Trouble In Paradise

            --a *Harry Potter* fanfic by AngieJ (also known as Ebony Elizabeth)

DISCLAIMER: All of the characters, settings, and major plot lines belong to J.K. Rowling. Any original characters, settings, or plot developments are only possible because of the foundation she’s provided. No copyright infringement is intended. The Sexiest Wizard Alive Contest belongs to AndreaBonfanti, and Ginny’s fashion sense belongs to Penny & Carole (and by extension, to the awesome Lori).

Chapter 4 -- For Auld Lang Syne


"We two have paddled up the stream,

From morning sun till dine,

But seas between us broad have roared,

Since auld lang syne."

                        --Robert Burns (translated)

 

When I arrived home on Boxing Day, the first sight that greeted my eyes was George, back from his jaunt in India. He was holding Malinda upside down by her ankles and swinging her in a circle around the living room. I thanked heaven that I’d dressed her in trousers and a jumper before we left for Hermione’s... for even if she’d been wearing those baby Quidditch robes or a dress, George would have done the same thing. Between her uncles and her father’s antics, I had to give up Project "Make Malinda a Dainty Little Lady" by her second birthday.

"Well, I suppose the earthquake’s over! What’s left standing?" asked Fred, coming in with the post.

"Very funny. How much did that child tell you?" I asked. He’d picked up Malinda from Ginny’s on his way home from my mother’s.

"Enough. Then there was an owl from Ron." He held the brief note up. "Says he’s at Lupin’s, thanks for everything, and he’ll see us at the Golden Snitch on New Year’s Eve. You can fill me in on the rest after we put the baby to bed."

George and Malinda finally collapsed on the rug, exhausted. After I bathed her and dressed her in footed pajamas, and Fred and George told her a bedtime story that was more along the lines of a Punch and Judy puppet show, it was time for the twins’ interrogation.

I’m often asked what it’s like being married to a man who is so close to his identical twin. When I first began dating Fred seventh year, all of the girls in our dorm cautioned me, especially Katie. "Aren’t you’re afraid Tweedledee and Tweedledum will switch places on you? Be careful, Angelina... you know those two!" Most of them spoke from personal experience. The "terrible twins" had dated what seemed like half of the girls in our year.

In the very beginning, there were times when I’d get all the way to the Three Broomsticks before I realized that it was George who was sitting across from me. Then Fred would pop up, and they’d both howl like the incorrigible hooligans they were. "I don’t see how you put up with those clowns!" Alicia would invariably exclaim. But as the weeks turned into months, and the months became years, they found it increasingly difficult to play their tricks on me. By war’s end, I had no trouble distinguishing them.

Fred and George may be identical, but they are not just alike. George is the younger of the two by seven and a half minutes. He’s also more perceptive than Fred is. He’s a bit more sensitive to people’s needs... less impulsive and more patient. His tongue is just about as quick with a jest as my husband’s, but over the years, he’s learned to exercise a surprising amount of tact. That is a social skill I wish he’d teach his twin.

Fred’s temper is quicker... he and Ron have by far the shortest fuses in the family. He’s also a natural leader and a people magnet, unlike his twin who values his personal space somewhat. I also think Fred was born innovative. I’ve never seen someone with as many ideas as he has. He never fails to spark my creativity... among other things.

There are obvious physical differences that have developed over time as well. Fred has gotten much stockier than George... both of them say that this is my fault. George’s look is becoming more bohemian, wearing his hair long and inheriting the fang earring Bill had to give up when rising through the Gringotts’ ranks. He also wears a goatee.

Fred has a scar on his lower back, a souvenir from his first Quidditch match our sophomore year... that’s a long story. He’s ticklish in certain spots, and I don’t think George is. He smells different than his twin, too... like freshly cut grass and sunshine and summer rain. George is more musk and spice and night air.

I told them everything that I’d seen transpire that afternoon. They listened without comment, waiting until I was completely done. Then:

"Hermione’s shagging Malfoy, eh? Thought she had better taste."

"She is not!" I said hotly. "Don’t be crude, Fred. You’ll just make an already sensitive situation worse."

"Well, you can’t fault her taste," George said to his twin. "Draco Malfoy has won the Witch Weekly Award for Sexiest Wizard Alive five years in a row. Strange. A lot of witches favor the washed-out, pinched-face type... or perhaps it’s the fact that he’s loaded with Galleons..."

"Stop being mean, you two," I complained. "Anyway, she isn’t sleeping with Draco."

"Oh, like she’d actually tell you if she was," Fred scoffed, giving me his don’t-be-so-naive look.

I shifted in my armchair uncomfortably. Had I missed something?

George took the ball and ran with it. "You’ve got to admit, Angelina, it does seem fishy.

Draco and Hermione have never been that friendly, even when he was dating Ginny. And back at Hogwarts they couldn’t stand one another."

"That’s just the thing that puzzled me. Ginny was there, and she wasn’t angry about the exchange between those two at all. If something was going on between them, she would have been furious... seeing as she just broke up with him six months ago and Hermione is one of her dearest friends."

Fred shrugged. "Perhaps. But I’m with Ron. If I’d seen Malfoy cuddling up to my wife, I would have choked the git and asked questions later."

"I’m not Malfoy’s type, dear, so you have nothing to worry about. Anyway, there is something strange going on." I hesitated, for I’d decided not to tell them about Hermione’s plan for her unborn child. That was really a sensitive matter for women... and I had no guarantee they wouldn’t run straight to Ron. "Hermione went from spitting nails at her husband to being on the verge of tears. Acted as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him."

Fred nodded briskly. "Sounds like guilt to me. Caught her red-handed."

"But she didn’t act like a guilty woman," I protested. "She pounced on Ron and seemed ready to put his eyes out before Harry pulled her off. Almost like she was having a fit of righteous indignation."

"Thank God they have Harry as a buffer," George observed. "Hopefully, he’ll be able to talk some sense into them both."

"I don’t know about that. Harry seemed so... well, you know how Harry is. Couldn’t read him if you tried. But he seemed so... well, I don’t know... exasperated, I guess. Almost as if the way they were acting was really getting to him."

I got another of those looks from Fred. "Well, they’re only his best friends, Angel. Should be just corking if they’re having marital problems, right?"

"I’m not saying that everything doesn’t have its reasonable explanation. I just find all this rather odd... yes... odd."

The twins looked at each other.

"Here we go again," Fred said. "The one-woman version of Scotland Yard is on the case." Strangely, one of my husband’s favorite pasttimes that doesn’t involve exploding objects is reading Muggle mysteries.

