Anchormen by Bowles

Rating: R
Genres: Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 28/12/2008
Last Updated: 21/04/2009
Status: In Progress

Ron Weasley and Harry Potter are two gloriously carefree news personalities with the best
mustaches this side of Walter Cronkite. Hermione Granger is the upstart anchor looking to replace
them, but that's only if she can survive the rest of the news team.




1. Welcome to the Team
----------------------



This is a new story that I just started writing tonight and for a change I decided to post. I
have no clue how long this will be or how regularly it'll be updated, but I hope it's
enjoyable.

And while this is definitely taking a page from the film Anchorman, this is not a rewrite of the
film.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Episode One
WELCOME TO THE TEAM

-

“Breaking news out of South London…” The anchor looked up, his deep red mustache folding in a
self-serious manner over his monochromatic lips. “A mad old woman has gone on the rampage and begun
shooting passerby with a paintball gun at the intersection of Wandsworth and North. Dean Thomas is
on the scene. Dean?”

“Ron, usually this neighborhood is the picture of solemnity,” said the field reporter, smoothing
his tightly packed hair. “Not today. Today police are on the scene and desperately trying to calm
the mad woman to no avail.”

“I won't go!” the woman screamed. The camera-work was shaky. “I'll take you all
down!”

“Ma'am -”

The police officer crumpled in agony as his face was splattered with red.

“OH MY GOD,” screamed a visibly shaken teenage boy. “OH MY GOD HE'S DEAD!”

“Don't be daft, it's just a paintball,” Dean said, unaware he was on camera.

The camera cut back to the live feed.

“As you can see,” Dean remarked into the puffy microphone, “the area is chaos. I've only
avoided damage myself through gratuitous speed and good fortune.”

Dean recoiled into the camera all of a sudden and his shoulder was green. A woman's cackle
could be heard in the background.

Grumbled: “I'm Dean Thomas for YTV. Back to you, Ron.”

“Terrible, terrible,” said the anchor, shuffling his papers. He looked to his colleague.
“Sometimes it seems the world is going to the dogs.”

“Too right you are, Ron,” said his companion, a man with scraggly black hair (much unlike
Ron's slicked-back red hair) and a matching mustache. “Speaking of dogs, we have the cutest
video of Tyke the terrier playing water polo…”

“I'm so glad you could make it out today, Ms. Granger” Minerva McGonagall said, ignoring the
news feed (the story was rather harmless, after all - and Ron was the more liable of the two to
sudden fuck-ups, no pun intended). “I hope you're liking London so far?”

“Oh, yes, well it's no Coventry, but it's quite nice, I think.” Granger flipped her hair
back and smiled. “I like the setup. It's quite homey. Much better than my hotel room, I assure
you.”

“Tsk, tsk. We'll have to see about getting you a nice flat nearby. I'll ask one of the
girls to help out.” There was a change in voice and Minerva realized that Harry had just handed off
to Seamus. “Oh dear. I need to keep an ear out for this. One moment.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Seamus's bright orange suit clashed terribly with the blue background
behind him. “Well, gang, it was a tough day for Manchester City when they went up against their
heated rivals from across-town: the Red Devils of Man U! The exhibition took place at ol'
Wembley Stadium right here in the Big L, but that doesn't mean that there weren't some
Mancunians in the area! Oh no, there was beer and you bet your tush there was fighting!”

His glance darted upwards and he noticed McGonagall's stern expression. “But hooligans
aside, the real action was on the field! City started the match off strong when…”

Ron and Harry were ignoring Seamus, their attention instead directed to a cheap chess board
splayed across the top of the news desk. McGonagall hated it, but after the infamous Muttering
Incident two years prior had allowed their game, provided that the board was easily movable and the
pieces were flat.

“Should they really be playing chess right now?” Granger whispered to one of the techs, Dennis
Creevey, as McGonagall was still monitoring Seamus.

Dennis explained the situation and, upon further pressing, the Muttering Incident:

Harry: And now we'll pass it over to Lavender Brown for your weather forecast. Lavender?

Lavender: Why thank you, Harry! (Wink, grin.) The skies are clear and Venus suggests
thunderstorms for all you tempestuous spirits…

Ron: God, I'm bored. (Microphone still on.)

Harry: (Blank stare.)

Ron: Just shoot me.

McGonagall, in the booth: Will someone TURN OFF THE FUCKING MICROPHONE?

Euan Abercrombie: I'm trying! It's not working! I must have jammed the button!

McGonagall: I'll jam my hand up your bleeding -

Ron: (Singing.) Shooooooot me, just shoooot me…

Harry: (Mouthing silently but urgently.) *Idiot! Shut up! Your microphone is on! I can hear
you in my earpiece!*

Lavender: I've spent much time asking the heavens for guidance...

Ron: I wish she'd spend more time figuring out what the hell she's doing and less time
trying to figure out how to look like a tramp. Good God, her tit is falling out of her shirt.

McGonagall: Cut the transmission!

“You know, Euan was fired the next week,” Dennis noted.

“Why not Weasley?” Granger asked, curious and already forming a vendetta in her mind against
this red-headed chauvinist.

“Because he's Ron Weasley,” Dennis replied as if it were that simple - and it was. “He's
part of London's best broadcasting duo and he does that stuff all the time, but Euan forgot to
turn his mic off, so really it wasn't Ron's fault.”

Granger had half a mind to argue but didn't, for Dennis's sake. He seemed sweet.

“Thank you, Seamus, for that wonderful impression of Ron Atkinson,” Harry said. He and Ron both
looked into the center camera as the end music came on. “For Ron Weasley and the entire YTV London
news team, I'm Harry Potter. Stay classy, London.”

“Thank God that's over,” McGonagall sighed as Dennis and Justin began wrapping up the feed.
“Did it give you a feel for how we run things, Ms. Granger?”

“Oh yes,” Granger replied, prim smile almost breakable in its stiffness. “Interesting cast of
characters, to say the least.”

McGonagall sighed again, deep and long. “Don't say that. You haven't even met Luna.”

“Excellent job, everybody!” Ron called out to the entire team as he stood from his desk. “One of
your strongest shows this month, Seamus, and on a weak night outside of the Manchester brawl, as
well.”

“Ernie, really enjoyed the beginning of that expose on the prostitution ring,” Harry said,
clapping the blond reporter on the back. “I think by the end of this you might have yourself a
Telly award for investigative excellence.”

“Oh, really, it was nothing, Harry, just took a little hard work and a little spit - don't
ask about the spit, you'll see that tomorrow, old chap - and besides, I really think that
prostitution is a serious problem that we need to address right away…”

Harry's eyes glazed over. On his opposite side, Lavender Brown approached Ron, her breasts
firmly in place behind her blouse.

“Ronald,” she purred.

“Lavender,” he retorted, smirking.

She licked her lips. Lavender Brown was a shameless flirt, quick to forget past insults from a
good-looking man and quick to remember any snubs from a pretty woman, and also, Ron could claim
from personal experience, the best blowjob this side of Bigmouthed Betty Dimble.

She was also unable to resist a handsome man with fine facial hair and thus easily hurt. Harry -
who had long ago rebuffed Lavender's advances and firmly placed himself in her Friends Zone -
often had to stop Ron from calling Lavender for a quick hookup, if only to spare her feelings. She
loved children, loved her family, and had six pets that she'd adopted from abused animals'
shelters. She was an easy lay with a heart of gold but, as Harry quietly admitted, he was trying to
fix the first part.

“We're a relatively new station - I helped found our London branch eight years ago - but
we've quickly become one of the premier stations in the country,” McGonagall informed Granger
as they made their way onto the set. “Between them, Harry and Ron have upwards of twenty Tellies
and EMAs, and our production staff isn't too shabby, either.”

“If they're such wonderful anchors -” Granger found herself spitting the sentence “- then
why even bring me in?”

“Because you're an excellent investigative journalist that can put Ernie in his place - the
pompous ass over there in the white suit,” McGonagall added, seeing Granger's inquisitive look,
and she was right, he *was* in a blinding white suit that screamed shit-for-dick to anyone
with a brain. “And I'd like to bring more diversity to our news team. It will be nice to have
someone to push the boys, not to mention have someone that can come in and give us options for our
anchor team. Both of them used to be great journalists, but they had such great screen presence
that we had to keep them at the desk. We just desire some flexibility, you see.”

“I see,” said Granger, unable to take her eyes off of Weasley and Potter, sizing them up and
trying to decide the best way of shooting them down - in a figurative sense, of course.

“Ron, Harry!” The two mustaches stopped their conversations and grinned over at McGonagall.
“I'd like you to meet your new coworker, Hermione Granger.”

“A pleasure,” Ron said, bounding over the edge of the platform on which the desk stood and
dropping to a knee. He playfully took Hermione's hand and kissed it. “I'm Ronald Weasley
the First, by the way. Maybe with your help we can make sure that I'm not the last,
either.”

“Not likely,” Hermione muttered, grimacing and withdrawing her hand.

“Leave her be, Ron,” Harry laughed. “Sorry for him. I'm Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, the pleasure's mine.” It wasn't, but that was hardly the point. “I've heard
many things about the two of you.”

“Most of which are untrue and unproven in a court of law,” Ron said, and it was impossible for
Hermione to tell whether he was joking or not.

“Ron's a joker,” Harry clarified.

“I can tell,” replied Hermione. “Nice mustache, by the way. Maybe one day you'll be able to
grow a beard.”

Harry frowned at her coldness but decided not to comment. Ron had always been the
confrontational one, and he was about to snap back at her when McGonagall intervened.

“Now, now, let's not have squabbling between the three of you.” Hermione stared right back
at Harry, unafraid of his green eyes. Which were, she decided, actually quite attractive. “Ron can
be a bit forward, Hermione, but he means it all in good fun. Now, Hermione here will be doing
investigative work -”

“Please tell me she's replacing that miserable excuse of an arse Macmillan,” Ron whined. The
white suit still shone in the fluorescent lights. “I can't stand his voice for another week,
Minnie.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me Minnie?” McGonagall flustered. Ron shrugged, and
her shoulders sagged in defeat. “Anyway, as I was saying, she'll be doing some investigative
work and some anchor work here and there.”

“Anchor work?” said Harry, eyebrow raised. “We're adding a third anchor?”

“Well, no, we were planning on rotating. Some, I mean. Just a bit.”

“This is an outrage!” Ron exclaimed, cheeks reddening and tongue dancing with his mustache.
“Harry and I are the Dynamic Duo! The best team around! We're Batman and Robin, Abbot and
Costello, Bonnie and Clyde, Romeo and Juliet, Cronkite and `That's the way it was'! You
can't just break that up!”

“We're not - you two are still are number one team.” Hermione smirked when McGonagall
wasn't looking. For now they were, she thought. “But it will also free you two up to do more
investigative work.”

Ron still looked angry, but Harry's expression was harder to read.

“I'm not sure about this,” he finally said, “but I'm intrigued. I'll give her the
benefit of the doubt.”

“For now,” Ron added in an acid voice, so accurately reflecting her own prior thoughts. “I'm
a nice guy, so I'll try to get along. Just don't cockblock us or take away the chess board
and I think we'll be all right.”

“Er…” Hermione smiled weakly. “Right.”

“Ron!” barked Seamus from across the room. “It's the second Thursday of the month!”

McGonagall's face paled. “Excuse me, I have to leave.”

And she dashed away, Harry chuckling behind her.

“What's the second Thursday of the month?” Hermione asked, feeling quite alone without the
older woman's presence.

“The day before the second Friday of the month,” Lavender answered as she softly kneaded
Ron's shoulders. Harry touched her hand gently and she stopped, frowning at him.

Hermione rolled her eyes and growled, “No, really?”

“What Lavender is trying to say,” Harry explained, wary of the bushy-haired vixen's glare,
“is that tomorrow is a very special day.”

“And what would that be?”

“SWEEPS FRIDAY!” Ron boomed, leaping up to high-five Harry in the air. An orange blur crashed
into them at full speed, sending two anchors and one sports reporter into an ebullient heap on the
ground.

“On Sweeps Friday we get together and Ron and Harry's and have a nice little party,”
Lavender sniffed, obviously hurt by Hermione's sarcasm. “It's technically before the sweeps
ratings come out on Saturday morning, but we party for good luck.”

