Scarlet Woman

Confusion was no foreign feeling to me. I had grown up with it, and the feeling had become like an old friend. There was nothing quite like the faint wave of befuddlement, the throbbing doubt of perplexity, that cheery upward inflection a question mark gave to your sentence. It had become such a part of my everyday life that when I was not confused, I puzzled over why not.

But the full on, flashing-neon-lights, all singing-all-dancing stab of mystification was something else completely. It kept me awake at night, so tired of the same questions running through my mind unanswered that I could not even try to sleep. Every other word in my thoughts was 'Ginny' or 'Mrs. Weasley'. Everything I saw distorted into their faces, everything I heard I related to them.

Bizarrely, this reminded me of a hideous chat-up line Seamus was prone to using as soon as puberty kicked in.

'You must be tired. You've been running through my mind all evening..'

Ugh.

Well, if that held any truth at all, I had unintentionally murdered both Ginny and her mother through exhaustion.

I found myself in the kitchen on a Saturday morning, absent-mindedly plopping a teabag into an Albus Dumbledore mug that Gran had sent off for from the Daily Prophet years ago. The less than dulcet tones of Fred's band throbbed through the wall from nextdoor's garage, and as I waited for the kettle to boil I tried to distinguish the music from the noise. Not a lot of people knew that Fred had a band, and were probably better off not knowing.

The kettle's whistle coincided with the last chord, and almost mechanically, I made my tea. The excitement and suspense that Mrs. Weasley and Ginny had brought to my life had faded the moment my scarlet woman left the Wendy House. I often wondered if she had made it alright again, as she promised. What could she have said to Ginny to justify her sordid relations? "Sorry, dear. My hormones were playing me up"? Something along the grossly clichéd lines of "We were in the right place at the right time"?

I had seen Mrs. Weasley a few times at the apothecary on the corner since the night at the playground. She had had her hair done since, and no longer did it curl around her face but fell in soft waves about her shoulders. With a shameful pang, I couldn't help wondering if it still smelt like cinnamon. For some reason, her hair being different irritated me. It made her no longer a part of me, however twisted and immoral a part it was. There was one occasion when we bumped into each other at the bile counter. She smiled, I blushed and a heavy, awkward silence befell us. Then the lady served her and she was gone in an instant- just like that.

I couldn't help feeling that my story was told, that I, Neville Longbottom, had taken my five minutes of glory and thrown it away in an instant. Only I wasn't ready to give up my scarlet women. Having them in spirit was not enough, I wanted them in person.

The way I saw it was that the two merged into one to make my soul mate. There was the comfort and mothering from Mrs. Weasley, and the fun, perfect romance from Ginny. The thing is, I just didn't have it in me to be greedy like that." You can't have your cake and eat it", as Gran often said.

By the time I had speculated, cogitated nd debilitated, my tea had gone stone cold. On the plus side, though, Weasel were having a tea break and my eardrums could have a rest.

It was then that I noticed the pile of owl post on one of the worktops. Since Gran wasn't the type to be disorganised, I figured that the letters were all for me. What I discovered, in fact, was around twenty pieces of junk mail advertising the most ridiculous wares on the market. Who in their right mind, I wondered, would want a broomstick mounted table? It wasn't very often that you would stop for a six course gourmet dinner in mid air, after all.

Once I had finally disposed of the gaudy enchanted parchments, I noticed a very small envelope sitting by the Yucca plant. I picked it up out of curiosity and held it up towards the dim February sun. It had not been addressed, but was decorated with a gold stencil of two doves.

Which could only mean one thing: The Long Awaited Wedding Invitation of Doom.

I opened it as though it might be a letter bomb, trying not to look at it. With a few hasty "pull yourself together man"s, I took the small card out of the envelope and scanned the delicate, swirly handwriting. It was true. It was a wedding invitation. In fact, it was the invitation for the wedding of the century. Ron and Hermione. The horrors..

Actually, I thought it was very sweet. It was inevitable that they would end up together from the minute they started bickering. I wouldn't miss them becoming husband and wife for the world. It was just that everybody who had ever known about the affair would be attending- what's more, one of them was the groom. You know what happens at weddings, people get drunk, secrets get spilt and fights break out. Of course, Mr. Weasley would be there. Assuming that he hadn't been told already, he would be rather peeved to say the least. I could just imagine the news spreading across the long table, until the father of the groom tapped his glass with the side of his spoon and declared Mr. N. Longbottom dead meat. There would then be a massive brawl, all under the influence of champagne, and Mrs. Weasley would look on horrified as her husband insisted she left the country immediately. I would be sent home in an envelope, limbs in all four corners of the United Kingdom and Gran would die alone and ashamed.

But I couldn't just miss the wedding of two great friends. Putting a slightly sweaty hand to my breast, I swore to abandon my cowardice for the good of the people. It wasn't definite that the secret would leak out, in fact, it was less than likely. On the very unlikely occasion that it did, I would have to face the music and explain my behaviour. These people were not animals. They had the grace to let a man explain himself and to forgive.

At least, I hoped they did. They had to. Didn't they?