"This is a sensitive family situation, not an investigative news report," George added. "From everything you’ve said, Angelina, whatever’s happened between Ron and Hermione will not be solved overnight. Best to avoid getting in the middle of it."

But I’d already felt the cold tingle that always formed at the base of my neck whenever I couldn’t figure something out. It wouldn’t let me rest until I got to the bottom of it all.

"No use forbidding her to meddle in other people’s affairs," Fred was saying to George. "Thank God she’ll be back to work on New Year’s. There’s only so much she’ll be able to pry into before then."

George decided to change the subject. "So, the rubber Quidditch clubs were all Malinda’s idea, eh?"

"Chip off the old block," Fred laughed, the picture of satisfaction.

***************

An obvious rule of investigative reporting is that one should never herald their arrival. Some good faerie must have instructed me not to owl Ginny before showing up at her flat early in the afternoon on New Year’s Eve. I’d been ignoring the first few symptoms of a cold since before Christmas Day (the drafts at the Daily Prophet offices were perhaps to blame), but I really didn’t begin to feel under the weather until that morning. It’s common knowledge that the only satisfactory cure for the common cold and related viruses is Higginbotham’s Best Daytime Draught for Colds and Sinuses. By the time I Disapparated from home, the only symptoms that remained were a bit of fatigue and an occasional sneeze. Even these would disappear within the hour, or according to the package I’d receive my seventeen Sickles back.

Ginny’s flat occupied the top floor of a converted warehouse in the fashionable West End district. As many young and upcoming witches and wizards live in this very Muggle area, the sole point of Apparition is in the rear lobby. One cannot Apparate directly to the front doors of the individual lofts unless said individual is the resident thereof. Unfortunately for me, the Leviosa Lift operator was on holiday and the Muggle elevator was being serviced. On that afternoon, the only feasible means of getting to Ginny’s eighth floor loft was via walking sixteen flights of creaking stairs... an exercise that most magical adults were not physically up to, and especially not one who was already a slight bit woozy from Higginbotham’s DDCS. By the fifteenth landing, I had to stop so that my heart wouldn’t beat out of my chest.

The front door of the flat was visible from where I stood panting. I concentrated on it hard, for I needed a concrete goal—just twenty more steps and I’ll be there!—and was just about to begin walking again when the door swung open, revealing Draco Malfoy’s head and back. He was obviously engaged in conversation with someone who was still in the apartment.

"...told you, I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for me. When you get that ‘Draco, you’re my hero!’ look in those big blue eyes, I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven."

Ginny’s laughter tinkled from just beyond the threshold. "You devil, you’ll never even get close to heaven."

"Don’t crow. I’ve tainted you beyond redemption. If I’m doomed to burn, I won’t go unless you roast with me."

That’s when Ginny finally stepped fully into the doorway. Even from where I was standing, I could tell she was smiling up at him. It was an inopportune time to sneeze, I thought to myself as I tried my best to twitch the itch out of my nose.

"Then I consider the world well lost," said Ginny softly.

She and Draco leaned closer... he put his arms around her... I lowered my head quickly, feeling as if I was intruding on a very private moment... one of my springy spiral curls fell forward to tickle my nostrils... despite my best efforts to catch it, my sneeze cut into the charged atmosphere like a thunderclap. Draco turned around with a smirk. Ginny looked past him and saw me.

"Angelina!" She flushed bright pink. "I didn’t know you were coming."

I waved off my intrusion in an offhand manner, finishing the few steps that remained. "Oh, I was just in the neighborhood and decided to make a few social calls."

"Indeed, impeccable timing is what the Weasleys are noted for," Draco said a little testily. "Granger? What are you doing in there, growing a fresh coat of fur for the winter?"

Hermione came running up behind Ginny, bundled up in a smart tweed coat and a merino scarf set. She greeted me warmly, then turned to Draco. "Just gathering your reins and bit for the journey, Malfoy. Honestly, I thought patience was a Slytherin virtue."

"Thanks ever so much for using my own words to bite me in the arse."

"I learned from the best. The Golden Rule in action, my dear."

"And what Golden Rule might that be? Those who have all the gold make all the rules?"

Hermione jabbed him in the ribs with a finger. "You see, that is exactly why I’m stealing him away from you, Ginny. You’ve been corrupted enough already. So, Angelina..." here she turned to me, and I couldn’t help but note the suspicious gleam in her eye, "what brings you by?"

"I was just going to chat with Ginny about my dress for the party at the Golden Snitch tonight," I said casually. "I’m so terrible at accessorizing, and there’ll be cameras all over the place..."

"...Half of them with your own finger attached to the shutter, as you and that sniveling Creevey will be most likely jotting down everything that happens, with lies, damn lies, and statistics thrown in for good measure," Draco pointed out. "Tell me, what fairy tale will the Prophet invent about me this time?"

"Oh, it’s always about you, isn’t it?" said Hermione to him acidly. "We’ll all be there tonight, Angelina. Malfoy, if you’re quite done whinging about your overexposure, we have a lunch meeting at Nobu."

"Whinge? Me? Never. Others do it on my behalf and with a considerable amount of skill, might I add."

Without saying another word to either me or Ginny, Hermione and Draco swept down the staircase, engaged in carefree banter until they were out of sight and earshot. Ginny stood there as if at a loss, then brightened all of a sudden and invited me in.

We talked dresses and robes and cloaks and hats. According to her, the retro-thirteenth century look in evening wear had come and gone. I was glad of that—I looked absolutely ridiculous in wimples. Pastels were being abandoned for jewel tones and basic black. And leather—snakeskin included--was going to be huge.

After describing my ruby dress robes and matching cloak to her, she launched into a long list of suggestions. I nodded, feigning interest until I could return to the matter at hand.

"Why you waited until New Year’s Eve is beyond me, Angie. If you want, I’ll owl Francine Nailer and see if she can squeeze you in this afternoon. Such springy curls would look marvelous in an upsweep, and Francine always knows how to tailor-charm the latest styles to your facial features." She paused, for I think my eyes had begun to glaze over a bit. "Angelina, you didn’t really come over to ask about clothes and such, did you?"

I snapped out of it. "Oh... oh! Well, since I’m here..." I broke into a grin as she shook her head. "What’s wrong with Hermione these days? Is she well?"

Ginny suddenly looked very grave.

"I know you’re much closer to her than I am, Ginny. But even though you’re closer to the situation, you’ve got to know that the whole family is concerned about her. I don’t mean to pry," I finished quickly, although that was exactly what I was doing.

"Angelina, what do you want me to say? Hermione is fine. She may seem as if she’s coming unhinged, but she is not. I’m not sure if I’d be nearly as calm under the circumstances."