“Yeah, everyone enjoys it!” Ron said, playfully tackling Seamus to the ground. “Even you'd
enjoy it, Granger!”

Harry laughed and his mustache shook as Seamus kicked Ron in the groin. Hermione thought for a
moment, watched Harry's face carefully, and nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

“That's the spirit,” Seamus said, pulling both of the anchors to their feet. “I've got a
hot date tonight, mates, so I'm gonna have to bail on drinks. Dean's busy, too.”

“I bloody well know that,” Ron growled. “Don't see what Ginny sees in him, cheeky bastard
-”

Ron and Dean had been great chums until two weeks earlier, when Dean had finally gotten up the
guts to ask Ginny Weasley out on a date. It had been a raging success and ever since Ron had hated
Dean and his silly wannabe afro. *He looks like Tina Turner!* he loved to tell anyone who was
drunk enough to listen.

“No post-news drinks tonight, I guess,” Harry sighed. “I guess we'll just go back to the
flat and see what's going on there.”

“I'll come out for drinks!” Ernie offered.

“Er, no post-news drinks tonight, I guess,” Harry repeated, eyeing Ernie with much caution.
“C'mon, Ron. Let's get out of here.”

“Later, folks!” Ron waved as the mustaches retreated through the studio doors and into the main
hallway. “Stay classy, news team!”

Hermione Granger was already formulating Ron and Harry's downfall.

-->



2. Merlin
---------



Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

.

Episode Two
MERLIN

.

“Ah, a sight for sore eyes,” Ron said wistfully as he placed his hand on the side of the
passenger side door. “There's nothing like coming out to the parking lot after a hard day's
work and relaxing in the Newsmaker 2000.”

The car was a 1965 Firebolt, the best damn convertible a red-blooded man could find without
knowing the dictator of a communist South American country. It was a cool shade of green, the same
as Harry's eyes, or that's what the girls said anyway. It changed names almost monthly, as
a semi-ritual - it had been called, among other things: the HMS Anchorman, the Mustache Machine,
the East London Pussymobile, and, one of Ron's personal favorites, the Mustachean Falcon. He
was the Han Solo type, but then again everyone was these days; it was the Luke Skywalkers - the
unassuming yet confident Harrys of the world - that were going out of style.

“I've decided,” said Harry, hopping over the side of his door and throwing the keys into the
ignition, “that I could definitely use some curry. Some curry, some naan, and a big helping of
Guiness.”

“Amen!” Ron agreed. He took his seat to the left of Harry and rifled through the console,
finally coming up with a miniscule comb. “Does your 'stache need combing? Mine got ruffled
during the weather forecast. Lavender Brown is frustrating me. No, *you're* frustrating
me, really. It's just one shag. I don't get why you're holding me back.”

“It's not just one shag to her,” argued Harry as they pulled out of the parking lot. “It
means something to her. She may be twenty-six -” Harry and Ron were only six years her senior “-
but she's still got a fifteen-year-old mentality when it comes to men.”

Ron said, for summarization purposes: “You're cockblocking me.”

“No, I'm protecting her. Besides, she's not the only lady around that fancies the YTV
anchors.”

“No kidding,” Ron said happily. He placed his right hand on Harry's chest. “Whoa, slow down,
mate. We're coming up to - one moment - MOVE, TREE! - ah, there we go!”

It was a beautiful large billboard that towered over the shopping district, and on it, back to
back in suits of blue with green ties, were the two most eligible anchors in the city.

“God, we are two handsome motherfuckers,” breathed Ron. “I just wake up every morning and thank
God for blessing the people of London with my beautiful face.”

“Our mustaches are even more epic than normal,” Harry concurred, allowing himself some
self-satisfaction, even though that was more of Ron's area of interest.

“If I were a woman, I would fuck myself,” Ron stated in his most serious tone. “Hell, if I were
a man I would fuck myself.”

“Good thing everyone doesn't go along with that,” Harry joked.

“Oh, some are just better at hiding it than others,” Ron laughed, but his smirk turned into a
sneer. “Agh, that reminds me of Granger. Can't believe she's trying to take our spots. Our
spots! We're men, Harry! We can't get replaced by women!”

“Tell Ginny that,” Harry countered. “She'd punch you halfway to Cuba.”

“Okay, maybe it's not that she's a woman.” And for Ron, it only partly was. “She's
new and she just thinks she can come in here and it irritates me! Such arrogance! She thinks
she's so damn gorgeous and it's getting on my nerves!”

Harry chuckled, asked: “Don't you think that's a bit hypocritical?”

“No! I'm just confident, not arrogant. Besides, don't you think that you're the most
handsome man on Earth?”

“Of course,” said Harry, because every news anchor on the planet believed that, and he was no
different.

“Yeah, well, she's even above that! Grade A bitch, Harry, I'm telling you now.” Ron
looked out the window and stared at a car full of women pensively. “Hm. Maybe if I seduce her and
knock her up - ugh, that's disgusting just thinking about it - she'll leave in shame.
Crying, preferably. I would like for there to be tears.”

“I don't think you'll be able to seduce her,” Harry said. He frowned. “I think she's
the type of woman that acts as the seducer, actually. She goes out and gets the man she wants, not
the other way around. Shame, really. I wouldn't mind asking her out, and I'm not even
trying to kick her off the team.”

Ron gaped at him. “Why, pray tell, would you ask a siren like that out on a date? I was just
joking! Harry, she'd bite your head off.”

“Oh, that's exactly why,” Harry said with a smirk. “She's intelligent, witty, and
she'd put me right in my place. I find that ridiculously attractive. And she is rather pretty,
by the by.”

“She's already ensnared you in her trap!” Ron moaned. “She's going to seduce you and
you're going to tell her all your secrets and she will use them against you! Mark my
words!”

“Relax, Ron, I'm kidding. Sort of.” He parked the Newsmaker 2000 between a motorcycle and a
van and cut the engine. “C'mon, let's get it to go.”

Five minutes later the two were walking back to the Firebolt with three boxes of the most
gastronomically-destructive Indian food known to Londonkind. Ron suddenly stopped and growled.

“Well if it isn't Ron Weasley.” Draco Malfoy, lead anchor for News 3 and the number four on
Ron's list (pinned to the refrigerator wall) of the biggest cunts in England, only slightly
trailing the bastard who'd created the sobfest known as *Coronation Street* and thus the
dreadfully boring Ken Barlow. “How's life treating you, Weasel? Got enough cash now to move out
and stop mooching off your boyfriend?”

“Draco Malfoy,” Ron sneered back. “Sorry, I heard about Cedric Diggory getting the promotion to
News 2. Real shame for you. Of course, with the way his career's going, he'll get the bump
to national and they'll have to bring in someone else to News 2 instead of you, and God knows
that'll be a hassle!”

“If Crabbe and Goyle were here, Weasley, I'd teach you some manners!” Draco spat.
“Unfortunately, their bowels are as weak as their brains, so consider yourself spared!”

“Spared from what?” Ron retorted. “The sight of a ménage a trios between you and the two grunts?
Let me guess, you're the one taking in that situation, right?”

Draco took a step forward, snarling, “You're going down, Weasley!”

“Only fair, I suppose,” said Ron with a shrug. “After all, your mother went down on me last
night and tonight I should be a gentleman and return the favor.”

Draco raised his arm but Harry stepped between the two. “That's all, Malfoy. I don't
want any trouble - people actually watch our show, after all, and we can't have your blood on
our new suits. Run along with your cronies and leave the big boys alone.”

“You're lucky I'm in a conciliatory mood, Potter.” Draco, still fuming, smoothed down
his light blonde mustache and ruffled his collar. “I'll see you two *extras* later.”

Draco stalked off. Ron raised his hand and called after him, “Good luck with sweeps ratings!
Hope we don't beat you too badly this month!”

Estimable news anchor Draco Malfoy kicked over a trash can, tossed aside a little girl, and
screamed out the longest string of profanities that either Ron or Harry had heard since the
Mollywobbles Incident.

“Wow,” said Ron, grudgingly admiring Draco's list, “I didn't even know half of those
were words.”

“I don't think he's speaking English anymore,” Harry commented. “In fact, I think he
might be making up his own language. I think some of that is Tolkien Elvish.”

The men loaded up inside the Mustachean Falcon with their food (Draco's curses still echoing
off the cheap red wood of Indian To-Go-Go) and set out to drive nowhere in particular, neither one
wondering if the situation was indicative of their lives as a whole.

“Let's go to Merlin's,” Harry stated, and it wasn't a question. There was never a
bad time for Merlin's.

Merlin lived in the coolest high-rise in the coolest part of the coolest city in England. Merlin
was far-out, one of the most far-out cats the anchormen had ever known, and one of the only men in
the world who deserved all of his multiple nicknames (of which Merlin was undoubtedly the best and
most accurate).

The elevators to Merlin's floor (thirty-three) were filled with stoner businessmen and
uptight musicians and some bizarrely beautiful women wearing strange costumes who were possibly
hookers but no one could really tell because, hint hint, it was the Hogwarts High-Rise and strange
- but damned cool - stuff happened at Hogwarts.

How cool was Hogwarts? Well, innocent reader, at Hogwarts they didn't even have room
numbers. No no no: at Hogwarts, if you wanted people to recognize your room, then you took care of
it yourself. Pictures on the door, guards outside (for the richer patrons), dogs, ornaments - one
guy even had beads instead of a door. It was convenient for drug dealers and prostitutes: they just
left their doors unmarked and let customers find them, making it even harder for police to track
them down.

Merlin's door had a gargoyle off to the side. It was one of the niftier tricks either of our
heroes had seen. Harry pressed a button on the gargoyle's head and a grainy recording played.
“Password?”

“Lemon drop,” Harry said.

The voice recognition system took a while, but eventually the gargoyle made a sound and the door
just barely popped open.

“I think we have visitors,” the two heard as Harry pushed the door open.

“Two ugly mugs, too,” agreed another voice.

Harry stopped in his tracks and grinned. “Sirius! I thought you were backpacking through the
Continent!”

“Just got back,” Sirius replied. He laughed and pulled Harry into a warm embrace, ruffling
Ron's hair to be kind. “I'm crashing at Remus and Tonks's for now, and since
they're just a couple floors down I thought I'd come say hi to the Professor.”

Sirius Black - Harry's godfather and, by default, main father figure - was the last of a
long dead family line and one of the richest men in England. He was 192nd in line of
succession for the royal throne (proper title: Lord Black) and a well-known philanthropist and
orator. He was a consummate playboy and had slept with every famous woman worth bedding and a few
famous men, too.

“Sirius was just telling me about Paris,” said his wizened counterpart. “Sit, both of you.
It's been too long since we've had a chance to chat.”

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore - alter egos: Merlin, the Beard, the Professor, Supreme
Mugwump - was older than television news itself and still the best news anchor in the world, even
though he was retired. He was Cronkite before Cronkite, he was Owen Wilson's nose before it
burst its way onto the celebrity scene in *Shanghai Noon*, he was Merlin in the modern day
(the seventies). He was, in essence, cool personified, and if sometimes he seemed a little creepy,
hey, that just came with the package.

“How're you doing, Professor?” Ron said, extending his hand. Dumbledore politely shook it
with his good hand. “Harry and I were just in the neighborhood and though we'd say hello. We
brought in dinner, if you'd like - we always over-order.”

“I'm fine,” said Dumbledore, but Sirius grinned and said, “Thank God, I'm starved!
Please tell me it's something spicy.”

“Vindaloo?” asked Harry, grinning.

“Oh I did miss Indian-to-Go-Go,” Sirius groaned, greedily taking the proffered box. “You
don't get this in Vienna.”

“But then again you don't get Austrian women in London -” Ron didn't know that there was
an Austrian prostitute just next door, but his point still stood “- so it's really a fair
trade.”

Sirius laughed heartily. “Oh, and I do love Austrian women, you know…”

“You dog, Sirius!” chuckled Harry.

The conversation proceeded in this vein for several minutes, mainly between godfather, godson,
and best mate, as the Beard was somewhere between asexual and homosexual and had no interest in
bragging about women he'd slept with (which was none).

