Hermione's Little Brother

“Bloody Hell,” Ron muttered, as the pair drove away from Hermione’s house, “what is this thing?”

His companion was seated at the drivers’ seat of a Holden Convertible, roof open and the engine whirring.

“It’s a car, Ron,” Harry muttered, glancing at Hermione one last time through the rear mirror.

“But it’s got no ceiling,” the redhead exclaimed waving his hand above his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry sighed, pressing the accelerator and easing the silver car forwards, “as long as we get there and back safely.”

“As long as you’re driving whatever Mione tells you to drive, you’ll be happy,” Ron sneered, waving his wand around emitting small sparks, followed by sing-song voice, “s.o.s….”

“Hermione said no magic,” Harry pointed out at once, swerving the car out of the cul de sac and into the main road.

“Mione said no magic,” Ron sang, twirling his wand even more, making Harry blush.

“Right,” he coughed, “rules. What were they again?”

“No magic,” Ron repeated, “no dodgy talk. No complaining…”

“Okay,” Harry breathed, taking a large breath, “that’s not too bad. Ron, set up the GPS.”

“The what?”

“GPS,” Harry sighed taking one hand off the wheel and reached over to the passenger compartment, “Global Positioning System. It shows us where we are and where to go.”

“We can use point me for that,” Ron sulked, slapping Harry’s hand out of his personal space and retrieving the GPS himself, “Activate.”

“Retard, give me that,” Harry snapped, snatching the appliance out of his friend’s hand, “you have to turn it on yourself.”

Ron snatched it back, “I know how to use Muggle artefacts!” he declared, shaking the device.

“To hell you do!” Harry groaned, discarding Ron and his ignorance and proceeded to make his way out to the highway, “open that thing.”

Ron began to pry it open at the gaps, absolutely unnoticed by the black-haired driver.

“This bloody thing won’t open!” he exclaimed, pulling out his wand and jabbing at the GPS, “I’ll make you bloody open, Bombarda!”

Harry nearly veered off the side of the road from the explosion.

“Ron! What the hell are you doing?!”

“Bombarda opens everything,” the redhead justified, holding up the charred device, “Here, I opened it for you.”

“You idiot!” Harry fumed, “you’re meant to turn it on! Not bomb it!”

“It doesn’t work?”

“It doesn’t now!”

“Psh,” Ron snorted, throwing the GPS to the back seat “this is why I never trust Muggle artefacts, even though dad’s crazy about them.”

“They work perfectly before mixed with magic,” Harry muttered, swinging the wheel to change lane, “now I suggest you keep your wand away and hidden so we don’t turn up at Bart’s house with a blown up car.”

“There is nothing wrong with a tattered car!” Ron argued, clearly relating to the Ford Angela his family owned some years back.

“There is if you turn up at a Muggle house in one,” Harry sighed, eyes ahead, hands on wheel.

The pair travelled on for another hour or so, with the wind echoing past their ears and ruffling their hair (not that Harry’s was any different). What used to be a dimly lit dawn sky was now the atmosphere of a blazing hot summer’s day. The silver Convertible made its way off the main highway and into a narrow country dirt road, wheels spluttering, sending gravels everywhere. Nothing was more beautiful than driving down a country lane with your best friend under a comfortably warm summer’s day. Nothing could possibly change what Harry felt as they bumped down the peaceful, green lane lined with-

“I need to pee,” Ron said bluntly.

“Hold it in,” Harry replied, just as blunt, “we only have another two hours to go.”

“Two hours?” Ron whined, shuffling on his chair, “I can’t hold on that long.”

“Well, we missed the last service station about 2 hours ago,” Harry grunted, his shoulders hutching, “you’ll just have to wait.”

“I can’t wait 2 bloody hours!” Ron exclaimed, unbuckling his seat belt and jumping out the side of the car.

“Ron!” Harry thundered, slamming his foot on the brake and fidgeting around in his seat so he could see the redhead.

Oh, how he wish he didn’t.

Ron was standing at the side of the road, his bare bum shining in the afternoon sun. A satisfying look on his face, and a distinct waver of trickling reached Harry’s ears as he spun around again, thumping his forehead onto the steering wheel.

When Ron came back, he had the most pleasing look on his face. He jumped over the door and into his seat with a thud. He gave Harry an okay-I’m-done-lets-go look.

“I’m sorry, Ron,” Harry said, more to the steering wheel than his friend, “I was joking.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up.

“The town’s just ahead,” Harry continued, “and there were probably a couple of farmers who watched you pee with utmost interest.”

“Screw you, Harry,” Ron spat, “you Bastard.”