Bingo. So she did have some idea of what was going on.

"And exactly what set of circumstances are you referring to?"

Ginny looked at me strangely, then shifted her weight from one side to the other. "Didn’t Hermione tell you already?"

I nodded, thinking she was referring to the baby.

"I thought so! I’m so glad she’s been able to talk to you, Angie. Hermione thinks that although we’re close, I’m still Ron’s sister and my first loyalty will be to him. Not a chance. As a woman myself, how can I not understand her position? Ron’s made his bed, and I hope he’s content to lie in it."

At that point, it dawned on me that Ginny believed Hermione had poured out her heart to me, when all I actually knew was that our sister-in-law was not thrilled about her pregnancy. I wasn’t about to stop Ginny from talking, though. Another obvious rule of investigative journalism: when your star witness is singing without coercion, silence is golden.

"I mean, he had it coming. How in the world did he think that Hermione of all people would take something like that? You’d think there would be more trust built up between them. Forgiveness shouldn’t have even been an issue there. Not for two people who finish each other’s sentences on a regular basis, do you know what I mean?"

There was a brief pause which made me slightly nervous—I didn’t want this pipeline of information to dry up so soon. But when I nodded, she plunged fearlessly ahead.

"I still don’t understand why it happened. Never in a million years did I think that this would ever happen. I mean, Ron and Hermione were a couple that everyone took for granted, even when they were kids. Mum used to say that she was such a nice, smart girl, just like a daughter... and then grin significantly. The twins teased Ron something awful, and Bill and Charlie gave him all these meaningful nudges after they met her. Not to mention my third year, when Mum and my aunts were rather put out with Herm because of those articles by that horrible Skeeter woman..."

I bit my lower lip, struggling to maintain a poker face. Rita Skeeter may have been a unprincipled scab, but when all was said and done she was a journalist to her very marrow. No one in my field could boast of having an untarnished halo.

"But by the time the war escalated, they were joined at the hip. They were never all that mushy and romantic... that isn’t their way. They didn’t need outward displays of affection for everyone to know they adored each other. Ron would see her and get this dreamy look on his face... I remember one time Colin snapped him like that and the pic mouthed ‘Take me, I’m yours.’ And Hermione would look up, and smile at him, and blush. They sparred over every little thing, but they also were fiercely protective of one another.

"You know, being the youngest, I had the good fortune of learning from my brothers’ mistakes. Of all the marriages in the family---don’t take this the wrong way--I always admired what Ron and Hermione had the most. Bill and Fleur were all lust, Charlie and Liz are an adventure a minute, and Percy and Penelope idealize their connection on ‘an intellectual plane that transcends the spiritual’ or something strange like that. George is still finding himself. You and Fred are great, but we can’t all march to the beat of a different drummer... some of us have got to step in time.

"Ron and Hermione’s marriage is based upon abiding friendship. That’s so powerful. It means trust, empathy, compatibility, and unconditional forgiveness..."

She trailed off, staring at her lace window curtains. When I saw she was temporarily at a loss for words, I paraphrased the many questions I’d wanted to ask since Boxing Day into a single phrase.

"But Draco..."

Ginny’s head snapped back to meet my gaze, which was as empathetic as I could manage. "Oh, Angelina, you don’t actually think I mind? Come now, how could I under the circumstances?"

Once again, I was speechless.

"Hermione needed comforting, and Draco comforted her in the best way possible. Or should I say, the ultimate way. Indeed, it was I who suggested it." Ginny nodded once in the matter-of-fact manner that is the Weasley trademark. "Draco has a natural talent for it. I learn something new from him all the time. Ahh... yes. Draco." She got a very dreamy look in her eyes and shivered a little, as if remembering something extremely pleasant.

My father once told my mother that he firmly believed there were three kinds of people in the world: those who make things happen, those who watch things happen, and those who wonder "what the hell happened?" I’d spent most of my life in the first category, the past week in the second, and now my sister-in-law’s revelation had catapulted me firmly into the third.

I’d strongly suspected ever since Hogwarts that Ginny was a bit more unconventional than I. At that moment, the proof was in the pudding.

"Oh, I..." I began, "well, Gin, I know you haven’t really been with Draco for a little while now..."

"Six months, eight days, twelve hours, and..." here she glanced at the Muggle wall clock, "...seventeen and a half minutes to be exact."

"Astonishing!" I said, meaning it more than she knew. "I just... well, I only thought it might be a bit awkward, if you know what I mean." Yes, I thought. Strive for neutral, politically correct terms, Angelina. One self-righteous, pro-family values statement and she’ll shut up tighter than a Gringotts vault.

"Awkward? No... not really. I’m so used to sharing until it’s second nature for me. Perhaps it comes from growing up in such a big family."

I hoped it didn’t. After all, my husband was from the same background, and I had no intentions of sharing him.

"Besides," here she lowered her voice as if someone else was in the room listening, "I’ve gotten quite used to Hermione over the years. She steals the limelight from other women. Not that she means to... not at all. And it’s not that she’s the prettiest witch or the most witty or the most fun to be with. She’s just... oh, she’s like a supernova." Ginny’s voice got very wistful towards the end.

"Yes, Ginny, she is. I suppose we really don’t stop to think about it because we grew up with her, but Hermione is just about the most famous woman in our world. She was the Joan of Arc of the war. She’s Ron Weasley’s wife and Harry Potter’s best friend. She’s been noted in both wizarding and Muggle world records for her academic feats. She’s easy on the eyes. And she’ll not crack thirty for another year and a half. People will always speak of Hermione in superlatives. But," here I smiled, "I daresay she’d give anything to be you for a day."

Ginny laughed that notion to scorn. "Me? Please, Angelina. You don’t have to boost my ego. Hermione and I have never been in the same league and I’m fine with that..."

"Stop! Hermione is the kind of woman who people look up to, but I’m dead certain that she wearies of standing on her pedestal from time to time. On the other hand, you, Ginny Weasley, are the kind of woman who everyone wants as their very best friend."

"Including Winston," she said morosely. "I thought we were headed somewhere, then he owls me from Paris a few days ago and says he’s ringing in the New Year with some hag from the Pyrenees. A hag, Angelina!"

"Birds of a feather, Gin... you deserve better than the Winstons of the world anyway." I went to sit next to her. With her chin in her hands and bottom lip stuck out ever so slightly, she reminded me of my younger sister Olivia. Smoothing down her brilliant red hair seemed to calm her as easily as it does Liv. "You deserve the best."