“Harry, Ron,” said Dumbledore at a natural pause in the conversation, “something is bothering
you.” Freaky mindreading: a skill of Merlin's. “Can I be of assistance?”

“Well, to be honest, Professor, there is a *slight* problem…”

And Ron took over from there. “This new broad, Hermione effing Granger -”

“Interesting middle name,” Sirius piped up.

“- has come in and she's going to be doing some investigative work. No big deal, right?
Wrong. Apparently she'll be doing `spot' anchor work and we'll be doing more
on-the-spot reporting. Granted, we're the best reporters in the city, but, Merlin, this is just
offensive! Some scarlet woman is coming in and stealing our mojo, and it's royally pissing me
off!”

“Hm,” was all Dumbledore had to say.

“I've heard good things about her,” Harry said. Ron viewed him with betrayal. “What? I have.
I saw some of her work when I was staying in Coventry for that wedding. Mind you, I'm not going
to lie - I *am* vaguely threatened - but I think it could be interesting. I don't know. It
will either work great or everything will go to hell.”

“The latter,” Ron decided. “We just need to figure out a way to get rid of her so the Dynamic
Duo can prevail.”

“Interesting,” said Dumbledore. “I've heard of this woman, too, and I agree with Harry: she
is competent. I would warn you against assuming she is unintelligent, Ron, as in all likelihood she
is nothing short of cunning and fiercely independent to thrive in an industry dominated by men. Do
not sell yourself short. It'll be good for you to do some investigative reporting. I made my
reputation on it, after all, and it's good for an anchor to get out into the world and see
what's going on.”

Dumbledore was the king of investigative reporting. He'd been in Normandy twenty years
before Cronkite had been in Vietnam; he'd been integral in the investigation of Kennedy's
death; he'd been an advisor to the Washington Times during the Deep Throat and Watergate
controversy. He'd sparred with Winston Churchill and William Buckley and any dictatorship worth
its salt had endured an Albus Dumbledore exclusive report, whether on radio or television or in
print.

“Whatever,” Ron said breezily. He grinned. “A year from now, Harry and I will be making news,
but this time from YTV's national desk. Granger can have the bloody job after that.”

“From the vibes I got from her, I think she'd follow us there just out of spite,” Harry
joked.

“Luckily, I have a shotgun under my bed that will do the job nicely -”

“You're attracted to her, aren't you?” Sirius asked quite suddenly.

Ron, indignant, growled, “Of course not! She's attractive, but she's a fucking wench if
you ask me -”

“Not you. Harry.”

“Of course,” Harry replied. “She's rather beautiful, of course, and I've always liked
independent, assertive women. She's intelligent to boot. I'm still threatened by her, but
part of that stems from the attraction.”

Sirius rubbed his full beard, salt and pepper scruff across his chin, and grinned. “A smart,
fierce newscaster who makes you both scared for your jobs. As your godfather, I officially approve!
I'm not sold on Ron as the best man, though…”

“Hey, you git! I'd be an excellent best man!” He punched Sirius in the arm. “Of course,
I'd also boycott that wedding from hell, but it's the thought that counts, eh?”

“I think,” stated Dumbledore, somehow managing to be both amused and omniscient at once, “that
it is time to relax with some of Ogden's finest.”

Ogden's finest. Pineapple express. The Andromeda strain. Reefer, cheeba, grass, nugs, budz,
midis, fuzzies, hash, ganja, and, most famously, pot or weed. Ogden's finest was some of the,
you guessed it, *finest* marijuana around, and it was even more of a trip when served with
Ogden's whisky and cheese nachos with chocolate sauce on top.

The old man Merlin always told the boys that for all his best newscasts or reports he'd been
high - it made him seem more knowing and cerebral - and that his lemon drops that he so famously
sucked during commercial breaks usually had a little extra kick to them that made the candies
illegal in every country north of Columbia, but there was no need to spread that information
around, boys, or else good uncle Albus may get jail time, okay? (Okay, Professor, Harry and Ron
agreed, grinning.)

“I love you, Sirius,” Ron said after two glasses and a joint. He was drunk, not high, but the
two in combination provided an interesting effect. “In fact, I love everyone. Except Granger. I
hate her. Oh, fuck me, tonight I love her too.”

“Oh man oh man oh man,” Harry sighed, taking a puff from Dumbledore's favorite bong, the
Pensieve. He licked his mustache. “Oh man oh man oh man.”

Dumbledore blew smoke rings from his pipe, for all the world looking like a more badass hippy
Gandalf sitting with Bilbo in Bag End.

“Breaking news, everyone,” Sirius announced. “I am officially inebriated!”

Harry drove home, as he'd abstained from the alcohol. His driving was still rather
roughshod, and he had to stop himself from swerving into the wrong lane from jitters several
times.

The Firebolt navigated itself into the driveway, knocking over a garden gnome and bumping the
front corner of the complex garage in the process. Harry put it in park, hopped out of the car, and
helped Ron stagger into No 12.

“I love you, Harry,” Ron gasped.

“I love you too, Ron,” Harry said.

Harry put Ron to bed with a bucket for good luck and went to relax on the back porch with a
Coca-Cola and his favorite bathrobe. The Grimmauld Place flat complex was upscale, hip, and very
modern; there wasn't a person over forty-two on the entire row and the twenty flats making up
the complex encircled a huge common pool that everyone enjoyed.

“Evening, Harry,” called Lee Jordan from the grill behind No 10. “Loved the dog story tonight. I
think I'll be subbing in once for the radio show next week, so hopefully I'll be able to
watch you both from the studio.”

“Thanks, Lee,” replied Harry. “Where're Fred and George?”

“Closing up shop,” Lee said. “I'm just getting dinner started. You want some?”

Harry declined and relaxed in his recliner, comfortably observing his neighbors and their
friends splashing about in the pool and picking up one of his favorite books.

Two hours and one hundred pages in, the Weasley twins had come and gone (their antics with the
pool denizens effortlessly comical) and many of the neighbors had retreated to their flats. Harry
closed his book with a sigh, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray, and retired to the living
room.

He was still high, he knew, considering that he'd been smoking pot since six-thirty and
hadn't taken too long of a break, either. He was a deliberate smoker and knew his limits and if
he'd had any questions about his sobriety they were all cleared up when he decided that it was
a marvelous idea to shed his robe and begin plinking around on the piano in his briefs and
socks.

“I am playing a sonnnng,” he sang, out of key with the C minor chord he had hit. “I'm
playing a sonnnng and it is so funnnnnnn and I am loved by everyonnnnnne including Ronnnnnn (and
that's slightly weird).”

He growled and hit the piano with all his might. “Don't take my job, Granger! We
shouldn't be strangers! I am not a park ranger!” Harry often tried too hard to rhyme when
improvising. “We are anchormen, we'll be them again, even if we are not… abstinent?”

It was a terrible song and soon the exertion caused Harry to fall off the stool and pass out in
a shameful heap on the floor.

“What the hell?” Ron yawned, stumbling out of his bedroom. He blinked, saw Harry, and then sat
on the floor, curling up next to his friend and throwing a brotherly arm around him. “I love you,
mate… love, love, love…”

“I hate those two idiots,” Draco Malfoy muttered in his sleep.

“They won't expect a thing,” Hermione Granger muttered into her mirror.

“One day Ronnie will love me,” Lavender told her roommate Parvati.

“Pie is delicious,” Seamus sighed happily, leaning against his refrigerator.

“I think this news team is going to be the death of me,” McGonagall grumbled against her
pillow.

The Dynamic Duo stirred and held each other in their slumber.aHahH

-->



3. Races and Contests
---------------------



Sorry for the delay. As usual, don't try anything mentioned in this chapter, particularly
News Pong.

And to clear this up for anyone I confused with my idiotic use of irony, yes, this fic is
categorized correctly, despite what any of my self-deprecating jokes about my asinine sense of
humor may lead you to believe.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

.

Episode Three:
RACES AND CONTESTS

.

.

“This is embarrassing.”

“Pardon?” asked the incredulously delirious parent next to her, looking away from the ungodly
video camera for one glimmer of an instant.

“I said this is highly entertaining,” Hermione replied with a prim smile. She glanced at the
cameraman - Colin - over the mother's mouth and silently gagged. Colin laughed far too loudly
and Hermione winced.

“All right, the first act's winding down,” Colin said after five minutes. “Let's go
ahead and tape the reporting segment and then we'll get some more external shots and we're
out of here.”

“Good, I want to be back in time for lunch.”

Hermione let Colin direct her back and forth around the area they'd set up for her report.
It had a perfect background setup of the dancing first formers and her blue jacket went well with
the curtains, although Hermione had never been one to care about her appearance.

“Now we don't know which one of them will be doing this story since we're not doing any
live segments, so just say `back to you guys,'” Colin instructed her. “Standard look-live. If
you're ready, we're rolling in five, four, three, two…”

She held the microphone to her mouth and beamed at the camera. “Disraeli Primary School, just
blocks away from the famous statue of the man himself, is known for its excellent academics and
national recognition four years' running. However, these first and second formers are giving
the school something else to be proud about: interpretive dance.”

The dancing pumpkins and dolphins and space aliens - some idiot teacher had come up with the
idea of letting the children choose their own costumes, which for control freak Hermione was
nothing less than a personal insult - pirouetted and spun behind her. The pair filmed the framing
and wrap-up before grabbing the equipment and high-tailing out of the school auditorium to the
van.

“You're driving,” said Colin as he passed her the keys. “I'm going to start getting
everything in place for editing. Since we're not doing live -” *But we will be soon,*
Hermione thought with grim determination “- we can just splice it at the studio and do your
narration there.”

Hermione let her silence fill as an affirmation and Colin set to work in the back as she pulled
the van out of the lot. Colin offered to provide directions, but she didn't need them.
She'd paid attention on the way over to the school, and she had always been a good
note-taker.

She pulled to a stop at a light near a high-end flat complex and sighed, running her hands
through her bushy hair. The piece was simple, yet she was a worrier. What if her eyes had been
droopy? Lipstick off? She'd personally prefer damning the lipstick to hell, but as a television
reporter that wasn't much of an option, and a woman in this industry *had* to pay
attention to her looks. Hence the blue jacket.

A striking green convertible pulled up in the lane to the right of her, but she wasn't much
for cars and she didn't pay it any mind. Or she didn't until the car began honking nonstop
at her.

She looked to the right, scowled, and rolled down her window.

“Granger!” called Idiot Number 1. He was in the passenger seat - the seat closest to her - and
currently was leaning over his friend to honk some more. “Granger!”

“I'm listening, Weasley!” she barked back.

“How'd the assignment go, Granger?” Weasley shouted. “Did you get good video of all the
prancing little kiddies?”

She glared at him and then fixed Idiot Number 2 with an equally icy stare. Potter was grinning
at her, but while he was clearly in on the fun his countenance was nowhere near as acidic as
Weasley's.

“Actually,” she said, “the story is turning out fabulously. I think Minerva just wanted to ease
me into taking your anchor spot next week.”

Ron stopped smiling for the briefest of moments but then the smirk returned. “Tell you what,
Granger - me and Harry here -” the idiot couldn't even use pronouns correctly! “- will race you
to the studio. Five pound bet.”

“Ten,” Hermione said.

“You're on!”

Weasley turned to Potter and laughed. She couldn't help but notice the cool, confident
manner in which Potter held the wheel, like he'd been born to drive this car at this moment and
no other. She recognized the unmistakable feeling that told her she was about to lose.

*I'm not going to lose.* Her knuckles whitened. *I never lose.*

The light changed and the green car shot off like a CEO from an angry wife. She hit the gas
pedal and the van screeched in hot pursuit of the convertible.

“Whoa, Hermione! Slow down!” Colin cried, but what did he know anyway?

A motorcycle swerved in front of the Idiots and they had to slow to avoid committing vehicular
homicide; Hermione took her chance and accelerated off to the right.

She smirked. She had the lead. She was unbeatable in the lead. They were falling back. They were
going to lose. They were *passing her on the right!*

Potter was driving on the opposite side of the road, and oncoming traffic was heading right
toward him. The bus in front of him honked, but he waited until the last second; Hermione
hesitated, slowed just in anticipation of the crash, and the convertible leapt at the opportunity,
accelerating and squeezing past the van and to the left of the bus.