*

Once I had tackled the fear and grown a spine, I took myself out to buy a suitable pair of robes. I ended up with a pair of robes that would please even Gran- soft grey, perfectly tailored pinstripe. I had to make a good impression, after all, and look the least toy-boy like that I could. Strangely, the robes gave me a certain confidence and a feeling of importance. When I put on those robes, I could hear the words 'I, Neville Longbottom, am a man of purpose' reach a soaring crescendo. Just what that purpose was, I didn't know.

A few days later, I took Gran up to Diagon Alley to find a spectacular wedding present. It hadn't yet sprung to mind that I was being slightly sycophantic to the Weasleys and trying to get them on my side before any damage was done. I simply thought that if I could reinvent myself, things would turn out fine. Maybe I would win Ginny back. Maybe..

We traipsed around shop after shop, looking at cauldrons, charms, robes, even owls. By the time that we were seriously considering giving a Gilderoy Lockhart paperweight- sadly, the man still had publicity from the lonely housewives of the wizarding realm- we knew we were defeated.

As Gran mumbled something about a cutlery set, my eyes wandered to a large tree in the town square. Its gnarled branches twisted around themselves; roots firmly in the ground they had been standing in for centuries. Once again, I allowed myself to be mesmerised by the wonders of nature. Why couldn't everybody see the beauty of a new shoot rising towards the Sun, one day to stand tall on its own? How was it that people could pass these beautiful, fascinating things by without even giving them a second thought?

Then it struck me.

Lucifera- the wizarding world's most magnificent plant. When first put into soil, it is extremely dull looking with no flowers and with thick, smooth black branches. Many gardeners lost faith in their Lucifera, dismissing it as a hopeless, boring plant. But oh, they were missing out- they did not know its great secret. At night, the Lucifera comes to life, raising its branches to reveal small, pearlescent orb-shaped flowers that reflect the moonlight, looking like the plant is holding little moons in its uninspiring hands.

It would be the most beautiful and original wedding present. Hermione would know all about it, raving about all the books she'd seen it mentioned in. Ron would just accept it for its beauty and make sure it was cared for adequately. I knew they would love it, and in return, love me a little more for giving it.

The only thing was, it happened to be the most expensive and hard to find plant in the country.

*

So, determined to raise enough money for the Lucifera, who I had affectionately nicknamed Lucy; I applied for the nasty task of collecting glasses and washing up at the Hag's Beard.

After putting on my most eager-to-please clothes, I took the long walk to the pub, being especially careful not to get any mud or cow pat on my shoes. I had been asked to arrive at 10 o' clock, an hour before the Hag opened, but my watch only read a quarter past nine. For some reason, my tumultuous affairs had made me so desperate to please that it was getting just plain creepy.

I brushed off any excess mud at the door and practised my greetings for Toby, the stony landlord.

"Hello, Mr. Strumpet, I'm Neville, your new apprentice. How can I help?"

"Toby, hi. I'm Neville. Shall I get started?"

"Good morning, Mr. Strumpet! Not too early am I? I'm.."

Much to my surprise, the door opened and there stood Ariadne, a sour look on her face as she passed a rolling pin through her hands. I gave her a weak smile and blinked, not enjoying the tense silence between us one bit.

Finally, she gave me the you-coming-in-or-not? look, and I followed her inside. She pointed to the bar, then to a large cabinet full of plates and finally the tables, after which she disappeared through the back door.

I panicked. I needed words and strict instructions. Was I to lay the tables for lunch, or sort out the bar, wash the plates and then clean the tables? Or something completely different?

"Shall I set the plates out?" I asked as she came staggering in with a box of Firewhisky some minutes later, feeling like a bit of a lemon just standing there. She nodded and started unpacking the box at the bar while I went to the cabinet for the seemingly charming china plates you only ever see at pubs.

Feeling like I ought to break the ice with my new colleague, I asked a question which I believed to be sensitive and thoughtful.

"So, Ariadne, can you actually speak?"

Which turned out to be totally the wrong question. She flipped me the customary V-Sign and went back to her bottles. I began to wonder what I could say next, or if I ought to say anything at all. Perhaps this was yet another time to hold my tongue. Whilst I was mulling this over, I felt Ariadne prod me in the back with her wand and yelped with surprise.

She raised her wand in the air and wrote:

I was tragically born without a tongue

I blinked. Was that even possible? Or was she using her surly charms of sarcasm?

"Are you being sarcastic? I can't really tell from your writing." I told her, as she poised her wand in the air.

No

Ah. But this was surely a trick..

"Was that sarcasm, then?"

An evil smile crept across her face and she nodded. I gave a short burst of confused laughter, not really sharing the same sense of humour as my mute friend.

I hear you've been a very naughty boy, she wrote, all the time keeping that eyebrow arched. Again, I blinked. And then, the horrible realisation dawned on me. Did she... know? What did she mean by 'naughty boy?' Of course, sleeping with a forty-plus lady and being in love with her daughter at the same time did qualify as 'naughty' behaviour. There wasn't really anything else in my life that would be a great source of gossip, either.

If she did know, how much did she know and how did she find out?

"Er.. What do you know?" I asked, frantically scratching the back of my neck. If she knew, her- the mute, insignificant barmaid, then she can't have been the only one! It was probably all over Cornwall by now, never mind Ottery St. bloody Catchpole.

Nothing, wrote the speechless dame, and disappeared behind the door again before I could even muster a reply.

And if that 'Nothing' was sarcasm too, there was a chance that Neville Longbottom was in big, big trouble.