"I don’t know. Every time I love a man, I seem to lose him. I lost Harry to the war and perhaps even before that. I lost Clive to his ambition, Wendell to some Muggle, and now Draco’s..." She shrugged. "I guess I don’t have what it takes to hold a man."

"Ah, that’s where you’re all wrong, my dear," I said, hugging her tightly. "You can be a modern, independent witch and have the fairy tale too. One does not have to be mutually exclusive of the other. Stop looking to hold a man. Try letting the man hold you for a change."

She sat back up and stared at me quizzically, eyes filled to the brim with unshed tears.

"You know," here my serious, big-sisterly face broke into a clownish grin, "you are one special witch. It’s kind of hard to be swept off your feet when your arms are full of other people’s baggage. Live and let live, sis."

Ginny met my smile as her tears flowed freely. "Cheers, Angelina."

 

************

The Golden Snitch is widely acknowledged as the best wizarding nightclub in England. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan’s little hedonistic venture opened in Diagon Alley the year after the war. Many of the most embarrassing and hilarious party incidents of the past decade have been connected with the Snitch. For instance, a funny story is often told about a very famous wizard of our acquaintance who arrived at Ron’s stag party quite a bit after midnight and high as a house-elf on butterbeer, who then stripped down to what from all accounts looked like a cloth diaper, jumped up on the stage with the "female entertainment", and... well, I wasn’t there, so far it be from me to repeat idle gossip.

Anyway, the Snitch is loads of fun, and about the only place we’d consider spending the last night of the year. Most of the witches and wizards who attend the invitation-only New Year’s Eve Fash Bash are in their twenties, thirties, and early to mid forties. Our parents’ generation is welcome, but most of them think that Dean and Seamus are over the top. If they go out, they patronize events such as the Ministry Ball or book passage aboard the Floating Oyster (something or the other to do with an Engorgement Charm and the International Date Line).

Parents with young children at home usually like to spend the time with their families. Once Malinda is old enough to stay up and see the New Year in with us instead of being sent to the Burrow, my Fash Bash days may be over.

Fred and I Apparated to Diagon Alley early, as I had to split my night between work and leisure. George and his date Presh Patil were right behind us. The four of us stepped onto the plush red carpet, and greeted the bouncer, Marcus Flint. The minute we stepped inside, cameras flashed in our faces.

"If I go blind, I’m suing the Prophet for every knut it’s got," Fred muttered to me as I went off to the side of the canopied entrance to speak with my co-worker. He and George and Presh remained behind, greeting others who were arriving.

Colin Creevey lowered his camera and grinned. "Hallo, Angelina. Season’s greetings."

"Happy holidays and good to see you too, Colin. How’s life been treating you?"

"Same as usual. It was my year to work, so I didn’t get to do anything I intended with the family. I’m taking a bit of a break mid-month."

I groaned my sympathy. "Oh, being stuck at the Prophet on a perfectly good Christmas morning is the worst. But the editions have been good, I think. Tirzah’s doing a great job on the copy desk, and Mwalimu’s layouts have been superb. You’d better watch out... they’ll make an editor-in-chief out of you."

He flushed with pleasure. "Thanks. You don’t know what it means to hear you say that." Then he seemed to remember something. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "There’s a story on the copy desk right now that is really odd. At least in my opinion. The sources have been verified and everything seems watertight. But I thought you’d best be prepared... in the board meeting this morning they were talking about making it front page news."

"Oh, not another one of those "Garden Gnomes Strike Again" urban legend scares! Reporting like that causes people to question our legitimacy and journalistic integrity!"

Colin’s ears turned a little red. "Actually, Angelina..." here he lowered his voice, "...the reason why no one has owled you about it yet is because it deals with your husband’s famous family. Ron and Hermione, to be exact."

A week before, I would have been a bit miffed with Colin for being so mysterious about such an overbeaten topic. Ron, Hermione, or both regularly made front-page news—the Prophet had so many photographs and clippings of them they each had their own overstuffed file cabinet. The only person with more is Harry... if he knew there was an entire room at the paper with "Potter Files" inscribed on the door, he’d probably blow the place up.

But somehow, I got the sneaking suspicion that this particular headline story would probably be the final piece in the jigsaw puzzle that had been coming together since Christmas.

"Is it bad?" I managed to ask.

Colin sighed. "Oh, Angelina. I don’t mean to be lurid, but I think it would be best if your mother-in-law sat down before anyone shows it to her. It’s not only bad, it might be the story of the year."

"Is Draco Malfoy mentioned anywhere in the..."

But just then, I was nearly knocked off my feet by a pair of well-toned and muscled yet feminine arms being flung around my neck.

"Angelina!" Alicia Spinnet, my best friend, exclaimed. "Where have you been during the holidays? We were supposed to have lunch, go shopping... get wasted and do all the things that boring old women like us do. On Boxing Day, Lee and I went to your mother’s and suffered through three whole hours with the Diamond Dinosaur and her snot-nosed brats… you owe me for that one, by the way. Fred was there… what happened to you?"

My heart sank a little as Colin waved and went to take more photos of the steady stream of new arrivals. As no cameras were allowed beyond the lobby of the establishment, he didn’t want to miss anyone.

I turned back to Alicia. "The time got away from me somehow. You’ll understand once you have children."

"Faugh! No, thank you. The Weasleys can maintain the current British birth rate within their family alone... why crowd even more people onto this overpopulated isle? ‘Sides," here she ran her hands down her gazelle-like figure, "can’t risk all this hard work before I make the cover of Witch Weekly."

I punched her in the arm, a friendly gesture from our school Quidditch days. "Still so modest."

Fred, George, Presh, and Lee approached with Dean and Seamus. After more conversation and laughter, Dean and Seamus personally escorted us to the VIP section, which consisted of a private deck that afforded a panoramic view of the entire vast nightclub. The chairs, divans, and Empire seats were pulled up to marble-topped tables, and were quickly filling with the most famous and successful young wizards and witches of our time.

Lavender Brown Finnegan, as co-owner along with her husband, circulated, making everyone feel at home either with friendly chat or by reading their palms. Her best friend Parvati was nowhere to be seen, but another friend of hers, witch supermodel Eleanor Branstone turned enough heads in her peekaboo emerald green dress robes. Then Fleur Delacour arrived with her new half-Giant boyfriend, and stole Nell’s thunder. And so on, and so forth.

We were sitting at the best table in the house, but not in the very best seats. Dean had caused a gilt "Reserved" sign to float over the best side of the table... if past trends continued, whenever Ron and his entourage showed up, they’d sit there. The invisible safety railing allowed for the best possible photographs... every year he and Hermione and several hangers-on invariably grinned from the pages of the January Wizarding Quarterly and the Quidditch Digest.

