a comedy, which this is, and especially if it's an action story (we're getting there, kiddos), which this is - the fight or conflict or game between the would-be lovers is possibly one of the most Epic matches in the history of sport and ends with one of the parties being royally ticked off.
This match was not Epic. It was hardly even epic.
And that was because Ron's innards were clenched so tight that he could hardly hold the damn paddle. ("He looks like the Hope Diamond is clogging up his arsehole," said Lee Jordan, who was providing running commentary on the game, the twins working on something next to him. "Ooh, Weasley hits Dumbledore in the face! Bad shot there.") And Luna, God save her, didn't seem to have the faintest desire to compete in the game. Instead of swinging the paddle properly she would do a mystic dance and wave her arms in the general vicinity of the wall, and several times she actually hit the ball backwards and into the crowd of spectators. ("Luna pulls a Macmillan," Lee said, and Ernie scowled - "It happened once! She's already done it four times!" And then Ernie was shut up by another flaming Macmillan to his shoulder.)
And sometimes she wouldn't let go of the ball after setting fire to it, instead just observing it with open wonder as it burned in her fingers, with the result that Hermione had to literally hit it out of her hands on several occasions.
Harry, for his part, was having a decent game, but Ron's play was severely bringing him down and the rum wasn't helping. While Harry always did a good job of staying sober (the trick, lads, is drinking a lot of water and pissing a lot, which Harry knew well, smart chap that he is), Ron's tosses got shabbier and more erratic, and the wall was getting more action Sirius Black on a Friday night - hell, a Tuesday night, even! (Editor's note: again, disregard the previous sentence. Another egregious typo.) The point is that the wall was being hit and the posters weren't, and even when they were it was the good guys being scorched and not the baddy, see?
Hermione wasn't all that bad for a girl, since everyone knows that girls are inferior when it comes to sport. (To the ladies reading this [stop glaring, Dora]: I'm just checking if you're paying attention. Trust me, I know all about the sporty women. Back when I was a teen I was beat out for the keeper spot on the school intramural team by a lass named Alice, and to follow up, her gal pal Vivian beat me out for the reserve spot. So right on if you caught that bit of manufactured chauvinism!)
Hermione wasn't all that bad "for an uptight bitch," as Ron admitted. She wasn't great, and like Harry her teammate wasn't helping much, but she did modestly well as a Sprayer and the alcohol just appeared to enhance her focus. Don't ask me how.
"Timeout on the field," Lee announced. "We're halfway through the current bottle and still the score is one-one, although the only scores have come on a shot to the margins of the center poster - Kenneth Barlow is still untouched, I'm sad to say."
While the teams were getting water Fred and George set to work on the wallboard.
"Don't take it down!" protested Ron. "We're winning!"
"Right, little brother. But don't worry. We're just making some additions."
Then everyone saw what the twins had been working on. Around the outer posters they placed sixteen more of different pop culture icons, to make a larger square made up of 25 squares that resembled -
"Bingo!" George called out, tossing out makeshift boards cut from construction paper. "Everyone grab a board. From here on out the audience is playing along, too. Shots have to be on the person, not the poster, lads - that means Barlow doesn't count because his face is still too pretty and smarmy. Five quid a board, and winner takes all."
To say this livened up the evening's competition would have been an understatement.
"Despite the furtherance of the already ridiculous safety concerns, I'm thinking we should begin marketing this," George commented.
Fred, accepting a fiver from Dean, had to agree.
Lee, loud over the sounds of the madding crowd: "All right, all right, ladies and gents! Let's get our teams back up to the spraying zone!"
"Just give me a good toss, Harry," Ron growled. "Give me a good toss and I'll hit that arse Barlow in the face."
"What's this?" asked Tonks, dragging a very pale Remus over to watch the growing spectacle.
"Nothing much," Remus tried to say, but there was no stopping Tonks after she'd had one of her fits of curiosity.
Harry threw a glance back to the other team, struck the match, and threw the ball.
Whack.
The flaming ping pong ball struck Kenneth Barlow in the eye.
"Interesting," said Tonks.
"Let's go," said Remus.
"You don't have to coddle me. I can protect myself," said Tonks.
"It's not you I'm worried about," said Remus.
She looked at her stomach and went, "Oh."
And so Remus followed his fatherly instinct and went back inside, sheltering his unborn child from the terror that was News Pong.
"Eat it, Granger," Ron gloated. He handed the bottle to her. "Here, you might want to keep this handy when you hit Lennon in his oversized yet adorable nose."
"I'm not planning on it, Weasley," Hermione hissed. She turned to Luna, handed her the paddle, and sighed. "Please, please don't screw this up, Luna. I can't lose after being directly challenged by that brute."
"I don't feel like missing this time," remarked Luna. She flexed her fingers and smiled. "No, I don't think I'll miss this time."
And you felt like missing earlier? But Hermione had learned to accept her teammate's eccentricity as it was. "Right."
Light, toss, hit.
I don't think I need to tell you the outcome.
"And Barlow is now missing both eyeballs!" Lee exclaimed as half the crowd cheered. "He looks better without them, in my opinion."
"Jordan!" barked McGonagall from her seat next to the pool, where she was fanning herself desperately with both hands. "I'm quite fond of Coronation Street, I'll have you know!"
"Right. Sorry, Mickey G. But to be fair he is the Center Bastard in this game…"
Hermione clapped Luna on the shoulder and grinned back at the Duo, extending the bottle in her open hand. "Here you go, Weasley. I believe the expression was, how do you say it? Oh, yes. Eat it."
Ron scowled.
