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"That fucking...fucking...arrrgh!"
Ginny seemed to be struggling to find actual words amongst the expletives when she appeared with a pop at the end of the bed, shaking that morning’s Daily Prophet in a clenched fist. "I swear, 'Mione, there isn't a word bad enough for him."
"Good morning to you too, Ginny." Hermione didn't look up from the draft legislation she had been making notes on, sat up in bed on what she had thought would be a peaceful Saturday morning. It was, after all, the only quiet time she would get to do any work before her little Rosie started demanding all her attention. And Hermione was going to lap that up as much as possible before her little girl ultimately decided she was Daddy’s girl.
"'Mione," Ron mumbled beside her. "Wha's go'n on?" He stirred slightly from the position he found to be most comfortable for sleeping, lying on his front with his arms wrapped around his pillow. She had always found his features to be quite cute while he slept like that so couldn’t help that her mouth curled at the corners into a soft smile.
"Nothing, Ronald," she ran her fingers lightly through his hair. "Go back to sleep. It's just your sister."
She picked her wand up from where it rested beside her thigh on top of the duvet and cast a gentle muffliato over her husband as he settled back into his pillow.
"You were saying?" She turned to her sister-in-law who was red in the face with fury, pacing backwards and forwards across the bedroom.
"I just… I can't… Arrgh! I can't fucking believe that...that...foul, loathsome, evil cockroach!"
"Ah, I always was fond of that one," Hermione smiled to herself. "What has Draco done now?"
"Not Draco," Ginny said, still pacing with the newspaper clutched tightly in her hand. "No, he actually hasn't printed anything bad for weeks. Its fucking McMaron. He's promoted that tosser instead of me."
Ah, so it was the manager of Puddlemere United that was on the receiving end of Ginny's wrath, and probably whoever the poor tosser was. They probably had no idea that they had angered a Weasley, or a Potter as she’d been for a while now, but neither was someone you wanted to piss off too much.
"I was supposed to be Head Coach, Hermione. I'm the best there is. Me. Not fucking Phillips." Ginny stopped pacing to stab a finger at the back page of the Prophet where there was a photograph of two men, one middle-aged wearing a suit with no tie who had an arm slung over the shoulders of a younger man, possibly 30, who was grinning broadly into the camera. As she watched, the two men turned to each other and shook hands before the younger one looked back to the camera, sticking his thumb up. Obviously, some deal had been made between them.
"McMaron wouldn't know good coaching if it bit him on the arse. He's never even played professional Quidditch! And Phillips?! He only joined the coaching team last year. It’s ridiculous!" Hermione watched on in awe as a very adult Ginny threw the paper to the floor and stomped on the faces grinning up from it.
Her friend had played professionally in the years directly after Hogwarts up until her first pregnancy, taking it right up again after James was born, before moving into coaching when she fell pregnant with Al. Yet, despite the years, Hermione still struggled to say the right things when it came to Quidditch. She’d just never managed to fall into that particular part of the wizarding world as easily as Harry had.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather talk to Ron about this, Ginny? You know I don't fully understand Quidditch."
"It's not about Quidditch, Hermione," she threw her hands up in the air. "It's the principle of the thing! You told me about that so don't give me that look. You did!"
Hermione had raised an eyebrow, wondering where Ginny was going with this.
"McMaron is a fat, middle-aged, rich white guy who has never played a professional game in his life, who drank firewhiskey with me yesterday and said it would be mine but then turned around and gave it to another sodding white guy!"
"Ginny," Hermione started placatingly. "You're white." She waved a hand up and down in Ginny's general direction as she pointed out that fact.
"'Mione," Ginny deadpanned in return. "I'm trying to rant with you about feminism, the principle of the thing, like it said in that muggle book you gave me."
"Then if you're that serious about it, just quit." Ginny's eyes widened at the sincerity in her voice and Hermione knew that Ginny would not have expected such a potentially risky answer from her. "I mean it, Gin. If you're the best coach there, then Puddlemere will flop without you and McMaron will have his comeuppance."
Ginny had started pacing again, doing that horrible nervous habit she had of chewing her hair. Hermione sighed.
"Look. Didn't you say Pennington was retiring? I'm sure the Harpies would have you back. In fact, you know that they'd all be stood at the gates with open arms."
Ginny released her hair from her mouth and spun around quickly to face Hermione again, her face lit up in a grin.
"Ha! Yes! Brilliant, 'Mione." She began pacing once again but in a more excited fashion, busy planning in a calculated, almost Slytherin-like way that would definitely have left McMaron terrified had he been there.
"I'll quit and go coach my Harpies so that they absolutely thrash Puddlemere every single time. Then we will win the league, the Harpies will win the league with me as Head Coach and our little girl will be able to see Mummy smashing the glass ceiling all over McMaron!"
"Not sure you're using that quite... Hang on!" Hermione's brain caught up with what Ginny had actually said. "Ginny! Are you...?"
"Shush, 'Mione." Ginny interrupted before she could finish the question, still pacing as she planned McMaron's downfall. "I'm smashing the glass ceiling here. You can congratulate me when we announce it properly."