Fic | Ron vs. Crookshanks, Rounds One Through Seventeen
Title: Ron vs. Crookshanks, Rounds One Through Seventeen
Author: attilatehbun
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, Crookshanks
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1100+
Contains: ridiculously devious cat behavior
Summary: Ron and Crookshanks need to stake their territory
Author's Notes: Birthday ficcy for willow_wand, someone who knows Crookshanks is to be treasured.
::
"Yes mum, I'll be right there," Hermione says from their tiny living room-
-Tiny new living room, and itsn't that the important bit?-
"Just give me a moment," she says, her voice growing louder. Half a breath later and she's there, standing in the doorway of the even smaller bedroom-
-their bedroom-
-and passing a fretting hand over her flyaway hair.
"I'm really sorry, Ron," she says, and he puts down his armful of boxes to catch her around the waist. He doesn't want to scowl at her; that would spoil the remnants of the day (and put a damper on his hopes for that evening), so he chooses to kiss her, briefly, instead. Much better plan, that, and he congratulates himself mentally for thinking of it.
"It's fine, Hermione," he says, and means it. Mostly. "'S not your fault. It's your mum--"
"And you know how she is," Hermione finishes.
"Merlin, do I," he mutters, and she smacks him in the shoulder, smiling.
"Why she has to take me lamp shopping now of all times, I will never understand," she huffs. "You really don't mind getting started on all this without me?"
Hermione gestures expansively around the bedroom, the heaps of boxes there standing in for all of the unpacking they have in store for them over the rest of the weekend, if not the entire week.
"Honestly, I don't mind," he says. He turns away and pluckes two heavy, leather-bound books from one of the few open boxes and crosses to the small bookshelf already next to the bed.
"Now, this is how you like your books sorted, yeah?" he says, sliding the books onto the shelf, spines to the wall(and upside down, though it is admittedly hard to tell without being able to read the titles along the spines).
Hermione is on him in an instant, knocking him aside with a surprisingly forceful bump of her hip and snatching the books out of his hands.
"Ron! What are you doing, that's--" She breaks off suddenly, and turns to glare at him. "Oh, right, I get it, ha ha, very funny." Her lips twitch (clearly in spite of herself) and that more than anything sets him off laughing.
Hermione straightens up and steps towards him (the books sitting on the shelf properly, and as sorted as two books can be, he notes with an unsurprised quirk of an eyebrow).
"Thank you, Ron," she says, and raises on her toes to peck him quickly on the lips. "I'll bring home some takeaway, yeah?" She pauses. "Home," she says, "fancy that."
He grins crookedly at her and runs a thumb along the back of her knuckles. "Sap," he says, because he simply can't help himself.
"Oh shush you," Hermione says, and before she can finish her thought, her mum calls frm the hallway, a not-quite-annoyed-but-getting-there Hermione Jean.
"Must run," Hermione says, and darts out of the room before he can distract her again. From the door, she calls, "Oh, and look out for Crookshanks? He's probably nervous, adjusting to a new environment. Bye! Love you!"
"Love you," he mutters, cross again. Crookshanks. He turns around; Crookshanks has been in the room the whole time, perched tidily atop the highest stack of boxes, staring at him as if he expects all sorts of nonsense that he will not let stand.
"Hmmph." He refuses to be outmatched. "Out of the way, cat, I need that box," he says.
Crookshanks regards him impassively, waits for just a beat too long, then stands, arches, and hops gracefully down from the stack. Once he's gone, he snorts, trying not to think of how he'd just sneered at a cat and reaches for the box.
Better stay out of the way, he thinks, and begins unpacking.
Of course, Crookshanks does not stay out of the way, not at all. Every time he turns around, Crookshanks is there: sitting on the exact box he needs, or licking his groin defiantly in the exact corner he's planning to place whatever particularly heavy item he's currently moving, or crouched in a doorway, waiting to be tripped over.
"Are you psychic, or just evil?" he asks, after he's nearly missed falling over and shattering a truly heinous vase they'd received as a housewarming present from someone who clearly did not know either of them at all. (Come to think, that almost might have been doing them a favor, but perhaps that's giving that cat too much credit.)
By the end of the evening, he's even come to think of him as That Cat, proper capital letters and all, and Crookshanks seems to know it. And be pleased by it, if That Cat's smug grin is anything to go by.
"Now I know I'm a nutter," he says, out loud, hardly even caring that it only confirms his insanity, "thinking That Cat can grin."
When Hermione finally arrives home, carrying a bag of takeaway and not a single lamp ("Don't even start," she says, so he doesn't, because he like his bollocks where they are, thank you very much) he is at the end of his (thoroughly frayed) rope. Still, he manages to grin at her, and fetches forks from the kitchen. They eat their dinner using boxes as furniture, and Hermione smiles every time he nicks a bite of curry from her Stytrafloam container, so he does it as much as he can. That Cat stays the hell away, mostly, and he feels better than he has most of the day.
They don't get any more unpacking done, which he is fine with, and not too long after the forks are in the sink and the takeaway rubbish is in the bin, he's gently steering her towards the bedroom for what he hopes will be the first of many rounds of "Christening The New Flat" (proper capitals and all). Hermione squeezes his arm gently.
"Let me go to the loo, freshen up a bit. My breath reeks of curry," she says, and he kisses her to prove he doesn't really care.