"I'm back," said Remus, this time without the future mother of his child. He was carrying a large red object. "I brought the fire extinguisher."
Harry sighed.
Strike after strike. Drink after drink. Fonz, Geoff Hurst, Shakespeare. Hero after heroine after hero struck down by some of the worst shots in the history of the glorious game of News Pong.
"Bingo!" said Susan Bones after Oliver Cromwell went down.
"All right, who the hell put Cromwell up on the board?" screamed the very irate and very Irish Seamus Finnegan as Susan spoke with Fred to collect her winnings.
"He's a hero to many," George explained while his brother was busy, smirking all the way. "And he had the right idea going. He knew you Irish Catholics drank like swine and bred like rats!"
"I think we're an eighth Irish," noted a morose and increasingly drunk Ron.
George shrugged. "I ignore that part of my bloodline."
"DAMN IT!" Cromwell had taken a second shot to the face. Frustrated and not quite sober, Ron picked up his paddle and threw it at the wallboard.
"Hey," noted Harry, "you hit Barlow straight on. That's only the second time all day."
"Shut it, you," Ron growled.
"Just end this silly game already," stated an irritable McGonagall, who was constantly fidgeting. Her gaze seemed to be fixed on Seamus, although no one paid her any mind. "Both of the teams are terrible."
"We're not terrible," replied Hermione, grudgingly.
Luna juggled five ping pong balls and hummed to herself.
"That's pretty impressive, actually," said Harry.
"I HATE THIS GAME!"
Ron grabbed Hermione's paddle and threw it at the wallboard - "Another strike on Barlow!" announced a gleeful Lee - and then attempted to push the table over in his drunken rage. It wasn't working very well because Seamus had nailed the table into the patio (they'd learned their lesson after the Percy Incident) but he kept on trying anyway, and it was almost admirable.
Eventually he gave up, took off his shoe, and began charging the wallboard, screaming at the poster of Barlow, "Die, die, die!"
"Ron," said Harry, "there's no reason -"
But for the second time in five hours Ron was engulfed in sodium bicarbonate, although this stream was aimed directly at his face and startled him so badly that he fell down, shouting curses all the way.
A regretful Remus put the fire extinguisher down.
"I had to," he explained.
"Don't worry," said Harry. "We all understand."
"Ronald, would you like me to get you a blanket?" asked Luna.
Ron groaned and curled up into the fetal position.
"Someone pick Weasley up and cart him off," ordered McGonagall, who was now just over three feet from Seamus. "He's annoying me."
"I'll get him."
Harry bent down to pick up his friend and drag him back into his bedroom, but Ron let out a guttural roar, thrashed on his back, and burst into tears, occasionally lapsing into different languages.
"Is he swearing at us?" Dean inquired (and for Dean, it was a valid question).
"No," answered Harry. "He's just speaking German."
Harry tried once more to pick up his friend but he was hit in the face by a flying wrist and backed off, rubbing his cheek.
"On second thought," he said, "I think he's fine down there."
Luna said, "I'll get him a blanket," and no one argued.
"That's a nice shirt you've got, Finnegan," purred McGonagall after Luna had gone inside and Ron had stopped shouting and began to doze off.
Remus, hovering in Harry's ear: "Is something wrong with Minerva?"
Harry paled, remembered the sex pills, and nodded slowly. "Er. It's a long story."
Fred and George had gotten out a Polaroid camera and were taking photos of their youngest brother - "Just for posterity's sake," elaborated a devilish George.
"I wasn't sure, so I got the teddy bear out of the closet and also an avocado," said Luna when she returned with Ron's blanket. She delicately placed it on him, propping his head up on the avocado. "For a pillow. And the teddy bear is if he gets hungry."
"Right," Harry sighed.
"A lot of fun this was," muttered Hermione. She brushed past Harry and went inside the flat.
"Rough goings," Remus stated, his eyes following the bushy-haired woman. "She really seems to hate you."
"You always knew how to make me feel better about myself."
"Your mum hated your dad at first, too." He'd gotten that smile on his face and that glazed look in his eyes, and Harry knew that they weren't living at the same moment anymore. "Took him forever to convince her to get her to go out. But you should talk to Sirius about that. He'd know more about it than I would."
"Seamus," announced McGonagall in her loudest voice, "I need to show you something in Harry's room. Come with me."
"Sure, I'll come with you," slurred Seamus, and she dragged him by the hand into the flat.
"Not in my room," Harry moaned. He covered his face with his hands. "Ugh. I think it's not just her that hates me. I think it's life."
"Says the second-most popular man in London."
"Who's the first?" Harry demanded, woes forgotten and ego aroused.
Remus laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and left to find his wife.
Harry's eyes moved across the common yard, finding nothing of interest, back to the patio, which was just a cornucopia of alcohol and stupid talk, and then through the room-sized window to the inside of the flat.
He stopped and hurried through the doorway.
"You can play it if you want," he said, and she nearly jumped.
"I wasn't going to," she stammered.
"Yes you were. I could see it. You play, don't you?" And she had to nod. "I don't mind. I'm not very good on it. My godfather insisted that we needed one, and I just kind of plink away on it. I've tried lessons, but I'm rubbish."
She glared at him for some bizarre reason but stopped and seemed to recognize her hostility for what it was. She looked to the piano and shrugged.
"Seriously," he pressed, taking a step forward. "Play a bit. I'd like to hear how it should actually sound."
But that step forward was a mistake. The two of them were standing just where the Creevey brothers had been standing earlier in the evening, between the piano and the sofa, and neither noticed the red-headed twins silently laughing behind them or the light cage falling down on them until it was too late.
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