The Magic Umbrella

Percy glared at his companion on the opposite seat. Hemmingway was, as usual, humming merrily, totally oblivious to him, reading a book entitled A Farewell to Arms, of which he had never heard before. Of course, it was all very logical if it were by a Muggle author, she had said she was related in some distant way to the writer of famous books or something.

He continued his pretense of ignoring her, staring out the window at the passing countryside, now being freshly dusted white by a light snow. In a few hours they would reach Hogsmeade and he wouldn't have to constantly be looking at her.

It wasn't that she was unpleasant to look at, no, she had very lovely hair and the cutest little upturned nose--he mentally shook himself to clear his head of such thoughts.

She's your secretary, screamed something at him. I know, the told the voice, believe me I know. I've known for a long time and it's not something one can easily forget. He sighed and stared tensely out the window, concentrating as carefully as one can in such a situation, but half his mind was still on what he had just heard himself think.

Life was never easy for a Weasley was his father's favourite saying. And how true indeed that was, if not only for much financial problems but social status as well. His thoughts returned to his overenthusiastic start at the Ministry under Mr. Crouch and he almost laughed out loud.

He had been putting in 80 hours a week at first simply to get in with the elite group that was Mr. Crouch's circle of personal assistants. And Percy knew what Mr. Crouch had been saying about him.

"That Weatherby, so enthusiastic. Perhaps a little overenthusiastic, at that."

That was certainly the Percy everybody knew, and he laughed at the image he had painted with the wildest and brightest colours he could find that seemed so blase to everyone else.

A disgusted sigh to his left gave him cause to look up. Hemmingway's humming had ceased, and she was wearing a rather sour look upon her normally congenial features.

"What's the matter, Hemmingway?" he said, simply so he didn't look stupid staring at her. She tossed the book onto the seat beside her and rolled her eyes.

"Rummy lot, that Ernest. Apparently my very distant Muggle cousin to whom I am almost not related was commended for his excellent use of strong, short sentences, but I have seen no evidence of this so far."

"Oh." Percy glanced at the cover of the book beside her. "I thought you spelled your name with two 'm's. He spells it with one."

"Ah, yes. Wizarding problems back in the early branches of our family. There were some disputes over money, and all that. I am of the understanding that members of the family got into a fight and some ended up with misplaced limbs here and there." Percy hesitated.

"Oh."

They lapsed back into silence, and Percy suddenly came to a rather disturbing conclusion. There was nothing else for them to talk about. They weren't friends and coworkers who got along on both aspects amicably. They didn't go to lunch meetings together and such things as assistants and their personal secretaries probably did.

Would that be considered bad relations on his part? A chilling fear rose up out of him. If Mister Crouch got wind that he was neglecting his personal relationships with coworkers he would be most angry.

Percy frowned at this. Of all the things that could happen to him, that was probably the worst of all. He sighed and weighed whether or not to try and continue the conversation.

He glanced up, and caught her blinking curiously at him.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, sir."

"Nothing, my foot. Out with it, Hemmingway," he said lightly, almost smiling. She half glared, half smiled at him and replied,

"I was simply watching you think."

"Watching me think?" he cried, almost indignantly.

"Yes, you have this most peculiar thinking face, you frown; then you sort of look worried; then you get an idea, I suppose, and everything seems to be alright."

Percy raised an eyebrow, about to ask if she always watched him like that, when he remembered he was supposed to be ignoring her.

When more familiar sights of a house or barn here and there began to appear, Percy donned his wool cloak and gathered the papers he had been sorting through much earlier.

They departed from the station together in silence and trudged heavily through the snow that had begun to fall more thickly.

They finally stopped in front of the 3 Broomsticks, predictably crowded on Christmas Eve. Percy glanced at his watch as they squeezed over the threshold, noting the 2 hours before their presence was requested at Hogwarts.

Setting the suitcases down, he looked around the large and cheerfully decorated pub. The place was practically full to bursting, obviously everyone was in town to see wizarding relatives, but apparently the proprietor was rummaging around in the back room for something.

Hemmingway seemed anxious at the sight of so many people, so much hustling and bustling and noise and faint drunken singing in the background; she stuck close to him, practically hanging on to his arm for dear life. He smiled down at her for a fraction of a second, almost glad she was clinging to him.

Percy couldn't recall if he had ever been in the pub many times, most of his memories of Hogsmeade consisted of going ice skating with Penny (or the prefects), going into the shops with Penny, waiting while Penny tried on dresses, and waiting while Penny talked with her friends.

Eventually, though, a buxom young blonde in what looked like excrutiatingly painful blue stiletto heels came out to meet them. If he hadn't known better, Percy would have thought her to be the type to offer herself out as some kind of a--

"Can I help you two?" she asked in a pretty little voice.

"Er--," began Percy. He considered a moment exactly what he was requesting, and exactly what he and Hemmingway looked like. Probably like a couple of kids who were...no, he was requesting rooms. As in two. Plural. Meaning separate. "Two rooms," he called over the noise of the steady din.