“Bastard!” she shrieked and floored the gas again.

The Dynamic Dolts held a comfortable lead for some time, but an old lady stepped into the road
and the convertible had to swerve to avoid not hitting her. Hermione was able to pull even with the
Idiots and glared at them through her window

She moved into position to take the entrance to the overpass leading to the studio, but for some
inexplicable reason the green car stayed right and headed straight for a large park. She ignored
them and focused on navigating the winding road hanging above the park.

*I'm going to win. I'm going to win. I'm going to win…*

Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw the car in the middle of the square - on the
sidewalk, brushing past restaurants and people and fountains like it was no problem - but she knew
it was just a figment of her imagination.

*Nowhere in sight!* she crowed to herself as she merged onto the road leading to the
studio. Her destination was only a hundred meters away. *Silly fools -*

While she was still entering the road a green car sped past her on the right and beelined for
the station building.

“Gah!” she growled, and Colin whimpered in the back.

She had lost.

She slowed down to a less insane speed and parked. Face pulled into a permanent snarl, she
exited the car, facing the Idiots, who were casually leaned against the hood of the
convertible.

“Amateur,” Weasley sneered. “Didn't even know about the park route. Of course, it takes some
skill to pull it off without killing five people, so it's probably for the best that you
didn't try it.”

“You act as if you were actually the one driving,” Hermione spat at the imbecilic ginger. She
looked at Potter, admitting grudgingly, “Good driving.”

“Not bad yourself, considering you were driving a van,” Potter replied. He smirked and patted
the hood affectionately. “No one beats the Firebolt, though.”

No one dared Hermione Granger, either.

“We'll see about that, Potter.”

“Hermione…?”

She sighed and went back to the van to check on a visibly disheveled Colin. She heard Weasley
congratulate Potter about something called a Wronski Feint, but she didn't really care, and the
van was somewhat of a mess.

“Ow…” whined Colin, rubbing his head, and Hermione cursed her life.

“God, life is great, isn't it?” Ron gloated, his arm slung around Harry's shoulders as
they made their triumphant march toward the lifts. “We put her in her place!”

“She should've known not to challenge me to a race,” Harry grinned back. “She does look
somewhat cute, though, when flustered. You have to admit.”

“Ugh! Bad images, mate. I think my brain is about to fry into a million little -”

“Hello, anchormen,” came a seemingly celestial voice, and just like that Ron's insides
turned to the vindaloo he'd consumed the night prior with Sirius and Harry and that cool stoner
cat they called Merlin.

And then he saw her and things just got worse.

Her name was Luna Lovegood and she was an investigative reporter with a penchant for the
bizarre. She was a fan favorite for her odd stories, even odder commentary, and *unique*
clothing and jewelry choices - her earrings at the moment were pretzels in the shape of pentacles -
and she was absolutely gorgeous, and if you were stupid enough to say any different Ron would most
pleasantly enjoy introducing you to his right fist (codename: the Enforcer). She was blonde,
beautiful, and absolutely bizarre, and Ron was absolutely, incontrovertibly, undoubtedly in love
with her.

“I think I'll take the stairs,” Harry said with a smile. “My legs are aching something
terrible and I should probably work out the stress. See you two at the top!”

Ron mouthed uselessly at his bastard of a friend's retreating form - “Judas!” he tried to
scream but it seemed unholy to bring up the untrue disciple's name in the presence of someone
that was goddamn close to an angel - but Harry just laughed and disappeared back-first into the
stairwell.

“I hope the lift doesn't break,” Luna said serenely. “I'm starting work on a report on
criminals who have been going around cutting lift cables. Several people have died.”

“Oh,” said Ron, her information doing nothing to ease the sinking feeling in his small
intestine. *Relax. She always does odd reports. It's no big deal…*

“Yes, it's possibly connected with the conspiracy enacted by Cornelius Fudge against the
Pakistani immigrants,” she continued. “Which of course has been aided by the efforts of Thomas
Riddle, Jr, and the like, who, by the way, is allegedly planning a nationalist movement to counter
the Thatcher revolution in Parliament.”

Ron let out a sigh of relief. It was just one of Luna's old theories. Then again, he'd
never honestly been worried about the lifts, and in retrospect he missed the feeling of dread, as
it had helped him stop focusing on the anxiety he felt in Luna's presence.

The lift opened, and they stepped inside. Ron instantly wished someone else had been standing
inside the lift.

“There's a new girl,” Ron said for conversation.

“You strongly dislike her,” stated Luna as an afterthought.

“Er… how'd you know?”

“You scratched your nose earlier,” Luna answered. And to her it was obvious. “You scratch your
nose when you're irritated, and I saw her outside, so therefore it's quite likely she
irritated you when you encountered her. Oh, here we are! Until later, Ronald!”

She skipped past the desks and into one of the conference rooms. Ron gaped at her until Harry
forcibly pulled him out of the lift.

“One of these days, mate,” Harry said, squeezing his shoulder. “One of these days you will
manage to actually have a real conversation with her without having a nervous breakdown.”

Ron frowned and mumbled, “Not bloody likely.”

“Oy, you two!” Seamus was bumbling over to them, pinstriped suit and all. “Check this stuff
out!”

In his hand were two blue pills.

“No thanks, Seamus,” Harry said. “I don't have a headache.”

“What are those, vitamins?” Ron asked derisively.

“No, you dunce,” Seamus replied. He leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. “I know a lad that
goes to one of the universities around here. Well, to be honest he's my pot dealer, and he just
got this stuff in. Apparently it's some fantastic aphrodisiac thing that gives you lots of
energy and makes you a lion in the sack.”

“Why a lion?” joked Ron. “Monkeys fuck a lot too!”

“And they also throw their shite at each other.” Seamus smirked. “One of these before bed
tonight and I'm gonna give one of these birds a night they won't forget!”

He winked at some of the women working at the desks nearby, but they largely ignored him.

“Finnegan,” boomed McGonagall's stern voice. She approached from behind Seamus's
shoulder, his hand still outstretched. “Make sure you're keeping a tab on that injury to the
cricket player. You know the one.”

Seamus saluted her with his free hand. “Aye, madam!”

“Just wanted to check. Oh good, painkillers,” she said, observing the pills in his hand.
“I've got a terrible headache. Thanks, Finnegan.”

She deftly retrieved the pills from his hand and walked away, leaving Seamus stupid and
shocked.

“Nice going, you Irish dick,” Ron said. “Of course, knowing the legality of those pills and what
might be in them, I wouldn't be surprised if McGonagall's the one that ends up with a new
dick.”

“That makes me want to vomit,” said Harry.

“Oh my God I hate my life,” said Seamus.

“Hey, what's going on?” Dean asked as he walked by, manila folder clutched to his chest.

Ron let out a guttural growl and Dean slowly backed away.

“Whoa, down boy,” Harry commanded, taking a solid hold of Ron's shoulders. He nodded to
Dean. “Nice seeing you. Lovely weather.”

“Yeah… er, I think I'll be leaving now,” Dean stammered, darting around the Dynamic Duo and
taking solace in the comfort of an empty lift.

“You really need to take a valium, Ron,” suggested Seamus. “You can't go around growling at
every man your sister shags. It's just not good manners.”

“They're not shagging!” Ron insisted, looking to Harry for support. “Right, Harry?”

“Ah… well, you know,” said Harry - because he'd be damned if they *weren't*
shagging - as he rubbed his hair awkwardly, “that's Ginny's business and Ginny's
alone…'

“I refuse to believe that Dean effing Thomas deflowered my sister!” Ron exclaimed.

“Oh, then there's no problem,” replied the ever-oblivious Seamus, chuckling out of relief.
“You see, I know for a fact that your sister was deflowered long before she started banging Michael
Corner a few years back, so you have nothing to worry about with Dean!”

Harry made gagging motions behind Ron's back. “Uh, Seamus…”

“Yeah,” called out Zacharias Smith from his desk, voice as grating as ever, “don't worry,
Weasley. Your sister's already damaged goods.”

“You little rat! I swear I'll stick your head so far up your own arse -”

Desks were knocked over in the ensuing scuffle and Seamus let out a high-pitched shriek. Harry
dashed to stop Ron from pummeling Smith into a prune-like corpse, but then one of the women started
throwing things and everything just devolved into one big mess and -

*BANG.*

“He's shot me,” Smith wailed. Ron stopped punching him for a moment, stared at him in
disbelief, and then socked him in the jaw again.


“Weasley's shot Smith!” one of the women cried.

“No I haven't!” Ron yelled, never stopping his assault.

*BANG.*

“That was me, you blithering fools.” On the opposite corner of the room stood Severus Snape,
brandishing a pistol and pointing it at the ceiling. The door to his recording booth lay open.
“Now, if you're done turning that chubby excuse for a fact-checker into beef jerky, Weasley, I
would appreciate it if you would calm down and let me have some peace and quiet. Some of us
actually do work around here.”

“Right,” spat Ron, dropping Smith's collar. Smith fell and hit his head against the side of
the neighboring desk. “Sorry, Snape.”

“Good. Oh, and if any woman - or man, for that matter,” Snape added, throwing a pointed glance
at Seamus, “elects to let out another girlish yell, I will promptly toss them into the wood chipper
parked at the appliance store next door in an effort to determine how sharp the chipper's
blades are. That will be all.”

Snape put his gun in his jacket and retreated back into his recording booth, the door slamming
shut behind him. The only sound in the large room for the seconds following was Ron's muttered
insult: “Git.”

Severus Snape was a former SIS officer and one of print journalism's most respected voices.
To add to that, he also hosted a lunch-hour radio show several days a week that was a rampant
success due to his cold intellect and habit of mocking both guests and callers - in London many
considered it a challenge to call into *The Radio Hour with Severus Snape* and get, as the
kids called it these days, “Snaped.” He often served as a commentator on national news - he'd
had a long working relationship with Dumbledore before the latter had retired - and occasionally
did commentary for YTV London as a favor to McGonagall, another old friend.

When the Duo had started off, Dumbledore, an old family friend of Harry's - and the
Duo's main inspiration for getting into the news industry - had taken them under his wing and
mentored them, and part of that tutelage had engendered a working relationship with Snape. Neither
side had enjoyed the professional marriage, and relations were still strained between the group. Of
course, going into the relationship, it hadn't helped that Snape had hated both Sirius and
Harry's late father since he was eleven years old.

“Get up, Smith,” Harry said, his voice less menacing than Ron's (but by no means friendly).
He extended a hand. “We can't have your fat arse lying down instead of checking facts. I
don't want to look like a complete dick up there tonight.”

“And if we *do* end up looking like dicks tonight because of one of your fuck-ups,” Ron
hissed in Smith's ear as Harry helped him into his seat, “I swear to God I will bite your right
nipple off and give it to my one-month old niece as a chew toy.”

Smith swiveled to the side, vomited in one of the trash bins, wiped off his mouth, and weakly
nodded.

“Good.” Ron folded his arms over his chest and scowled at the rest of the team. “Today just took
a real bad turn for the worse, mate. I'm totally hacked off. I need something to take my mind
off things… something to make me feel better…”

“I know what you need!” Seamus exclaimed from his seat on one of the ladies' desks.

Harry and Ron grinned at each other.

“NEWS PONG!” they shouted.

News Pong (copyrighted 1978 Weasley Wheezes Incorporated) was an immediate pick-me-up and also
one of the fucking scariest games you could possibly play. It was a bizarre mix between Hollywood
Squares, Ping Pong, pub drinking games, and pyrotechnics, but everyone loved it and it always made
for a good time.

There were many ways to set up the News Pong Wallboard (also copyrighted by WWI, so don't
get any ideas!), and today the group went for the Malfoy-centric spread. There were other set-ups:
the Filch-centric, the Skeeter-centric, or, if you felt really rambunctious, the Holy Center (with
someone such as Cronkite or Merlin in the center and numerous bastards outlining the frame).

To clear up any confusion, let's explain the Malfoy-centric spread. The team got nine
posters and pinned them to the wall in the shape of a square. The eight outlying posters were
posters of people that just about everyone liked - as already mentioned, the Cronk, the Beard, the
Weird Sisters, etc - and then a right prick occupied the center (in this case, Draco Malfoy).