At first, we all engaged in group jests and learned the latest news about everyone... there was always so much to tell. Dean and Eleanor had been engaged this past Christmas. Oliver Wood had been just voted Best Quidditch Team Manager by the Associated Wizarding Press. Presh reported that his cousin Parvati was making waves in her new prestigious role as magical ambassador to Surinam. Lav was expecting her third child. Alicia and Lee waved off yet another round of good-natured barbs about their ever-retreating wedding date... they’ve been engaged and cohabiting for the better part of a decade and like it that way.

After a while, Alicia and I broke away from the overlapping web of general chatter in order to catch up with one another. Catching up always began with Quidditch, of course... we talk sports more than most men we know.

"So, how are things with the Cannons?" I asked. "I know you’re disappointed with the way the season is going."

"Disappointed can’t begin to describe it. We’ve been first in the league seven out of the past ten years. But this season was a disaster. We’ve got great defense... Kim’s great as Keeper and while Scott’s a bit wet behind the ears, Dennis Creevey has got to be one of the best Beaters in the League. Look at what he did for Gryffindor the year after we left."

"Madame Pomfrey wanted his head on a platter, so many Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were being knocked off their brooms. It was all legal, I promise," I winked. At the time, I’d been one of the interim flying experts at Hogwarts... Madame Hooch went missing during our final year. "Besides, we needed some victories considering the times we were living in back then."

She sighed. "Maybe with this trade, we’ll regain some of the momentum we’ve lost. Ron was still pretty good last season, but over the past few months he’s been losing his focus... he hasn’t caught a single Snitch since September. I teased him, asking him if he even knew what the blasted thing looked like anymore, and he went off on me."

"Why be surprised? Ron’s always been rather mercurial," I remarked. "So were the twins, but they never took things as seriously as Ron does. You’ve got to admit that he is a very good player... been Player of the Year for five of ten seasons."

"Yes, I know. It’s just that when he falls short, the Chasers have to go into warp speed. Ben and Tonya and I have been working overtime this season, but we’ve still lost three of the last five games. It’s almost as if Ron’s too preoccupied to concentrate." Alicia sighed again, which made me raise my eyebrows... Al’s not the sighing type. "Wish you were wearing Chudley orange with me."

I shut my eyes tight for a moment. "Stop it. Let’s talk about something else."

"Angelina, you were one of the best Chasers Gryffindor House had ever seen. I’ve never seen a witch that could fly like you, and..."

"...I had agility and speed, my coordination and concentration were out of this world, and my scoring stats would have broken school records had it not been for the Triwizard Tournament sixth year and the Scourge seventh year. Please. We’ve been over this time and again. It doesn’t make me feel better hearing it the fifty-seventh time around, either. Those days are gone as surely as Katie is. Let’s talk about something else, all right?"

Uncomfortable silence. Alicia managed to change the subject.

"Anyway, with Ron leaving, we’ll need a Seeker that’s out of sight. There’s some great young rookies from last year’s class... a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin, I think... but one’s signed with London and the other’s a shoe-in for Dover. Wish someone could convince Harry to stop kissing old ladies’ hands and begging for money."

"That’s another pipe dream," I laughed. "You know that..."

My sentence was cut abruptly off by earwax-inducing screams. I looked down--practically half the witches on the dance floor were racing towards the entrance. Despite the emcee’s pleadings, despite the disc jockey’s protests, despite the fact that the house band had just begun a song, the screaming did not stop. It did not subside. It only intensified. Several of the witches, a wizard, and a couple magical creatures I couldn’t make out from my vantage point fainted dead away. Groaning, Lavender excused herself to see to them.

None of us in the VIP section were alarmed. We’d all seen this play out before. Fred and George even managed to continue their conversation... until their brother crossed the threshold of the Snitch. Then, no one could hear anything.

Ron strutted into the club in his usual public manner, with the carelessly fashionable air of one who owned the world. No traces of the dramatics I’d seen during the holiday week could be detected. Again, it amazed me how little I thought of his celebrity--in my eyes he would always be Fred’s kid brother--but on nights like these I was reminded that he was the very epitome of that word.

Several Security Charms protected him, as did his sycophants from the Cannons organization, so he was free to sign autographs and take pictures with witch after witch. I watched as a gorgeous dryad with honey-blonde hair and legs that went on forever threw her arms about his neck, then whispered something into his ear. Whatever she said must have been sweet indeed, for Ron grinned, and the cameras flashed as she planted a butterfly kiss on his temple. Oh, yes... pretty young witches like that absolutely adored the legend known as the Red Weasel, and were thrilled to the core to see the legend in the flesh.

A moment later, Harry walked in with Cho. I wondered how in the world any of these poor girls could have any voice left to continue screaming. The legions around the door seemed to multiply. This time, more than a few wizards and witches needed Lav’s Revival Charms. While Ron had chosen a smart casual look in shades of brown, topped off by a chocolate leather jacket, Harry and Cho had both donned basic black from head to toe. Silver and platinum accents here and there provided a nice touch and helped to offset the sinister compliment of onyx clothing and raven hair. Personally, I always thought that together they made one heck of an attractive couple.

Cho signed a few autographs to be polite, but she tended to tell fans on nights like the Fash Bash that she’s really out to enjoy herself. Dazzled by her smile and warmth, all but the most persistent fans usually agreed to settle for a quick group picture or a handshake.

The majority of the general public doesn’t even approach Harry for autographs anymore. His signature was worth a mint years before he left Hogwarts. Ever since he came out of his mysterious post-war seclusion, most of the wizarding world has treated the poor kid as if he’s divinity that walketh amongst us. The ones that are the furthest gone gape in awe, never taking their eyes from him, and then afterward tell their family and friends, "I saw him! The Boy Who Lived... who grew up and kicked Voldemort’s sorry arse to kingdom come! I can’t believe I actually saw Harry Potter!" Fred and George can do an impression of this common reaction that causes us to laugh ourselves half to death. Even Harry, who’s rather touchy about his fame, has to crack a smile whenever they do it.

Marcus Flint and his security staff soon came with wands out and dispersed the crowd, threatening to Stun the uncooperative. By the time Ron, Harry, and Cho arrived at their seats in the VIP section, we’d all turned back to our respective conversations.

"The sun, the moon, and the North Star have arrived," said Lee. "How does it feel being under twenty-four hour surveillance?"

"Spooky," Cho said. "Makes you want to invest in Polyjuice Potion. I think next time I go about incognito I’ll look like you, Nell... give me a hair or two, will you?"

