Yuletide Blessing in Disguise

Boxing Day

Dumbledore's keen ability to accurately guess what was going on at Hogwarts wasn't guaranteed, as evidenced by the exposure of Barty Crouch Junior, but Harry decided it was still pretty remarkable when he and Hermione found Fred and George's after-party still going strong, despite the late hour (which was nearing two am).

"The Champion and his Lady-in-Waiting have arrived," Fred announced gleefully over the loud music blaring from the horn of the old fashioned record player as he gave an exaggerated, sweeping bow, "deigning to grace their subjects with their presence."

Hermione rolled her eyes and Harry snorted mirthfully, shaking his head.

"What say ye my liege and lady?" George called out, following the lead of his twin. "Dost thou care to share a libation with the peasants?"

He gestured towards a table festooned with a legion of bottles, mostly butterbeers, but there were a number of champagne bottles - clearly nicked from the Yule Ball - and a smattering of smaller bottles of stronger stuff, including red-currant-rum and firewhiskey (which the prefects were pretending didn't exist).

Hermione raised her eyebrows at the rum and the firewhiskey, but having imbibed a few sips of "stronger stuff" with the headmaster, she knew she couldn't really say anything without seeming a complete hypocrite. She glanced at Harry and was pleased to see him shaking his head.

"Nah, I'm good, thanks!" said Harry. "I had a few glasses of champagne earlier and a brandy with Dumbledore - that was plenty. I don't want to get completely pissed."

"Probably for the best," Fred chortled. "You don't want to end up like the Three Musketeers..."

"You should've seen them," George guffawed, "Ron, Neville, and Seamus are totally sauced. They'd give Uncle Bilius a run for his money."

"Uncle Bilius?" Hermione frowned thoughtfully; the name seemed familiar. "Isn't he the one who supposedly died twenty four hours after seeing a 'Grim'?"

"Is that what Ron told you?" George snorted. "The way I heard it he snuffed it after tossing back one too many at the pub and tripping over his neighbour's dog - just happened to be a black labrador. He hit his head, and didn't go to St Mungo's, thinking he was alright. ... By the time one of the cousins he'd been drinking with checked on him the next evening, it was too late."

"Shame really," said Fred wistfully, "He was the life of the party. He'd down a bottle of firewhiskey, whip up his robes, and pull bouquets of flowers out of his arse. ... He'd've been alright if he'd just gone to a Healer to check his noggin."

"Hmm... Sounds like an object lesson in not over-indulging to me," Hermione proffered.

Fred shrugged.

Harry couldn't help but agree with Hermione. It was one thing to get pleasantly tipsy, but he'd been on the receiving end of Aunt Marge's vicious drunken tirades too many times to see much point in getting sloshed - that was usually when she started complaining about him, or whacking him with her walking stick.

"Anyway, I think I'm off to bed," said Harry, "I'm bloody knackered - been up since five thirty. But don't stop your after-party on my account," he added with a half-smile.

"Don't worry! We won't," said George, grinning. "'Night then, Harry."

After saying good night to Fred too, Harry walked Hermione to the foot of the stairs which led to the girls' dormitories. Hermione smiled at Harry, just a hint of sadness in her eyes.

"I had a lovely time today, Harry, despite how it ended. At least Voldemort's plans have been thwarted..."

"...for now," Harry interjected. Hermione nodded.