In Like a Lamb
He can’t figure out why they are broken up if she is still running shit.
Which clearly, she is, as evident by the fact that he is here instead of Ballycastle.
He should have been there with his face done up in Fan-slash-Stalker fashion, sporting the delightfully tacky slashes of orange and black war paint, watching the Cannons finally hand the Bats their asses, the dial to his brain turned completely down. Instead, he is in the rowdy Diagon Alley pub with the rest of the poor schmucks whose fuck-misery misfortune was forever unceasing. Even now on the eve of what was to be the biggest Quidditch comeback since…well, ever.
And why is he here?
Because he, Ronald Bilius Weasley, is a pussy.
(Her words, not his.)
“Ron, I appreciate your coming here on such short notice. I--”
Blah-blah-blah. Blah-fuckeddity-blah.
He barely understands what she was saying.
Check that, if he paid attention, he probably can. But she had this silly habit of running her mouth even while the television was on. And TV always seemed to offer something better than what she had to say, so why waste ones breath having real conversation or even bothering to listen at all?
Again. Angst-Hermione.
His eyes lift above the crowning glory that was her hair --which at the moment was not particularly bushy-- and settle on the frantic, swooping motions of two Chudley Chasers in the large mirror that stretched behind the bar. (Thank Merlin someone had gotten smart and realized that a bewitched hand mirror cleverly smuggled into a pitch could also cast its images onto other reflective surfaces). His face crumples as a collective empathic groan went up in the bar. Ogglesby, who looked more parts lazy Sunday afternoon fisherman than Seeker, has taken a Bludger to the nuts.
The sudden, impudent thwack! of her hand on the table causes his beer to jump.
Coolly shifting his gaze from the brutal castration, he pushed back his chair and slowly rose, easily towering over her in a way he could not otherwise; not with his wit and certain not his dull brain, as she had been always been so gentle to remind him.
His voice is a rich tremulous baritone. Firm, but mostly soft.
“Let’s go.”
Blinking, her mouth slips open and she moves to her feet without thinking.
Tossing down a few Knuts as a tip, he turns and starts to the door where he pauses only for a second to flip the collar of his ragged cloak, tucking in his chin. Bracing himself against the swirling icy madness of March, he forges ahead silently, the indignant winds whisking through his hair and howling all sorts of hilarious obscenities in his throbbing red ears.
Behind him are the unusually unsure footsteps of Hermione Jane Granger, who --without surprise-- was meticulously bundled, having come well prepared for the weather, but perhaps ill-equipped for handling Ron.
Which clearly, she is, as evident by the fact that he is here instead of Ballycastle.
He should have been there with his face done up in Fan-slash-Stalker fashion, sporting the delightfully tacky slashes of orange and black war paint, watching the Cannons finally hand the Bats their asses, the dial to his brain turned completely down. Instead, he is in the rowdy Diagon Alley pub with the rest of the poor schmucks whose fuck-misery misfortune was forever unceasing. Even now on the eve of what was to be the biggest Quidditch comeback since…well, ever.
And why is he here?
Because he, Ronald Bilius Weasley, is a pussy.
(Her words, not his.)
“Ron, I appreciate your coming here on such short notice. I--”
Blah-blah-blah. Blah-fuckeddity-blah.
He barely understands what she was saying.
Check that, if he paid attention, he probably can. But she had this silly habit of running her mouth even while the television was on. And TV always seemed to offer something better than what she had to say, so why waste ones breath having real conversation or even bothering to listen at all?
Again. Angst-Hermione.
His eyes lift above the crowning glory that was her hair --which at the moment was not particularly bushy-- and settle on the frantic, swooping motions of two Chudley Chasers in the large mirror that stretched behind the bar. (Thank Merlin someone had gotten smart and realized that a bewitched hand mirror cleverly smuggled into a pitch could also cast its images onto other reflective surfaces). His face crumples as a collective empathic groan went up in the bar. Ogglesby, who looked more parts lazy Sunday afternoon fisherman than Seeker, has taken a Bludger to the nuts.
The sudden, impudent thwack! of her hand on the table causes his beer to jump.
Coolly shifting his gaze from the brutal castration, he pushed back his chair and slowly rose, easily towering over her in a way he could not otherwise; not with his wit and certain not his dull brain, as she had been always been so gentle to remind him.
His voice is a rich tremulous baritone. Firm, but mostly soft.
“Let’s go.”
Blinking, her mouth slips open and she moves to her feet without thinking.
Tossing down a few Knuts as a tip, he turns and starts to the door where he pauses only for a second to flip the collar of his ragged cloak, tucking in his chin. Bracing himself against the swirling icy madness of March, he forges ahead silently, the indignant winds whisking through his hair and howling all sorts of hilarious obscenities in his throbbing red ears.
Behind him are the unusually unsure footsteps of Hermione Jane Granger, who --without surprise-- was meticulously bundled, having come well prepared for the weather, but perhaps ill-equipped for handling Ron.