GinnyW-Potter

There Was Only One Car Seat

Ron stares at Harry incredulously. “You’re serious?” 

“Yep.”

Well, that sounded pretty definitive, but Ron still can’t quite believe it. “Absolutely, totally, one-hundred percent sure?”

“Completely.” Harry dangles the keys right in front of Ron’s face. “Now do you want to drive the bloody car or not?”

It’s a good point. Ron snatches the keys out of his best friend’s hand before Harry can change his mind. He’s been waiting for this opportunity for almost five months. Five whole months since Harry’s seventeenth birthday. Five whole months since Harry’s absolutely loaded and ridiculously generous godfather gifted him the car in question. 

But it isn’t just any car. No, it’s a 1.8 litre Mazda MX-5 Phoenix Special Edition MX-5 two-seater soft-top roadster, in gleaming black, with sienna-brown full leather interior, fifteen-inch low profile alloy wheels, 146-brake horsepower, nought to sixty in 8.2 seconds. It’s an absolute wet-dream of a car, and ever since the first time Ron laid eyes on it, he’s longed to drive it.

Harry has always flatly refused.

Ron understands. Really, he does, because there are good reasons for Harry’s refusal. The main one is that Harry’s parents (well, Ron suspects mainly his mother) have absolutely forbidden it, along with any other even slightly dubious (aka fun) behaviour behind the wheel. As Harry tells it, she wasn’t at all happy that Sirius gave Harry the car in the first place, and she’s threatened to confiscate the keys if she ever gets even a hint of anything untoward going on.

Which, now Ron comes to think of it, makes this sudden change of heart more than a little bit suspicious. 

“Why now?” He’s kicking himself even as the words come out of his mouth, because heaven forbid Harry changes his mind. 

Harry shrugs. “Call it festive spirit. You drive us there, I’ll drive us home.”

Ron isn’t sure that ‘festive spirit’ really covers it, but he isn’t going to argue. The important thing is that he gets to drive Harry’s car to the Hogwarts college sixth form Christmas party. He was happy enough when Harry declared himself designated driver for the evening, but now Ron gets to pull up in front of the pub that’s hosting them for the evening, climb out of the sexiest car known to man and saunter into the pub in front of all his classmates like an absolute king. 

He really hopes that Hermione’s around to see it. 

Speaking of Hermione, Ron’s hoping tonight is the night; her parents are away at some dental convention for the weekend, and she’s made a point of explaining that she’ll have the house to herself.

“Assuming I’m coming back here, obviously,” he points out, aware that he sounds more than a little smug, and not giving even the tiniest bit of a shit about it, because tonight is shaping up to be the best night of his life.

Harry just smirks at him. “Yeah well. I’ll be rooting for you.”

Ron doesn’t reply. With a sigh of satisfaction, he opens the door and slides into the driver's seat. He takes his time adjusting the seat, the steering wheel and the mirrors for his taller frame, enjoying every single second, but soon enough he’s ready to go—and now that he’s ready, he wants to get on with it. 

Harry, though, is still loitering on the battered concrete forecourt outside the Burrow, the farmhouse that Ron has called home his whole life. What the hell is he waiting for? Ron opens the passenger door window (electric, of course! What a luxury! He’s far more used to getting a decent upper arm workout wrestling with the manual winders on the Weasley’s elderly landrover) so that he can encourage his best mate into the car when the front door to the house opens and Ginny skips down the steps.

“Sorry!” she declares. “I didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”

Ron’s surprised to see her. “I didn’t think you were coming.” 

“I wasn’t. But Harry talked me into it.”

Ginny picks her way towards them across the uneven concrete in her knee-high heeled boots. She’s wearing a glittery black mini dress that skims the top of her thighs and she’s put tinsel in her hair. “That dress is a bit short, isn’t it?”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “Like that’s any of your business. And don’t let Hermione hear you saying crap like that if you want to get laid tonight.”

Ron flicks a finger at her—and then a thought occurs to him. “Wait a minute. You didn’t think Harry was giving you a lift, did you?”

“Yes?” she says, slowly and loudly, as though she’s talking to someone extremely stupid.

“But there are only two seats!”

“Yes Ron. I can count, thank you very much,” she shoots back. “I’ll sit on Harry’s knee.”

Ron can’t help but laugh, because there is no way that Harry is going to risk his future use of the car by breaking not one but two of his mother’s inviolable rules on one night—except Harry is already climbing into the passenger seat next to Ron, and doesn’t object when Ginny positions herself on top of him. “We’re only going two miles,” he says. “Just don’t crash.”

This is bloody typical, thinks Ron—Ginny’s always got away with shit like this, her entire life. He shakes his head in disgust as they attempt to fasten the seatbelt around the pair of them, a process that takes far longer and much more irritating giggling than Ron thinks is strictly necessary.

But, finally, they’re ready to go. Ron puts his foot on the clutch, turns the key in the ignition and feels the engine roar to life. A huge smile spreads over his face. Yes, tonight is going the be the best night of his life.

Still rubbing the sleep from his face, Neville pushed open the bathroom door and wandered back into the dormitory.

His eyes snapped open.

Every trace of exhaustion vanished in an instant.

Ron was sprawled across the floor, clutching his leg, which bent at an angle legs absolutely should not bend.

Harry stood frozen beside him, white as the sheets, gripping what looked disturbingly like a blood-soaked clump of rat fur.

Towering over them, knife still in hand, stood the gaunt, hollow-faced wizard Neville knew from every Wanted poster plastered across magical Britain.

Sirius Black.

Neville's blood turned to ice.

He should run.

He should scream.

He should get Professor McGonagall.

He should get Dumbledore.

He should—

He couldn't leave Ron on the floor with a broken leg or Harry with the man who wanted to kill him.

Neville’s hand fumbled for his wand as sweat trickled down his back.

He swallowed.

Apparently louder than intended.

Ron's head whipped around.

"Neville!" he yelled. "Run!"

Neville shook his head, though every instinct he possessed was begging him to do exactly that. His wand trembled so violently, he doubted the Stunning Spell would travel in a straight line.

Black looked over.

"Oh, Neville," he said with an oddly wistful smile. "You look so much like your mother. I'd hate to hurt you."

He casually raised what Neville realized, with mounting horror, was Ron's wand.

"Stop!" Harry shouted from his bed, still clutching the remains of Scabbers. "Just murder me and leave everyone else alone!"

Black frowned.

"Murder you?"

He sounded genuinely confused.

"No. I only planned one murder tonight."

He gestured toward the mangled bundle Harry was holding.

"And that has already been accomplished."

Ron blinked. "You escaped Azkaban..." he said slowly, "...to kill my pet?"

Black looked offended. "No, I came to kill the man I was imprisoned for murdering."

Before Neville's horrified eyes, the bloody, limp rat began to change. Tiny paws stretched into fingers as grey fur receded into mottled skin. The little pointed snout lengthened into the face of a balding, middle-aged wizard.

A dead, balding, middle-aged wizard.

Neville screamed.

Harry swore.

Ron swore louder.

From the next bed, Dean rolled over, muttered something about Quidditch practice, and continued snoring.