Each game consisted of two teams. Each team had two roles: Sprayer and Lighter. The Lighter took
a regulation pong ball, doused it in lighter fluid, lit it on fire, and tossed it into the air. The
Sprayer, using a pong paddle, attempted to hit the flaming ball into the wall on which the posters
were spread. The goal was to hit the center spread - in this case, Malfoy's ugly mug - and
scorch it. (Kids: don't try this at home.) Any hits to the “Good Guys” (the outlying eight
posters of cool cats) resulted in a drink for that team.

Roles switched with each hit and teams took turns and losers (although were there really any
losers in such an awesome game?) had to pay for property damage. It was an undeniable work of art
and everyone agreed that whoever the Weasley twins had stolen the game from was a goddamn genius
and possibly wanted for arson and vandalism in several different countries.

“C'mon, Harry!” Ron cried, reveling in his role as the Lighter as he doused a ball in fluid.
“Make this a good one!”

The ball was tossed; Harry swung; and -

“Not Ludo Bagman, Harry!” Ron wailed; Malfoy smirked undeterred at the disconsolate pair. “I can
understand hitting that bloke from the Weird Sisters, but Bagman was my favorite player growing up!
He's the finest defenseman England has ever seen!”

“Shut it and drink, Weasley,” Seamus gloated. He had pulled over the affable and shy Neville
Longbottom, one of the studio camera operators, to be his partner. “Let Longbottom and I show you
how it's done.”

Neville took his role as the Lighter and Seamus took an extravagant swing and hit Winston
Churchill in his plump left cheek.

“Suck it, you Irish drunk,” Ron retorted. “Give me that paddle, mate, you don't know how
it's done…”

“Whatever you say, Ron.” Harry held his lighter, or as he called it, Hedwig, a nifty little
contraption in the shape of an owl that his old friend Hagrid had bought him in a trashy shop down
by some trashy pub Hagrid frequented in the center of London. “You ready?”

“Was born ready, you cad,” Ron hissed.

The flaming ball went up and it was going, going…

Malfoy's smirk now had a little `o' in the middle, burnt black and looking for all the
world as if the smarmy bastard had been just been caught with his pants down in a female
coworker's kitchen.

“EAT IT, MALFOY!” Ron's guttural scream drew a muffled, *`SHUT UP, YOU IDIOTS!'*
from Snape's recording booth, but no one paid the greasy prick any mind. He whooped and
high-fived Harry. “Mouth shot!”

“Don't let down your trousers quite yet,” Seamus grumbled. He handed the paddle to Neville.
“Let's go, mate. You can do this. Just clear your mind. Don't think about the game.
Don't think about that bird over there with the wonderfully short skirt, although dear God,
that is like Christmas come early. Don't think about -”

“Seamus, trust me.” Neville tried a grin. “I've got this.”

Seamus nodded, looked back to the short-skirted lady to try to catch a glimpse of thigh, and
finally lit it and flipped it.

*WHACK.*

“Forehead!” Seamus announced happily. “Good one, Neville. Should've known you'd -”

“MALFOY IS ON FIRE!” Ron yelled. “FIRE EXTINGUISHER ASAP!”

“I don't know where it is,” whined Hannah Abbot, who had been watching the game and making
eyes at Neville. “I can't find it!”

“It's not in its usual spot, Ron!” Harry called back after checking the back door.

Malfoy's poster was now split into shriveled black cross-sections by curved lines of flame,
which were threatening to spread to the Good Guys.

“Someone take down King Arthur!” Ron shouted over the mayhem. “I don't care if this place
burns down, but that's my favorite poster!”

Harry rolled his eyes and whacked Ron across the head, growling, “Ron, I don't think now is
the time!”

“It's spreading!” Seamus exclaimed.

“I don't care if it's the time, Harry! Sometimes you have to risk your life to save
others! King, I'm coming for you!”

Ron stumbled toward the wall in a vain attempt to save his favorite piece of sheen paper. Hannah
yelped when bits of Malfoy's poster began hitting the floor, but Neville quickly stomped each
piece out.

“Nice going, Weasley,” commented Zacharias Smith in his snidest tone. “Real genius. You care
almost as much about that dumb poster as you do about your sister's nonexistent virginity.”

“SHUT UP, SMITH!” Ron roared. “I WILL BREAK YOU, YOU SLIMY -”

“Back up!” ordered a loud, authoritative voice over the chaos. “Back up, let an expert take care
of this mess!”

If the command didn't do the job of dispersing the crowd, then the ensuing stream of cold
sodium bicarbonate did the trick. It was hard for either Harry or Ron - or anyone not named
Neville, as he was still dealing with Malfoy's ashes - to see what was going on near the
poster, but obviously someone had a fire extinguisher and was taking care of business.

The blue cloud began to spread apart and the fire was dead.

“You buffoons are lucky I went into the staff room to get a silencer for my pistol when I
decided to murder you all in cold blood,” Snape drawled, fire extinguisher hanging loosely from his
thin fingers. “I was just opening my locker when I heard all the commotion. Oh, and whoever decided
to use a fire extinguisher to cool their cheap alcohol? You are officially a Neanderthal.”

No one disputed the claim, although Seamus did redden considerably.

“I'm done for the day, so don't try this again - I won't be here to save you.” Snape
threw the extinguisher at Harry's feet, swished his long black coat behind him, and headed for
the lift. “Good luck with the broadcast, children.”

Ron waited for the lift door to close before he turned to Seamus and declared, “You guys are
paying for the wall. Mouth shots count more than forehead.”

“That's a load of bullshit if I've ever -”

“No it isn't and you know it, Finnegan -”

“You trollop, take one step closer and I'll -”

“Vomit all over my shoes, probably, you cowardly -”

“WILL YOU BOTH SHUT UP AND START GETTING READY FOR TONIGHT'S BROADCAST?” Their mouths hung
open as Minerva McGonagall emerged from the opposite lift. Harry noticed with some discomfort that
the top two buttons of her blouse were undone. “And someone clean up this mess!”

She stalked past them and into her office, fuming.

“Mouth shots do count more,” Ron grumbled.

Seamus whacked him in the arm and scampered away.

-->



4. Sweeps Friday
----------------



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.

-

Episode Four
SWEEPS FRIDAY

-

“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.

-->



5. The Worst Monday
-------------------



The next couple of chapters play with timelines, as a warning.

…

..

.

EPISODE FIVE:

The Worst Monday

.

..

…

He could sense it from the moment he entered the building, when the security guard had looked at
him, frowned, and suddenly busied himself with paperwork that didn't exist.

If he was perfectly honest, he could sense it from the moment he'd first pulled up in his
parking spot and noticed that the other cars that usually parked next to him were several spots
away.

Not to mention the fact that he'd bloody well sensed it ever since he'd rolled out of
bed (literally; the makeup crew would have fun covering *that* bruise).

Today was going to properly blow.

And to tell the truth he hadn't exactly rolled out of bed, per se. He'd never rolled out
of *his* bed. But he wasn't sleeping in his bed. Currently he was sleeping on the sofa.
He'd washed the sheets four and a half times (the washer had broken from overuse), he'd
changed pillows, he'd placed the bed on the other end of the room.

But whenever he went to lie on it - or, damn it all, *sit* on it! - he couldn't get it
out of his mind. He played some soft Beethoven on his record player, the Beatles, effing Simon
& Garfunkel; but the sounds were drowned out.

During “Symphony No. 9” he'd hear, in his head but so real it seemed there, *“God, Minnie,
you're so hot!”*

During “Yellow Submarine” he'd hear, right on top of Ringo's vocals, *“Oh yes, Seamus,
drive in harder!”*

During “Mrs Robinson” he'd just hear grunting and wet, slapping sounds, and goddamn it if
that wasn't some brilliantly sickening irony.

And even when the noises went away for the briefest moment he would tentatively place his palm
on the bed and remember that his boss and dick coworker had fucked here and it was forever
tainted.

His neck hurt - the sofa was a pull-out, but Ron had broken the handle on one of his romps with
Romilda Vane. Ron claimed it had been someone else, but Harry knew very well it wasn't; after
all, he'd come out of his room to get a drink of water and had witnessed, much to his dismay,
Ron in the full monty breaking the handle in half.

His new mattress would be there when he got home. Bless Remus.

So, for his troubles in hosting that gala on Friday, he'd received a bruise on each cheek,
although the one on the left had thankfully healed by this point and only hurt when he put an
unreasonable amount of pressure on it.

Annoying, but he couldn't find it in him to be properly mad over the cause of that bruise.
That wouldn't make things any less awkward, mind, but c'est la vie. He'd adopted that
motto from Sirius ever since the Boating Incident when he was twenty-one. Three days on a boat with
no motor in the middle of the Caribbean. Sirius had just raided the alcohol cabinet, shrugged, and
said, “C'est la vie! Let's drink ourselves to sleep, fuckers,” and that had been that.

Good times.

Dennis Creevey was standing in the elevator as he entered. Upon his entrance, Dennis laughed
nervously, stepped out into the hall, and called out, “Oh, hi, Seamus! Here, I'll come get that
from you…”

Harry scowled at the elevator's closing doors. Seamus was off on assignment.

“Hello, Harry,” said Luna as he took a seat at his desk. “Good weekend?”

“Not so much,” he muttered.

“Ah, predictable. I sensed a strange aura about you. Nargles are probably feeding on your
happiness.” She reached into her desk, pulled out something, and shoved it in front of his face,
beaming. “Here! This necklace will protect you from misfortune.”

“A necklace of onions.” Harry blinked and silently wondered why he was shocked. This was Luna,
after all. “Er, I'll pass for now, Luna. Thanks.”

She shrugged and dropped the necklace on his desk. “I think you'll reconsider.”

At that moment several doors opened - literally, not figuratively, although for Harry a door to
hell might just as well have opened.

First, Severus Snape stepped out of his recording booth.

Second, Minerva McGonagall emerged from her office.

And for a kicker, Hermione Granger returned from the break room.

“Granger!” McGonagall barked, and Harry knew she was officially in superhuman mode, that rare
mood change when their usually strict-but-sane boss would transform into, in Ron's words, “an
uber-bitch.” She had stepped into her office just like any other normal person, but with a quick
change of attitude she had emerged something more than human, a transformation from Minerva
McGonagall to something that could only be called the Hot Flash.

“Yes, Minerva?”

Even Granger had to know what was coming. The Hot Flash was anything but subtle in her ways.

“That story is too short! We need *at least* six minutes out of it, and right now we've
got three!” Stomp, stomp, stomp, spitting all over the room, and she stopped at the elevator door
for added emphasis. “That may have been enough in Coventry, but not in London!”

Exit the Big Bad Wolf, who, from the look on Granger's face, had huffed and puffed enough to
blow her self-confidence down.

“What are you looking at?” she growled, making eye contact with Harry.

“Don't mind her,” he said.

Granger paused her glare but the ceasefire was more ephemeral than an agreement between Israelis
and the PLO (not to mention the Israelis and Egypt, etc), and soon she was storming out of the
room, too.

“My God, Potter,” drawled Snape, “she dislikes you even more than she dislikes Weasley.”

“Shut it,” Harry spat.

“Annoyed, Potter? Unsure what to do when they're not asking for your autograph or opening
their legs?”

And Snape snorted his way into the break room. Rat bastard.

Harry's eyes traveled downward in defeat and landed on his desk. “On second thought, I think
I'll take this.”

“I knew you would,” said Luna as she helped Harry fit the string of onions around his neck.

“What's wrong with McGonagall?” he asked, feeling a keen fool with his new jewelry.

“Ratings are out,” said a morose Ernie.

Harry saw no problem with this. They nearly always won. “So?”

“News 2 just barely beat us.”

Nearly being the key word.

“Damn it!” Harry slammed his fist against the desk and rocked back in his chair. “And I thought
we had a pretty strong run there! Damn it twice! At least it wasn't News 3. Diggory I can
stand.”

“Diggory's a right lad,” agreed Ernie. “But Edgecombe annoys the living shite out of me.
She's always trying to take my leads.”