"What?!" called the barmaid.

"Two rooms!" he shouted, hoping nobody would turn and stare. She called back with something unintelligible, and he leaned toward her to hear.

"We haven't got two rooms!" she replied. "What with all the people coming in to see their relatives, we've only got one spare room upstairs!" He stood straight up and looked over at Hemmingway, who was gazing with a dazed look on her face at a group of warlocks on the opposite side of the room. Evidently some kind of a drinking contest was going on.

In any case, Percy had no idea whether or not Hemmingway would be open to the idea of sharing a room. He turned back to the blonde, trying to make up his mind. It was the only choice, he decided.

"We'll take it," he called to her. The stilletoed girl nodded and shoved her way past a bald and rather fat bartender who was guffawing merrily and flirting with a middle aged witch at the counter, to reach for the last key on the board at the back.

She pressed it into his hand and he looked at it for a moment. It was an oversized skeleton key made of gold, cold from disuse for many days despite the warmth of the place. The barmaid gestured to him and pointed to a set of wooden stairs behind a small christmas tree to the left.

Percy turned to Hemmingway, who was staring, entranced, at a bearded warlock, who was downing a tankard of beer amidst the cheers of his companions. She was looking slightly green. When she turned to him, he saw the childishly horrified look on her face, her slight sway back and forth from confusion, and Percy laughed to himself at the sight of repulsion on her face.

He tugged at her arm and she gladly followed him over to the stairs, both of them trying hard not to trip over anyone or their own luggage.

At last they reached the stairs, a wooden set of rickety boards nailed halfheartedly together in an attempt to add a bed and breakfast to the pub. Obviously Martha Stewart didn't live there, he thought, remembering Muggle Studies all too well.

The hallway at the top of the stairs was dimly lit and made Percy feel like he was in a skewed walls house. There were sets of doors on either side, made of mahogany or some other fancy wood. He didn't care.

Percy glanced at the key again, and found the number 7 lodged between the skull's jaws at the end. Hemmingway followed his gaze to the number and then looked at him.

"Er--," he began.

"Did you know that 7 is your lucky number, sir?" Percy hesitated. Lucky number. Not exactly the best words to hear for a teenager who was about to tell his secretary that they had to sleep in the same room that night.

"Um, no. I didn't." He sighed and set the suitcase down. They were standing next to the door with a small gargoyle on the front bearing the number seven between its jaws as well. Certainly a homey place, Percy thought. He looked about anxiously.

"Something wrong, sir?"

"Yes, yes. Something...definitely...wrong."

"Oh, dear. What is it, may I ask?" He looked between her and the door, doing a few double takes and shifting the key from his left hand to his right. Percy wanted desparately to whine and cross his arms and pout for no reason, but Hemmingway was looking at him patiently. So he began.

"Well, Hemmingway," he began shortly, "when a pub has a small room letting like this one, sometimes it gets rather..." here he pulled at his collar for emphasis, "crowded, shall we say...er, during the holidays. And, um, this particular night happens to be one of the busiest nights of the year. Which means, my good secretary, that this is the last room left in the place. You and I are going to sleep in here." He paused for a moment. "Together. Tonight."

Sighing with relief at having said what he had been dreading to say, Percy looked at Hemmingway for a response. Throughout his little speech, he had noticed the expression on her lovely features change from worriment to confusion to slight amusement to what was unmistakeably indignation. Something that Hemmingway never expressed.

"What?" she said simply. Percy put his hands on her shoulders and enunciated clearly and very slowly.

"This is the last room. Do you want the bed or the floor?" Her mouth fell open in uncharacteristic shock.

"Sleep on the floor? Sleep on the floor?!" she said. "I am not going to sleep on the floor!" Percy shrugged. That was just what he needed to hear. As long as he didn't have to sleep with her--

"You aren't going to sleep on the floor, are you?" He turned to look at her again, the key turned halfway in the lock.

"Of course I am. I wouldn't want you to sleep on the floor, you know." Percy swung the door open and held it for her to pass over the threshold. She gave him a look of utter disbelief.

"And make me feel like I'm putting you out?"

"Putting me out?"

"Who is paying for all this, sir?" she said warily, dropping her carpet bag and crossing her arms.

"The Ministry!" he sputtered indignantly. "What, you think I could pay for a room?"

"Well, you are the boss here. You're the one whose presence was requested at Hogwarts, you know."

"But you're a lady!"

"So? You're the boss!"

"I'm not your boss!"

"Oh, yes you are!"

"Well, you're not sleeping on the floor even if I am your boss, so there!"

"Well, you're not sleeping on the floor even if I'm a lady, so ha!"

And, having said thus, they both managed to grab their suitcases at the same time and somehow squeeze through the narrow doorframe simultaneously.

Of course, this rather selfless maneuver on both parts resulted in four bruised shoulders and a scraped knee, but it was no matter. They would both sleep comfortably, if not because of the bed, but more because they were each satisfied that they had defended the other to their greatest ability.