"In your dreams," Eleanor laughed. "Remember, on Magical People’s 25 Most Beautiful list this year you’re number six and I’m stuck at number eighteen. Again. Obviously I have a lot of catching up to do, so I’ll keep my hair, thanks."

"Do they actually rank those lists?" Harry, who avoids the wizarding press with a vengeance, asked with obvious amusement.

I cut in, being the only journalist around. "Depends on the mag... it’s all political. You, Ron, and Hermione will always be in the top ten on those kinds of lists. I’ve friends at Magical People who say that certain names are already pre-printed on the ballots."

"The lot of you press demons ought to suffer the Death of a Thousand," Cho said matter-of-factly. "I’m no role model. I just want to play Quidditch."

"Come now, Cho, what’s the fun of being famous if you can’t live it up a bit?" Ron asked her. "Half the witches in England would kill to be you."

"Including my daughter," Fred muttered under his breath.

Cho heard him. "Tell Malinda I’ll be ready for her to spend a day with me again sometime this spring. She’s adorable."

"I’ll sell her to you for a million Galleons," I remarked, winking at Alicia. "Holiday bargain! Going once... going twice..."

Fred poked me under the table. "That’s the second time in a week you’ve tried to sell my kid, lady. Just you try it again."

"Speaking of which," Cho said with a smile, "I hear that Ron here is going to be a father soon. I know Hermione’s excited... where is she?"

Ron turned purple. Fred and George looked at Cho as if she had no sense. Harry shook his head at her quickly, and she flushed.

"It’s not for certain yet," Harry quickly told everyone else at the table, for Lav was grinning from ear to ear and Dean had reached over with his palm extended. "They want to keep the news close as they can, for once the press gets wind of it, it’ll be all over. I trust that everyone here will honor that."

It was almost as if Harry had pricked a number of expanding balloons, for everyone went from borderline euphoric to deflated in no time flat.

"As for Hermione, well… you know how pregnant women are. Morning sickness and all," he added. "She’ll be here later."

Had Harry said too much? For Ron turned toward his best friend with the strangest expression. I couldn’t decipher it, and judging from Fred and George, neither of them got it either. Which was unusual... Ron is one of those wonderfully unsubtle creatures who can be read on most days easily as Malinda devours my dad’s old collection of Dr. Seuss books.

"Will she?" Ron muttered, almost to himself. "Well, I’ll be waiting for her when she does."

As no one really knew what to make of this comment, and most didn’t have the benefit of having witnessed enough domestic holiday drama for a week of Christmases, they returned to their drinks and chat. Fred and I went down to the main floor and danced for a spell, returning every now and then to try and goad the others into joining us.

By eleven o’ clock, the table was full of half-empty glasses and bottles and everyone was all talked out. Dean and Eleanor grew tired of cooling their heels and decided to hit the dance floor. George and Presh followed their lead, and slowly but surely so did everyone else. Soon only Ron, Harry, and Cho were left. Ron nursed yet another shot of Ogden’s and was unusually silent. Harry and Cho were talking in grave tones about the rise of terrorism among the magical communities in the Far East. Not a topic I’d initiate at a party myself, but they never dance much anyway.

Colin came up to talk shop with me, as his vacation began at the stroke of midnight and mine ended--I was on the news copy desk for the morning’s edition. It would be the last time I’d have to do it before relinquishing my position as sports editor in late January. Colin had a laundry list of things for me to attend to once I arrived at the Prophet, including seeing that the rolls of film he’d taken so far were developed and laid out properly with the appropriate captions. Meanwhile, Fred alternated between doomed attempts to get Ron talking and pretending to be extremely interested in Harry and Cho’s activist rhetoric by interjecting various off-color remarks.

"Well, I think that’s it," Colin said at last. "I’ll owl the Snitch story the second I get home... it should be there by the time you arrive. Won’t make the first print run for the international subscribers, but if you could make sure they typeset it in place of that full-page Madame Malkin’s ad, I’d love you forever."

"Oh, you’re not going to stay and see the New Year in?" I asked. "It’s only another forty-five minutes..."

"Angelina, I’ve been awake for the past fifty-two hours. That’s a new record for me... covering for twelve editors on holiday will do it every time. Right now, the only thing sustaining me are several pots of coffee, sporadic adrenaline surges, and daydreams of my feather mattress at home." He glanced at Ron, who was responding to Fred in monosyllables. "I wanted to tell you about the top story, but you’ll find out as soon as you arrive at work. Just prepare yourself. You know I’m not one to sensationalize things, but..."

"Well, it has nothing to do with me personally, right? I know how to keep my personal life and my professional life separate."

Colin smiled ruefully. "Some of us don’t seem to have that talent, Angelina. For your sake, I hope you do. Make sure you keep that boundary intact over the next few weeks."

My co-worker left then, and I turned to my husband. "Ready to cut a rug, love?"

But I’m positive he didn’t hear me. He was too busy staring at the girl who had just entered the VIP section and walked up to our table. Cho had stopped in mid-syllable. Even Harry was staring, dumbfounded.

She was one of the most striking witches I’d seen in a long time. Dark hair the color of teak. Eyes a cupful of oolong tea. Her skin was clear, soft-looking, and olive. Her mouth was generous and sensual. The dress she was wearing was made of some magical material that changed colors like a kaleidoscope. She was petite, but not doll-like at all... understated confidence exuded from her. For all that, her beauty seemed at once earthy and accessible. A siren whose song had been muted... but only for the moment.

A lovely gypsy witch.

"Happy New Year to all." She was holding a VIP pass. "I was wondering if the Red Weasel here would care to dance."

Ron’s eyes flickered, but his mouth remained set in the same grim line. "Actually, I’m waiting for my wife." He turned to us. "Everyone, this is Maureen Ludlam, one of my agents. She strictly deals with my non-Quidditch affairs, endorsements and such..."

"Don’t forget to mention that I’ve also beaten you three times in the All-Wizarding Chess Finals at Gloucester," the gypsy witch remarked with satisfaction. "Though you’d never know this from the newspapers, since their payrolls are chock full of your fans. I’ve already met you, Harry, and Cho as well... Miss Chang knows the Ludlam Agency would kill to get her signed on with us.

"As for you two, please skip the formalities right away and call me Mo," Maureen said, shaking my hand with a firm grip, then Fred’s. She then returned her attention to Ron. "I’m not asking you to run away with me, Ron, I’m asking for a dance. May be the only way to get you talking since you’re ignoring my owls."

"It’s been a rough week, to say the least..."