“Hello, Ronald,” said Luna. A very tired Ron stopped, looked at her with half-lidded eyes, and
nearly dropped his coffee. Luna grabbed her things from her desk, smiled, and stood. “Goodbye,
Ronald.”

Off she went to the break room.

“Something's bothering Luna,” Ron noted, taking a seat next to Harry.

“Oh yes,” said Harry, taking extreme pains to be delicate in delivering the bad news to Ron, who
had an infamous temper when it came to ratings. He needed to be honest but somewhat circuituitous;
encouraging, constructively critical, and hopeful.

“We fucking lost the ratings war, Weasley,” Ernie said.

Harry had been planning on saying something to the effect of, “Due to circumstances beyond our
control, there was a mishap regarding the sweeps ratings and News 2 is ranked ahead of us at the
moment, but don't worry, it'll be fixed in a jiff!” but Ernie's worked just as
well.

“You lying sack of shit!” Ron roared, hopping upwards and kicking over his chair. “I know there
is no goddamn way we lost ratings this month! We had a fucking *golden* week, for Christ's
sake! Platinum, really!”

“I'm sure it's just an aberration, Ron -”

But Harry was cut off. “An aberration? No, it's a damned screw-up, that's what it is! An
embarrassment!” Ron kicked the side of Harry's desk and threw his coffee towards the back wall,
hitting Hannah Abbot in the side of the head. “We're the number one team in this town!”

“OH MY GOD!” Hannah screamed. “MY FACE! IT BURNS!”

“Nice going, Weasley,” Zacharias Smith muttered.

To which Ron picked up his swivel-top desk chair and whacked Smith on the back of the head with
it.

“That's enough, Ron!” Harry stated firmly, jumping to his feet and grabbing Ron's arms.
“You can't throw a temper tantrum every time something doesn't go your way! We just barely
lost out to News 2. You know Diggory and his lot - they've come close before. They were due.
It's just a one-time thing. It'll keep us focused.”

For several seconds Ron struggled but eventually common sense prevailed, signified by Ron's
deep breath.

“You're right,” he said. “Diggory's a proper lad. Don't mind him at all. Chang's
one of the most annoying anchors in the city, which just makes me respect Diggory more for dealing
with her, but I can handle that. At least it's not Malfoy.”

Harry agreed: “That's what I said.”

“Sorry about that, Hannah,” Ron called out. “Should've controlled myself.”

“No kidding, you prick!” came the screamed reply.

“I'm going to call an ambulance,” said Neville.

“Fuck,” said Ron.

“I think Zacharias is knocked out cold,” Ernie announced.

“Fuck,” said Ron.

“Hey, all,” stated Dean.

“Arse,” growled Ron.

“Fuck,” muttered Dean.

“All right,” Harry said, keeping a close eye on Ron in case the youngest Weasley son decided to
ruin his relaxed mood by beating the living crap out of the man that had despoiled his little
sister. “Let's just settle down for a mo, okay?”

“I'm settled.”

Dean shook his head violently when Ron turned his back to him. Harry sighed.

“Let's give Diggory a call,” Ron said. “Haven't had a chat with the man in a while. Kind
of want to congratulate him myself, just so he knows that this is a temporary thing. Course,
Diggory'll probably be going national soon… good-looking arse.”

“Diggory's arse is good-looking?” sniggered Zacharias, who had just regained
consciousness.

“Harry, can I borrow your chair?” Ron asked in a calm voice.

“Let's call Diggory,” Harry decided.

“Hello?”

There was a reason Cedric Diggory was so popular, the pair were instantly reminded - a reason
outside of his ridiculous good looks (and sans mustache!). He had a voice like velvet. Chocolatey
velvety goodness, with cherry filling. Delicious…

“This is getting somewhat sexual,” Harry whispered.

“Oh, was I narrating aloud again?” Ron wondered.

“Hello?” Cedric said again.

“Hello, Cedric,” Ron stated into the receiver. “Just heard about the sweeps ratings. Good job on
that, mate.”

“Oh, thanks, Ron. We're joking around over here, having a good time. We're convinced
they must have got it wrong! You guys had a really strong week. Golden, really.”

“Ha, I thought so, too,” Ron replied, grinning with gritted teeth. Harry noticed that the phone
was pressed up against Ron's face so hard it was almost bruising him. “But good job, Cedric. We
keep hearing buzz about you going national. Say it ain't so, Joe!”

A laugh from that charming man. “Oh, I don't think so. I'm happy where I am. And
everyone knows you and Harry will get pulled up before I ever will. I'm a talking head, to be
honest. You two are proper journalists.”

“Quiet, you modest bastard!” It was hard to tell if Ron was joking, but Cedric let out a nervous
chuckle nonetheless. “Ah, here's Harry.”

He passed the phone, and Harry gladly saved Cedric from the terror that was Ronald Weasley.

“Good job again, Cedric,” said Harry, somewhat honestly and with a happily low amount of
bitterness.

“Thanks, Harry,” Cedric replied. “Cho says hello.”

“Well tell Cho hello for me,” said Harry uneasily. (He'd had a brief fling with Cho Chang at
one point, if an aborted one-night stand could be called a fling. Unfortunately for Cho Chang,
Harry wasn't much into S&M. Especially when it involved steak knives and pagan
rituals.)

“Ask her if her sex change came with a warranty,” Ron piped up. “She's been looking rather
mannish lately. I think she's relapsing.”

“Cho, I think Ron wanted to tell you something,” Cedric called out, always the oblivious nice
guy. “What was that again?”

Harry said hurriedly, “Just hello and how is she. By the way, we should buy you drinks to
celebrate your victory. Us anchors.”

“But not Chang,” said Ron.

“The men, anyway,” Harry corrected himself.

“Ha, I don't think Cho would want to come anyway,” laughed Cedric.

“I'll stab her in the sternum if she does,” stated Ron seriously.

“I look forward to it,” continued blissfully ignorant Cedric.

The conversation ended before the News 2 anchor heard and fully comprehended anything Ron might
say; Harry had, as Seamus would say, talk-blocked his best friend. Which was much more
understandable than cock-blocking, so Ron couldn't be too put out.

“Move aside, emergency personnel!” said a serious-looking chap in bright blue trousers, a gaggle
of serious-looking chaps in similar attire following him.

“Over here!” Neville called.

“So that party was pretty crazy,” said Dennis Creevey as a conversation starter.

“Wouldn't know,” Ron groused. “Passed out for most of it with a teddy bear.”

Zacharias Smith smartly decided not to comment.

“So.” Dennis shoved his hands in his pockets, then took them out, then put them back in. “Did
you ever get out of that cage, Harry?”

Harry glared at the younger Creevey brother. “Dennis, where the hell am I now? Do I look like
I'm in a cage?”

“Oh. Right-o. Sorry.”

And Harry would have felt bad about his shortness, but Dennis should've expected that when
he questioned Harry about That Night. Ugh.

The serious chaps in the blue trousers bustled by them, carrying Hannah on a stretcher.

“Sorry, Hannah!” Ron called out, trying to sound cheerful and apologetic at the same time.

“Fuck off, Weasel!” Hannah screamed back.

Ron smiled weakly. “See you later!”

The elevators whirred shut and Neville came over, placing his hand on Ron's shoulder.

“I think she'll be fine.”

“Really?”

“I think so, at any rate.” Neville's hand squeezed Ron's muscle in a comforting way.
“And even if she isn't, she can still sue you for being one of the dumbest men in Greater
London and throwing a cup of scalding water at her face. Not your finest moment.”

“No,” sighed Ron, “I suppose it wasn't. I really should work on my temper.”

“No kidding,” snorted Zacharias.

Ron's hand moved for the nearest empty chair, but somehow he restrained himself. But
barely.

“Hey, lads,” said Seamus as he placed his briefcase on his desk. “Saw an ambulance outside. Hope
somebody's hurt, or else they've gone through a spot of bother for nothing.”

“Ron threw a cup of coffee at Hannah's face,” Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily.

“That's terrible,” was Seamus's reaction. Then: “You drink coffee?”

“Coffee is amazing,” Ron defended himself. “Except when it's on your face.”

“Whatever, Weasley. I'm gonna go get myself a cup of tea. Anyone want one?”

(Seamus had been a waiter once and had never quite kicked the habit. Women loved his generosity,
except when they thought he was implying that they were fat. Which happened more often than you
would think.)

But a funny thing happened on Seamus's way to the break room.

Minerva McGonagall stepped out of the elevator with a large stack of files in her hand.

And then she walked toward her office.

Two converging forces, perpendicular, at equal speeds. A squared plus b squared equals one hell
of an awkward conversation (times itself).

“Seamus.” The words escaped from McGonagall's mouth through some miracle, as her lips never
seemed to part.

Seamus held his head high and regarded her respectfully (well, as respectfully as you could
regard someone you'd seen starkers and been fucked silly by). “Minerva.”

Then Seamus stepped into the break room and that was that.

“Wow,” commented Neville with a low whistle.

“Wow indeed!” Ron exclaimed, taking joy in anything that made him feel less terrible about
ruining Hannah's face and life in general. “And to think that they shagged on your bed,
Harry!”

Harry twisted his onion necklace and grumbled: “I'm getting a new bed.”

“Might want to get that entire room checked out by an exterminator,” Ron responded. “Never know
what kind of sick stuff those two might have left behind.”

“Ron.”

“Did I go too far?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” Ron leaned back in his chair, kicked his feet up on his desk, and chewed on his
fingernail. “Where's Granger? Imagine you two have a lot to talk about.”

“She's working on her story, I think,” Harry said.

“So you *have* seen her,” said Ron with some satisfaction.

“Wasn't much of a conversation,” Harry muttered.

So the day went by, lurking past like a beat-up 1964 Ford lorry. Harry didn't see Granger
again before it was time to head to the studio, and for once he wasn't entirely disappointed
about that. Pretty though she was, she was also a handful when angry, which seemed to be all of the
time, or at least as long as “those inbred dolts known as Potter and Weasley exist in this
dimension,” as he imagined she'd say. If she didn't seem to mean it so forcefully it might
have been cute.

“I want focus,” barked McGonagall during makeup, marching back and forth with one hand behind
her back, the other hand a beat-bopping with each spit-out syllable. Her anchors listened
attentively, because if they didn't who knew what the Hot Flash might do in her rage. “I want
you to *feel* the story. I want you to understand why these stories are important in our day
and age! I want you to think what Diggory would do.”

“Fuck what Diggory would do,” Ron muttered as Daphne Greengrass covered up a slap mark on his
cheek (courtesy of Hannah's best friend Susan). “We're not Cedric arsing Diggory.”

McGonagall's face was immediately an inch away from his nose, her eyes narrowed. “You'd
better start caring, *Weasley*. Because Diggory is the best in London right now. I want you to
present the news with a vengeance in your heart. Make the other news stations *pay.”*

Daphne winked at Harry as she moved to do his forehead.

“You don't have to want to win,” the crazed station head continued. “You just have to not
want to lose, very badly. I hate losing. Losing is despicable. And we musn't lose, you
see?”

Daphne pushed aside Harry's fringe and did some touch-up around his famous lightning-bolt
scar, barely hiding her smirk.

“And we've been playing not to lose! You can't do that. You have to want to win! You
have to play to win.”

Daphne actually giggled, but it was covered up by Ron's indignant exclamation: “That makes
no sense at all! That's a load of tripe! Are we supposed to play to win or are we supposed to
hate losing? Your motivational tactics actually make me want to go do a worse job than I was
already going to do.”

“You'd best do a good job, Weasley,” McGonagall hissed. “You're not ready, I can tell.
You play like you practice. Ever heard that expression? My nephew is a striker for Everton. They
have that posted on their clubhouse wall.”

“Everton also blows,” Ron commented.

McGonagall jabbed her finger in his face, huffed, and suddenly walked away.

“That was bizarre,” Harry said.

“No kidding,” Ron replied, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Here, take a look.”

Daphne swiveled Harry's chair around so he faced the mirror. His reflection smiled back at
her. “Daph, you're a doll. I nearly fall in love with you everyday. I don't know why
I'm not head over heels for you already.”

“It's probably because she shags girls,” Ron explained.

Harry punched Ron in the arm and Daphne laughed.

“Well,” she said suggestively, batting her eyelashes at Harry, “that's not *always*
true, is it?”

