The Murder In St. John

3. Orange Slices

Hermione gazed at Charlie's motorcycle out the breakfast nook window, as Molly and Charlie chattered over her. George was currently tinkering with the microwave, as Arthur was insisting something was wrong with it.

They had placed a bet in the car, about how many times his mother would make comments about the two of them showing up together. Hermione guessed four, and George guessed seven. So far, they were at a whooping two. The winner got to take home the basket of fruit.

George had also been rather annoyed by Charlie's appearance, not that Hermione could sort out a reason why-only that she was going to try her best to stay out of it.

They'd be at about twenty-five if they included Charlie, who had made no less than twelve different comments about different scenarios revolving around Hermione's newly found bum knee and George's tall figure.

It was mortifying, mainly because George didn't so much as blink or waiver under his brother's scrutiny, but also because Arthur make his own quips right alongside him. The two men egged one another on until falling into fits of giggles that sent Molly huffing and swatting at them.

Hermione only ate, desperate not to blush but the summer heat didn't seem to care, and her cheeks were flushed a bright cherry shade of red.

Coach ran into the window frame, chasing the heels of a barn cat that Arthur had recently found himself in the possession of.

The Weasleys owned the biggest plot of flat land in St. Johns, and have for decades now. As Arthur had taken over the farm after his father, and so on and so forth. Arthur had a number of animals, as well as a number of crops. So it was no surprise when Arthur suddenly found himself with a new cat here, a random goat there, or even a burrow of rabbits every once in a while.

"What do you think, dear?"

Hermione jolted, tearing her eyes away from George's truck in the sun and to Molly, who was gazing at her expectantly, one hand on her apron-clad hips.

"What?" Hermione asked, pulling her hands into her lap where they had previously been propping her chin in her hands.

"I asked if you were done with your plate?" She asked, gesturing to Hermione's nearly licked-clean plate.

"Oh yes, sorry." Hermione held it out to Molly's outstretched hand, while Charlie snorted in amusement.

"Busy daydreaming over your evening escapades there, Granger?" Charlie mused, bringing his Folger's coffee to his lips. Lee's coffee felt like a dream after enduring Molly's hectic french press journey she was on.

"As well as a dozen ways to hide your body." Hermione drawled, earning a snort of laughter from George. Who sobered up with a cough when his father shot him an odd look, pushing a screwdriver into his hand impatiently.

"Spicy little thing you've got there, George." Charlie winked, as if he was playing at being Hermione's wingman, she only rolled her eyes. Directing her gaze back out the window, where Coach was now rolling around in the cow pasture, while the cows lumbered by him.

"Oh hush it, Charlie." Molly berated, dumping the soiled dishes in the sink. "If they want to keep their morning spent together a secret, then we'll let them." Molly clicked her tongue, packing away the uneaten breakfast into the ice box.

"Three," George grunted, before yanking his hand away from the microwave when it shocked him. A short hiss left his lips, and fingertips pressed to his lips. Hermioe yanked her gaze away at once.

"Oh, you two and your stupid bets," Molly grumbled, placing her hands on her hips. "What's it this time?" She demanded.

George ignored her, so Hermione followed suit just as George pulled out a severely singed piece of foil that was wedged in the microwave hinges.