Fred tapped me on the shoulder. "You’re leaving in an hour, Angel. Must we spend the entire time discussing wand detector procedures in Malaysia? No offense, Harry, Cho."

"None taken," Cho shrugged. "Harry and I know we’re not the life of the party."

Harry laughed. "Speak for yourself."

"Let’s go, then," I said to Fred, grinning. We said our goodbyes to the gypsy witch before we headed back downstairs. As interesting as meeting Mo had been, I was more interested in being in my husband’s arms one last time before I left, even if for only a short while.

When I danced, I didn’t pay attention to anything besides the music and my man. There was never a need to concentrate hard on either steps or hand motions... no need to run a mental counter... dancing comes naturally to both of us. As the house band switched from classic rock to techno to merry Celtic folk tunes to reggae and back to rock again, we didn’t miss a beat. Somewhere along the fringes of my consciousness, I realized that we’d cleared a space in the middle of the dance floor and there were people clapping and watching us.

After a while, the band struck a slow, discordant minor-key melody. Fred eased me towards the darkest corner of the dance floor and pulled me close. My head rested on his shoulder, and I relaxed.

"I could stay like this forever," I whispered.

"Not a bad idea," he replied. He has many different laughs, but when I heard the one he saves for when we’re alone together, chills ran up and down my spine. "But if I had to be stuck in limbo with you, I’m sure I could think of a few better positions to be frozen in."

I smiled. "What an intriguing mental picture you paint, young man. Must I choose from the virtual diagrams, or may I pencil in a specific time for the live demonstration?"

"Certainly. Cancel all appointments, owl in sick, and I guarantee we’ll come up with some arrangement to your liking." He murmured this against my ear, then kissed it. "Satisfaction guaranteed."

Then something sparkled in the corner of my vision.

It was Hermione, less than six feet away. She’d just stepped to the edge of the dance floor, a vision in a star-dusted, crocheted black dress that clung to her hourglass figure with marvelous effect. She wore her beautiful brown hair long and straight--no wonder it took the girl so long to get there! The only jewelry she had on was a pair of diamond ear studs, and the makeup she wore was negligible. One had to wonder if she’d utilized the minimalist approach to emphasize the fact that she didn’t need much extraneous help in the looks department.

Draco and Ginny flanked her, dressed to the nines as usual--the former in cool sapphire blue; the latter in shimmering amethyst. One wondered if they ever stirred from their respective homes with a hair out of place. Death was probably the preferred alternative for Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Weasley in that particular Worst Case Scenario. As it was, they appeared as if they’d stepped straight out of one of those new Madame Malkin’s ads.

Ron came storming over, ears red and eyes flashing... no surprises there. Mo was nowhere to be seen, but George and Presh materialized from wherever they’d been. Fred pulled me over as well.

"You know, I should have finished pummeling you the other day," Ron was hissing from between clenched teeth. "You have the stones to show up here with my wife and my sister?"

"Down, Ronnie old boy," Draco smirked. "Granger’s not my date. Although I daresay I’d know how to treat her far better than you seem to be doing. Perhaps I could give you a few pointers."

It took Fred, George, and Presh to hold Ron back this time. Hermione stepped forward and held out her hand to her husband. Something like pleading was on her face... mingled with something unyielding and unfailingly stubborn.

"Shall we dance? After all, as Malfoy said, I’m not his date tonight."

He seemed to hesitate. Then he pulled her to him possessively and kissed her. At first, she stiffened, but then she relaxed and wrapped her arms around him.

When Ron finally broke their kiss, he was smirking with obvious affection, restored male pride, and I daresay relief. The lost look hadn’t completely disappeared from Hermione’s eyes, but she flushed a little under his gaze. Ron made a gesture at Draco that was the opposite of polite, then smiled at his wife.

"Yes, sweet, I really think we should, don’t you?"

She nodded, still not quite smiling. "Of course we have much to discuss…"

"I don’t want to discuss anything at the moment. All I want right now is you, my Hermione, back in my arms again..."

As they headed to the middle of the dance floor, we all breathed a sigh of collective relief and watched as Ron held Hermione close. He whispered something in her ear, and she responded with one of her rare yet dazzling smiles. She appeared to soften, then shut her eyes tight as they swayed to the music.

I breathed a sigh of relief. The crisis was over. Knowing them, they’d be heading for that half-deserted island long before morning... and taking no owls or phone calls for quite some time.

Dean and Seamus jumped up on stage, joking back and forth about the past year. They counted down the minutes. First, ten... then five... now there were only four minutes left...

"Time for resolutions," said Fred to me as the crowd began to cheer and whistle for the incoming New Year. "How do you feel about giving Malinda a little sister or brother soon?"

I was speechless. I guess I was supposed to be thrilled about this idea, but...

"Can’t we discuss this another time?" I asked, low.

"Five minutes until we party like it’s 2009... because it will be!" Dean shouted, blowing a huge streamer the size of one of Rubeus Hagrid’s arms and nearly exploding our ears in the process.

Fred shrugged. "What is there to discuss? Only one way to go about it, isn’t there? Worked the last time around, didn’t it?"

Wasn’t that just like a man? "First, we need to consider..."

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the middle of the dance floor. I looked over my shoulder as Fred groaned. Much to our disappointment, it was Ron and Hermione, in the midst of another blazing row. Only this time, it wasn’t amongst family or on the most obscure edge of the dance floor. It was in the midst of several hundred young witches and wizards, many of them notorious sharks who would swim in for the kill if they sensed that their favorite ubercelebrity was less than content in his love life.

This was not good. Not good at all.

"I’m tired of you always correcting me!" Ron was shouting. "You’re not my mother, Hermione... you’re my wife!"

"About time you remembered that," she replied acidly. From what I’d observed over the years, I knew Dr. Granger-Weasley wasn’t one to raise her voice much. "You do realize that you’re making a spectacle of yourself?"

"Oh, yes, it’s always me... me! It’s always... leave us be, Dean!" he said, even as his old roommate attempted to intervene. "It’s always me who’s at fault. Perfect Hermione is never, ever wrong. Well, excuse me, my dear, but you’ve done your dirt as well! What, did you think I was never going to find out? Did you think I was so stupid that I wouldn’t know?"

Now Hermione did raise her voice.

"Don’t you dare even think about lecturing me on right and wrong, Ronald Arthur Weasley! Not after the year I’ve just lived through... can you even fathom what I’m going through right now? Or do you even care?"

"Excuse me," Harry said, stepping in between them, "but the New Year is only a minute and a half away. Couldn’t you two table this little discussion, take a commercial break, and save it for somewhere else like... oh, I don’t know... anywhere but in the middle of the largest wizarding party in the country?"