Harry blushed and Ron's faced contorted into an expression of confusion. Or, to be more
accurate, Ron's face reverted from an unusually lucid expression into its more regular
expression of confusion.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

But Ron would never find out, because at that moment Hermione Granger entered the studio. She
was out near the control booth, still visible from the makeup stand a ways off the main set, and
Harry immediately flinched.

“Great,” he breathed. “Just what I needed.”

Daphne's eyes followed Granger as she slowly walked towards them, engrossed in the stack of
papers held between her hands. And then Daphne turned to Harry, chewing a strand of her brown
hair.

“I heard what happened on Friday,” she stated. Harry groaned. “Bad luck there. You really
screwed that up.”

“Thanks.”

“You fancy her, don't you?”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Imagine I might, if she ever stopped trying to kill me.”

“Hm.”

Then she plopped herself down in Harry's lap without warning. Harry let out a grunt of
surprised pain, and was unable to stop Daphne when she waved to Granger and said, “Hello,
Hermione!”

Granger looked up, saw Daphne, frowned for a moment, and then put on an icy smile. “Good
afternoon, Daphne.”

“How's the story?” Daphne asked with evident interest.

“Fine, fine. Much better than last week.”

Daphne wiggled her bottom against Harry's lap and he bit his lip. Damn her. Damn Daphne to
hell.

“That's good. Later, Hermione!”

Granger walked into the control room and Harry immediately spat out, “What the hell was
that?”

“Oh, don't pretend you didn't like it,” Daphne pouted. “I was just helping you out,
that's all.”

“Helping me out?” said Harry incredulously. “She already thinks I'm a womanizer!”

“She thinks I'm more of a womanizer,” Ron boasted.

“I'm playing this subtly,” Daphne answered. “First of all, I'm engaging a woman's
natural jealousy. Despite what she says she must feel some attraction toward you to hate you so
much - well, she doesn't hate you, I think, she's just very mad at you, or disappointed in
you, and the point remains. However, when I talk to her later, I'll mention what a wonderful
friend you are, especially to a gal like me who's not looking for romance, to show her that you
consider women for their friendships rather than just their knickers.”

“You're still sitting in my lap.”

“Come *on,* Harry. It's nothing sexual. I'm almost a lesbian, after all, and we
have a nearly perfect platonic history, give or take a few nights. And even then there were other
people there.”

Ron's eyes bugged out and Daphne laughed, hopping up to her feet. She smiled
conspiratorially to Harry, leaned in close, and whispered, “I forgot how excitable you are!”

Then she walked off. Damn her again.

“I think I'm in love with Daphne Greengrass,” Ron blurted out.

Then Luna walked by, flinging her hair over her shoulder and whistling a merry tune. And
knitting. While she walked.

“Well, maybe not quite,” Ron sighed.

“You're pathetic,” Harry said, and then qualified, “in a good way.”

“And you've got a better chance with a quasi-lesbian than you do with Hermione the Horror
Granger.”

Harry couldn't argue with that, all facts considered.

“Fuck me, someone's moved the vodka.” And Ron looked around suspiciously, scaring off an
intern (Nigel? Norris?) and doing no good in locating his valuable alcohol.

“Found it,” said Harry.

Ron shot up. “Where?”

McGonagall screamed at someone as she walked back into the control room, vodka bottle in
hand.

“Oh damn it all.”

“I think you're going to want to get a new bottle,” Harry remarked.

“I've got a 45 oz of Guiness underneath the desk, for special occasions and emergencies.”
Ron adjusted his cufflinks, furrowed his brow, assessed the situation. Harry could tell that Ron
had entered Nightly News mode. “I'll save you some if you want it.”

“I'm fine -” Then Lavender Brown came walking into the studio with half her midriff showing
and a face full of makeup, and he changed his mind. “Yeah, pour me a bit, would you?”

Ron nodded and headed for the desk. Lavender smiled at him, and he gave her a friendly slap on
the bottom as he passed. “Hello, Lavender! Nice top!”

She giggled and Harry contemplated smashing his chair into the mirror and stabbing one of the
resulting shards into his temple.

“Hi, Harry,” she said.

“Hi, Lavender,” he said, trying to hide his exasperation. Trying and failing, trying and
failing. “That's a nice blouse you're wearing. I'm wondering, when will your
three-year-old niece want her shirt back?”

The meteorologist scowled good-naturedly back at him, sticking out her tongue in the most mature
fashion. “This blouse, I would have you know, is extremely fashionable at the moment, and is in the
height of style all across the world.”

“I agree. It's extremely fashionable in schoolhouses and brothels all across the world.”
Which was somewhat paradoxical when you considered it, but equally true.

“Do you really think it's a bit much?”

“Well, it depends. Are we speaking absolutely or relatively? Because compared to your skirt -
nice knickers, by the by, magenta is one of my favorite colors - the blouse is rather conservative.
At least I can only see part of your bra. And you have a lovely belly button, by the way.”

“Shut it, Potter.” She shook her head and swooned, a little melodramatically. “I'm doing
this for the *team*, Harry. Ratings are down.”

“Is there a direct relationship between ratings and clothing?” Harry wondered aloud. “The less
viewership, the less clothing you're supposed to wear? Damn it, I should just go without
trousers today. Not that anyone would notice, sitting behind a desk.”

“Viewers want to see this,” Lavender said, pulling her blouse open even more.

“Yes, Lavender, you have lovely cleavage,” Harry agreed, “but you're supposed to be covering
cold fronts and the like, not serving as a masturbatory aid.”

She stood and seemed to consider whether she should be grateful or angry or just resigned to her
inclination toward nudity. Then: “I suppose you're right. I'll change the skirt and put a
slightly longer skirt on. But not much longer,” she stated emphatically, waggling her finger at
him.

“Wicked,” Harry said, relieved. “We don't need any complaints from parents, after all.”

Lavender laughed and plopped herself in Harry's lap, much as Daphne had, and threw her arms
around his neck. “Harry, you're a saint, you know that?”

“Er.”

She planted a sloppy, friendly kiss on his cheek, pressing her chest against his in an
unintentionally sexual manner. And, of course, at that moment Hermione Granger walked by again, saw
the sight, huffed out audibly, and said something that sounded remarkably like, *“Pig.”*

“Thanks for the talk, Harry,” said Lavender, hopping up right as Granger entered the control
room. “Off to change!”

She scurried away, leading Harry to ask no one in particular what it was with women and his lap
today. At the very least, could the women in question have been romantically interested in him?

Oh, the pains of the life of the saintly, occasionally vain, and allegedly (though not proven)
sexist anchorman.

That pain was why he found himself doing shots with Ron before the show. Shots of Guinness
weren't exactly high-class - hell, who even *did* shots of Guiness? - but it was better
than nothing.

“Just one more,” Ron muttered. “Just one more.”

Then Seamus came by and took the whole damn can and they were both too shocked to follow him.
Besides, the poor bastard needed it more than they did.

“We're live in one minute!” Dennis announced.

“Bloody life,” sighed Ron. “First the Hot Flash takes my bottle and now her Irish boytoy takes
my backup can. Don't suppose you have any weed?”

“No.”

“Oh well. Wouldn't be professional, after all,” Ron said, and Harry cracked a smile that
hurt his blistered lips and smeared the powder covering his bruises.

“Thirty seconds,” stated Dennis.

He saw her, behind the glass, standing with Daphne Greengrass, just as Daphne had promised. To
his surprise, she was looking back, arms crossed over her chest, and she didn't even look like
she wanted to kill him. She hardly seemed to acknowledge that he existed, but then she blinked and
he knew she was regarding him, trying to crack his code.

“And we're live in five -”

Harry looked at his notes, watched Dennis's hands count it down the rest of the way.

Four, three, (“Fuck it,” he mumbled), two -

One.

-->



6. Emphatically Yes
-------------------



A shorter chapter, but that's just how it worked out.

-

--

Episode Six:

EMPHATICALLY YES

--

-

Harry's hands went to her sides protectively as the cage fell with a muted thud around them
(the Weasley twins had had the sense to pad the bottom so as to avoid scratching the floor - a good
prankster always considers collateral damage). She leaned into him, acting on reflex rather than
her outright hatred of him, thank God, and he looked about wildly until -

Until he saw them.

“What on Earth?” Granger breathed.

“I'm going to kill you,” Harry growled.

“I didn't do anything!” Granger shot back.

“Not you. Them.”

The Weasley twins beamed at them. “Hello, Harry, Ms. Granger. So pleasant to see you two
tonight. I notice you both decided to stand under our conveniently placed cage.”

“Much better than mistletoe,” Fred added.

“I'm not going to kiss Potter, for God's sake,” Granger said as if it were the most
ludicrous idea she'd ever heard. Harry's ego suffered a small deflation, and she shifted
away from him, as if she'd just realized that his hands were still on her hips.

“Didn't think you would,” George replied. “We actually were hoping you might get violent.
It's always more fun that way.”

“I'm going to kill you,” Harry said.

George said: “I'd like to see you try.”

Granger said: “Why are you doing this to me?”

Fred said: “No reason. Boredom, mainly. Harry here knows the drill when it comes to us.”

Harry said: “I'm going to kill you.”

“Oh bother, I thought you might say that.” George sat at the Steinbeck and began playing a
funeral dirge. “You're always so focused on death, Harry. Look at the bright side. You're
stuck in a confined area with a beautiful, intelligent young woman.”

“Who hates every fiber of his being,” Granger clarified.

“Should make for some awesome sex. A bit rough, perhaps,” said Fred, ever the optimist.

Granger took a step forward and Fred was very glad that they'd decided on a nice, secure
metal cage. Although even that might not prove sufficient to withhold an enraged Hermione
Granger.

“So,” said George, lapsing into the Moonlight Sonata, “you two seem like you have a lot to talk
about. I think we'll just kip out and go try to get the Patil twins drunk enough to have a hot
twin orgy with us. Toodles.”

And he left, the bastard, with his bastard twin brother. He never even resolved the song. So
much tension in that note! So much.

“Just to make this clear, I hate this just as much as you do,” Harry stated.

Granger turned, eyes narrowed. “You didn't put them to this?”

“You want to kill me. I'm not suicidal, you know.” He folded his arms over his chest.
“Although I'm vicious when cornered, so don't get any ideas.”

To his surprise, Granger laughed. And really laughed.

He laughed too.

She stopped.

“I'm not going to kill you, Potter,” she said, amused. “I think you're a prick and hate
these circumstances, and I will kick you in the groin if you so much as look at me, but that's
just a result of my hypercompetitive personality and the sexist attitude I've seen you portray.
I'd much rather find a way out of here.”

“Same.” He stepped forward to shake her hand. “What do you say we -”

“We don't have to stand near to each other to work together,” she pointed out.

“Er. Yeah. It would probably be better if we stood on opposite ends,” he said, eyeing her boots,
which looked rather sharp and pointy and like they would not be at all attractive embedded into his
groin region.

He tested the roof of the cage, but it wouldn't lift. Fred and George must have placed
weights on top when he wasn't looking. He kicked at the bottom, but it wouldn't budge; not
only were the pads soft, but adhesive as well.

Bugger.

“No luck,” Granger sighed.

“None here, either.”

They looked at each other for a while, looked away for dignity's sake, and then
consecutively sat down in their own corners, Harry near the piano and Granger near the sofa.

“What's this all about?” came another voice, and Harry groaned. “I heard you two had locked
yourselves in a cage, but I thought Fred was kidding me.”

“Not now, Tonks.”

But Tonks didn't care about Harry's wishes, so she stuck her hand through the bars and
offered it to Granger, wearing her brightest smile. “Hi, I'm Tonks. The old man with the fire
extinguisher knocked me up several weeks ago. Nice to meet you…”

“Hermione Granger,” she replied, actually putting on a pleasant face. “I've just been signed
on as a reporter.”

*And anchor replacement,* Harry thought, amused that Granger hadn't added that in
there.

“Hermione Granger?” said Remus, eyes dancing as he threw a glance in Harry's direction.
“I've heard about you. Worked in Coventry, right? I'm a family friend of Harry's. My
name's Remus Lupin, and this is my lovely wife, Nymphadora.” Tonks scowled. “It's a
pleasure to meet you.”