Ron threw up his hands and left his wife and his best friend standing in the middle of the dance floor. As he passed us, I caught something like "...over my mum’s till she gets some sense". His usual hangers-on attempted to follow him out, but Flint’s security goons prevented most of them from blocking Ron’s exit. The only groupie who was successful in reaching him was that damned dryad with the hair and the legs I’d noticed earlier. She caught up with him, and together they disappeared out of sight.

"Thank heavens that little show’s over," said Seamus from the stage in the testy voice of one whose thunder had been completely stolen. "Let’s begin the countdown... almost there... all right! 59! 58! 57!"

The crowd temporarily forgot the spectacle and began to count heartily. I turned to my husband and hugged him with all the strength I could muster.

"Fred, I don’t say it as much as I should, but I love you. I love our daughter. I love what we have together. Please..." My eyes had started to smart a bit. "Please always know how much you mean to me."

He didn’t say anything for a change. He only kissed me fiercely, understanding exactly what had led to my rare outburst. Only when the clock struck one did he allow me to breathe normally again.

"Happy New Year, my love," he said, all the things he’d never say but felt with all his heart written all over his face. "Go to work... I’ll meet you at the Burrow for brunch."

On the way out, Cho waved, calling "I’ll owl you soon, Angelina." She was dancing with a sweet-talking satyr who was a dead ringer for Fleur’s ex. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Wholesome, sweet, vegan crusading Cho? Women like her didn’t usually touch those half-goat lechers with a ten-foot pole. I wondered how Harry would react.

Glancing around as I retrieved my cloak and said my good-byes, there was no sign of him. Or Hermione either, for that matter. That was strange... she’d arrived with Draco and Ginny... but Draco and Ginny had seemed to have disappeared as well. Perhaps they’d all headed to Ginny’s.

Yes, that was probably it.

Ginny’s.

 

**************

 

It didn’t take long for me to find out the nature of the headline. Instead of Apparating, I walked down Diagon Alley to the Daily Prophet headquarters. We have bureau desks all over the world, but the powers that be choose to keep the main London offices cooped up in the same building we’ve occupied since 1692. The paper was actually founded a hundred years earlier, during the Muggle reign of Elizabeth I, but after the Seventh Bacon War ended with the Great Fire of 1666 (one of the biggest wizard-instigated Muggle disasters in history), the original city location was completely destroyed.

I punched the button on the doorjamb marked "A. Weasley" with my wand and the door slid open. Instead of the sleepy skeleton staff I’d expected, the first floor newsroom was a beehive of activity. The place was packed to the brim with reporters, editors, printers, photographers, even a couple of people from the business side of things. So many owls were flying in and out that between the beating of their wings and the usual draft, the place was positively chilly.

"Mrs. Weasley, I presume! So you’ve decided to stop playing the fancy society lady and actually work for a living," my friend Tirzah from Sports muttered, Quick-Quotes Quill moving rapidly in her leather-bound notebook.

I took off my cloak and laid it across my desk. "Happy New Year, Tirzah. Colin was just telling me that you’re the one to thank for the squeaky clean holiday editions. Not a mistake in sight."

She grinned. "Thanks. Keep your fingers crossed... as much as I love going to all those free Quidditch matches, Renata’s retiring soon. The copy desk chief position has a few more Galleons attached to it than I’m making now. Makes up for the insane hours."

"Agreed... if I weren’t so bloody domestic, I’d think about taking that route myself. Earns you a bit of respect if you’re good and puts you that much closer to the editorial board."

"Speaking of which," she pulled out my chair and beckoned to it, "they just broke out of their emergency meeting five minutes ago with the order to run the headline I’m sure Colin told you about. Have a seat... the article is a full forty-eight inches, and it gets detailed. More like a story you’d see in the Muggle papers... you know how conservative we magical folk are. This is going to make serious waves."

"Tirzah, you’re scaring me. I don’t know anything yet... Colin didn’t get the chance to tell me. You know how the Snitch is on New Year’s Eve. Not the best place in the world to share confidential information..."

Tirzah looked at me strangely. "Oh, God, you mean to tell me you don’t know? Listen, Mo Ludlam phoned me earlier this evening... she’d tried to talk reason into the powers that be earlier, and you know as well as I do that was a waste of time. She told me that her client Ronald Weasley is threatening to sue if we go to press."

"What could be so horrible?" I asked in a quivering voice as Rachel Ratliff from News raced over to us. I groaned. In the six months since she was promoted from intern to assistant news editor, Rachel had managed to offend every single person on staff. An autographed and framed picture of Rita Skeeter was prominently displayed on Rachel’s desk. Nothing more needed to be said after we all saw that.

Tirzah narrowed her eyes, but Rachel plunged fearlessly on.

"You do realize that the Prophet has the inside track on this story?" she gushed breathlessly. "I was the main writer--they stuck Christina and Alonzo on the byline, but they only validated sources for me, I did all the legwork and interviews by myself--and now we have the scoop. Angelina, you’re his sister-in-law. When Ron Weasley tells his side of the story, make sure he tells it to us. Let him know in no uncertain terms that we want the exclusive. He can save the sloppy seconds for Wizarding Quarterly or Quidditch Digest."

Tirzah looked daggers at Rachel as she raced away. And I... I was growing rather tired of feeling a step behind the rest of the world. Someone was going to tell me something. Now.

"I have no idea of what you or Rachel are talking about, T. So do me a favor—cut the mystery and spill it so I can change out of these dress robes."

She took a deep breath. Reaching over to her desk, she picked up a copy of the front page print galleys for the New Year’s Day 2009 morning edition of the Daily Prophet... and held the front page against her chest.

"Colin and I fought it. We called in all the favors we could, and the powers that be still refused to stop the presses. You know that the first international delivery owls have departed already. It’s too late to do anything about this."

She turned over the paper and held it up. I gasped.

"Oh, my God! That can’t be true. It can’t be!"

Tirzah sighed with sympathy. "Angelina, tell your mother-in-law I’m so sorry. She seemed like a really nice lady when I interviewed her last spring for the Mother’s Day sports section. She doesn’t deserve this."

What I saw splashed across the front page caused me to pick up my cloak and bag, let the powers that be know that I had a family emergency, and rush out of the offices.

BRIBES, BLACKMAIL, AND BLASPHEMY: CANNONS SEEKER RONALD WEASLEY SPENDS 7 MILLION GALLEONS TO CONCEAL EXISTENCE OF SECRET LOVE CHILD
 

Somehow, I had to get to the Burrow before that headline did.



Home