“The same, Mr. Lupin,” Granger said, and he laughed: “Just call me Remus.”

So she did, and it was very nice and *Oh we must be going* and *Come on**, old fart,
back to the bedroom!* and Remus stammering then smirking when he saw Harry (attempting
telepathy: “Please save me!”) but oh no that couldn't happen so the Lupins left and they were
alone again.

“They seem nice,” she mused.

“They're amazing,” Harry agreed, dull with the betrayal of his future godson's father.
Not that he'd be accepting the offer now. (Sniff.) “Some of my favorite people in the
world.”

“Family friends?”

“Remus knew my parents.” *Back when they were, you know, alive.* But he didn't say that
part because it just sounded like he was whining. “He's been like a father to me. He's one
of the main people who made me want to be an anchorman. Along with Albus Dumbledore.”

She seemed to find this amusing in its obviousness. “Who *isn't* influenced by Albus
Dumbledore?”

“Er, he's another family friend.”

And that sounded like bragging but he'd rather be a braggart than a pitiable orphan.

“Oh my.” He thought she was actually impressed. That or she just hadn't come up with
anything nasty to say yet. “Who on Earth are your parents?”

“Dumbledore and my grandfather were best friends,” he said, deftly dodging the question. “They
served together in France. He's been close to the family ever since.”

“And how do you know Remus?”

“Friend of my parents. My dad was like a big brother to him,” he said, and he realized he'd
talked about his father in the past tense. Damn. “He's also my godfather's best
friend.”

She stretched out her legs and leaned her head between two bars. “What do you're parents
do?”

“Not much,” he said, and that at least was true. Rotting wasn't really a whole lot of work,
now was it?

“Retired, then?”

“Mmhm,” and he was getting dangerously close to being an outright liar now, so he changed the
question: “What about your parents?”

“Dentists.”

“That's exciting.”

“Maybe not, but I assure you I have very clean teeth.” She smiled, to show him, and he wished
she would keep smiling. Although that might hurt her face after a while.

“Are they excited about your transfer to YTV?” he asked, realizing the danger of his question
too late.

But she didn't seem to mind. “Yes. My mum always wanted me to be a doctor and my dad always
wanted me to be a novelist but they're happy for me anyway. They're just glad I'm doing
as well as I'm doing.”

“They sound nice.”

He meant it, too.

“They're perfectly nice, and supportive to boot. I couldn't ask for more.”

All of a sudden Harry wished that he weren't sitting alone and that she didn't hate him,
because there were times - when Molly would pick a leaf out of Ron's hair, when Seamus's
mum would show up to the station with biscuits (“But Mum, I'm a grown man!” he would cry, even
though he secretly liked it), when Andromeda would beam at Tonks and then Remus would blush - that
the loneliness just overtook him and made him desperate to know that someone was still there, and
this was one of those times.

But she hated him. So he wasn't moving.


“How was Coventry?”

“I enjoyed it,” she said. “Compared to London, it's not much. A car city rebuilt around a
ridiculous concept of world peace and all that, but nice nonetheless. Have you always been in
London?”

“Yes. I used to be a correspondent for Surrey, but I've always lived and worked for London
stations,” he replied. “Radio, print, television. I've done them all. I think I'll stick
with television, though.”

“I've heard you're quite good at it.” It wasn't even a direct compliment, but it
sounded odd coming from her mouth nonetheless. “Your entire team's well respected, of course.
Can't see why anyone respects Weasley, though.”

“He's a good anchor. He's got charisma.”

“Hm,” was all she had to offer to that. She played with her shoelace. He noticed for the first
time that she was wearing everyday trainers, which contrasted with Romilda's high heels. “I
don't think he likes me much.”

“To be fair, you don't like him much, either,” Harry pointed out.

“No, I don't, do I?”

That thought seemed to amuse her, again. She leaned back to stretch and hit the bars with her
elbow; cursing under her breath, she grimaced and let out a sigh.

“I guess I should've expected that,” she said.

But Harry was focused on something entirely different. “Wait,” he stated, crawling over to her.
She visibly tensed. “I swear to God the cage shifted. Here, help me push.”

She obliged, with her other arm, and the cage moved, but only several inches before it hit the
sofa. Harry tried to find a grip to push it upward, but yet again it wouldn't budge. He sunk to
the floor next to her in frustration.

“It was worth a shot,” he muttered.

Granger shrugged, cradling her elbow in her hand. As if she agreed. Which was a funny thought
for some reason.

She was really quite cute when she wasn't angry.

Then again, she was hot as hell when she was, so that really didn't encourage polite
behavior towards her.

“Does this kind of thing happen a lot at these parties?” she asked.

“The cage is a new twist. Last time Percy ended up on fire in a chicken suit,” Harry responded.
“No, wait. The chicken suit was with Dennis and Colin when they got pushed into a pool full of
alligators.”

Granger replied, “Either way, this is quite tame in comparison. I suppose we should find
ourselves lucky.”

Harry noticed the way her hair framed her cheeks and had to agree.

“I told Fred that you wouldn't kill each other.” Luna stood behind them, beaming, and Harry
had to crane his neck backward to see her. “You look much like mating Snorcacks in their natural
habitat.”

“Snorcacks?” whispered Granger.

“Don't ask,” Harry mumbled. He looked back to Luna, his neck popping in the process.
“That's lovely, Luna. Is Ron comfortable?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Luna. “I tried to move him, but he's quite heavy.”

Granger hid a laugh and Harry had to smile.

“Would you mind terribly if I went to have a lie-down in your room, Harry?” Luna continued,
either oblivious or unaffected. “I'm quite tired.”

McGonagall and Seamus's sweaty bodies formed in his mind's eye. “Er, that's probably
not the best idea. Some people are…”

“Oh, yes, Minerva and Seamus are copulating on your bed at this moment. I'd quite
forgotten.” For a moment Harry hated Luna, just for the mental image she gave him. “Well, I'll
go see if anyone's sleeping on the roof, then. Until Monday!”

He didn't turn to see, but he imagined that she skipped away. She did that a lot.

“McGonagall and Finnegan?” Granger inquired.

“Unfortunately.”

“She seemed so sensible when I talked to her.”

“In her defense, she's not quite herself tonight.” Harry thought about Seamus's pills
and shuddered. “In fact, if she ever was herself, I'd say it wasn't tonight. She's…
chemically unbalanced at the moment. Thanks to Seamus, ironically.”

“I don't think I want to know.”

“Wise choice, my friend. Wise choice.”

He stared at the Steinbeck, noted the elegant polish, the black wood and blinding white ivory.
He thought about what her fingers (so small!) would look like, dancing across that ivory, black and
white keys, major and minor-seventh and diminished chords, a song she wrote or a song that she knew
from memory. He really was shit on the piano.

“You know, Potter,” she said after a while, “you're not that bad.”

“Why thank you,” he replied, and he felt genuinely grateful.

“You're welcome.”

“You're much more pleasant when you aren't thinking of how nice it would feel to
vivisect me.”

She smirked. “Who says I'm not?”

Harry laughed and it hurt his ribs, which just made him happier.

“Now that she mentioned it, I'm quite tired myself.” Granger had to stifle a yawn. “I've
had a busy couple of weeks. I feel as if I'm about to doze off.”

“Hm, maybe Seamus slipped something in your drink…”

He hid his grin as her eyes narrowed, her mouth opened to splutter some outraged response, and
then as she calmed, noticing his expression.

“Had you,” he gloated.

“Yes, well…” She was pretty when she pouted. He wouldn't tell Ron that; Ron would think he
was a sap and a lunatic to boot. Although Ron was quite sappy when it came to another certain
lunatic, so he couldn't really say anything, could he? “McGonagall and Finnegan are shagging on
your bed.”

“Ew. Touché.”

“For that, you receive the punishment of being my pillow,” Granger said, and she laid her head
on his shoulder.

Harry felt his heart race, da-bump, da-bump, da-THUD.

This was *punishment?* Well sign him up for hell in a hurry, goddammit!

Was her heart racing too?

Probably. It was bloody hot inside the flat. The super did a right shitty job with the air
conditioning. Fred and George would need to have a talk with him.

“You don't have much muscle,” remarked Granger, breaking him from his inane thoughts.

“Eh, well.” And that was the entirety of his witty retort. Fucking useless mind. He was too used
to reading off of notes and the occasional teleprompter.

She sighed into his shoulder. Her eyes closed, she was a vision of tranquility. She was relaxed.
She didn't seem so… angry.

And she *was* so angry, from what he'd seen of her. He couldn't particularly blame
her - the news industry was a difficult place for a woman, particularly a precocious and
intelligent woman, but she needed to loosen up. She actually was quite a nice girl when he
wasn't deathly afraid of her.

Which he still was, to a degree - for slightly different reasons.

“Talk to me,” she said. “I hate silence. Annoying, really. Talk to me, Potter.”

Who was he to deny her?

So he talked to her. He spoke about the station, about old stories of Seamus jumping off the
roof and Luna bringing in a decapitated opossum and Dennis (accidentally) eating a cockroach on
live television. He spoke about Ron and their adventures together, and he didn't think her
opinion of his friend changed one bit: she wasn't one to just take your word for it, she had to
bloody *see* it for herself. Which was all right, she'd see Ron was a decent bloke. In the
end.

She said things once in a while, things about her old friends, though he got the feeling
she'd never had much in the way of friends, probably because of her ruthless ambition and
self-serious attitude.

But she was also funny, he found. Even half-asleep she had a sharper wit than he ever would,
damn her. He didn't mind that much, to tell the truth.

“Tell me more about your parents.”

“Tell me more about *your* parents,” he said, because obviously that was the most elegant
avoidance of the question he could voice. Sometimes he hated his brain.

“They're dentists.”

“I wasn't aware that they lived at their practice.”

“Mum loves history books, Dad loves Frank Sinatra and *Doctor Who,* and I love all three.
We're really not that exciting.”

He thought about his own parents and said, honestly, “Sometimes exciting is overrated, you
know.”

“I suppose.” But she didn't, because if she didn't like the excitement of fighting
against the grain in a business designed to bring her down, she wouldn't have been here, would
she?

He heard a bang from the patio and she stirred, but he knew better.

“Just Fred and George,” he murmured.

“Someone could be hurt,” she said, worried. He thought it was cute, how she actually cared for
other people. So naïve.

“Trust me, we've dealt with it all. They'll be fine.”

He couldn't really guarantee that, but close enough. No one had died yet, at any rate.

“You know what,” said Granger a minute later, “I think I'm beginning to like you,
Potter.”

Her head turned. Her eyes locked onto his, and he noticed how her cheeks flushed red (he
silently blessed that poor super for never fixing the air conditioning), how the brown stood out
against her irises black as coal, how random strings of hair twisted together over her ears like
licorice whips but the color of milk chocolate and glimmering in the proper light.

“Oh really,” he said.

For a moment he forgot the shouting, and he thought she might've too. He did notice how her
eyelids hung low, how her smile was easy and not at all anxious when every nerve in his body was on
edge, and perhaps that should have been his first warning.

“Yes.”

He was so bloody scared and he was fourteen all over again. God she was close. He could bend his
neck an inch and touch foreheads with her, count the freckles in her eyes.

*Yes.*

Did she feel anything? He didn't think about that, because his blood pounded in his temple,
boom-da, da-doom-da, all Ringo Starr-like (“Tomorrow Never Knows” to be precise: his favorite
post-'65 Beatles song). It didn't matter that they were in a cage, that neither was here by
chance. The air was electric, popping in his ears. It felt right. Could he?

*Yes.*

He was somewhat of a coward; this he'd always known. Throw him in a near-death race to the
finish in the Firebolt and he'd be a maniac, but put him with a woman and he'd nearly wet
himself.

But then he looked to her lips, hanging partially open like a promise of things to come, to her
nose (he now understood why noses were called buttons - her nose was a cute beige button), to her
eyes all over again, shining beneath lids setting like a winter sun.

Would he?

*Yes.*

The look in her eyes finished the deal. Signed, sealed, and delivered.

He did the only thing that seemed proper.

He leaned forward and kissed her.

*Yes, yes, yes,* emphatically *yes!*

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