She breaks away anyway, and flaps her hand at him. "Just a moment," she says, and he grins, heading into the bedroom.
His grin abruptly fades. In another display of feline precognition, That Cat is on his pillow, tail curled neatly around his toes, daring him to try. He glares at the cat, saying, "Not this time, oh no you don't."
But before he can even take a step, Hermione's joined him in the doorway. She peers over his shoulder (technically, under his armpit, but that's just semantics) and coos.
That's right, coos.
"Aww, isn't that sweet," she says, looking at That Cat (who is about to get upgraded to That Bloody Interfering Arse of a Cat). "Crookshanks wants to sleep with us!"
He groans, swipes a hand over his face, and knows, deep in his bones, that this battle has only just begun.
::
Author: attilatehbun
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, Crookshanks
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1100+
Contains: ridiculously devious cat behavior
Summary: Ron and Crookshanks need to stake their territory
Author's Notes: Birthday ficcy for willow_wand, someone who knows Crookshanks is to be treasured.
::
"Yes mum, I'll be right there," Hermione says from their tiny living room-
-Tiny new living room, and itsn't that the important bit?-
"Just give me a moment," she says, her voice growing louder. Half a breath later and she's there, standing in the doorway of the even smaller bedroom-
-their bedroom-
-and passing a fretting hand over her flyaway hair.
"I'm really sorry, Ron," she says, and he puts down his armful of boxes to catch her around the waist. He doesn't want to scowl at her; that would spoil the remnants of the day (and put a damper on his hopes for that evening), so he chooses to kiss her, briefly, instead. Much better plan, that, and he congratulates himself mentally for thinking of it.
"It's fine, Hermione," he says, and means it. Mostly. "'S not your fault. It's your mum--"
"And you know how she is," Hermione finishes.
"Merlin, do I," he mutters, and she smacks him in the shoulder, smiling.
"Why she has to take me lamp shopping now of all times, I will never understand," she huffs. "You really don't mind getting started on all this without me?"
Hermione gestures expansively around the bedroom, the heaps of boxes there standing in for all of the unpacking they have in store for them over the rest of the weekend, if not the entire week.
"Honestly, I don't mind," he says. He turns away and pluckes two heavy, leather-bound books from one of the few open boxes and crosses to the small bookshelf already next to the bed.
"Now, this is how you like your books sorted, yeah?" he says, sliding the books onto the shelf, spines to the wall(and upside down, though it is admittedly hard to tell without being able to read the titles along the spines).
Hermione is on him in an instant, knocking him aside with a surprisingly forceful bump of her hip and snatching the books out of his hands.
"Ron! What are you doing, that's--" She breaks off suddenly, and turns to glare at him. "Oh, right, I get it, ha ha, very funny." Her lips twitch (clearly in spite of herself) and that more than anything sets him off laughing.
Hermione straightens up and steps towards him (the books sitting on the shelf properly, and as sorted as two books can be, he notes with an unsurprised quirk of an eyebrow).
"Thank you, Ron," she says, and raises on her toes to peck him quickly on the lips. "I'll bring home some takeaway, yeah?" She pauses. "Home," she says, "fancy that."
He grins crookedly at her and runs a thumb along the back of her knuckles. "Sap," he says, because he simply can't help himself.
"Oh shush you," Hermione says, and before she can finish her thought, her mum calls frm the hallway, a not-quite-annoyed-but-getting-there Hermione Jean.
"Must run," Hermione says, and darts out of the room before he can distract her again. From the door, she calls, "Oh, and look out for Crookshanks? He's probably nervous, adjusting to a new environment. Bye! Love you!"
"Love you," he mutters, cross again. Crookshanks. He turns around; Crookshanks has been in the room the whole time, perched tidily atop the highest stack of boxes, staring at him as if he expects all sorts of nonsense that he will not let stand.
"Hmmph." He refuses to be outmatched. "Out of the way, cat, I need that box," he says.
Crookshanks regards him impassively, waits for just a beat too long, then stands, arches, and hops gracefully down from the stack. Once he's gone, he snorts, trying not to think of how he'd just sneered at a cat and reaches for the box.
Better stay out of the way, he thinks, and begins unpacking.
Of course, Crookshanks does not stay out of the way, not at all. Every time he turns around, Crookshanks is there: sitting on the exact box he needs, or licking his groin defiantly in the exact corner he's planning to place whatever particularly heavy item he's currently moving, or crouched in a doorway, waiting to be tripped over.
"Are you psychic, or just evil?" he asks, after he's nearly missed falling over and shattering a truly heinous vase they'd received as a housewarming present from someone who clearly did not know either of them at all. (Come to think, that almost might have been doing them a favor, but perhaps that's giving that cat too much credit.)
By the end of the evening, he's even come to think of him as That Cat, proper capital letters and all, and Crookshanks seems to know it. And be pleased by it, if That Cat's smug grin is anything to go by.
"Now I know I'm a nutter," he says, out loud, hardly even caring that it only confirms his insanity, "thinking That Cat can grin."
When Hermione finally arrives home, carrying a bag of takeaway and not a single lamp ("Don't even start," she says, so he doesn't, because he like his bollocks where they are, thank you very much) he is at the end of his (thoroughly frayed) rope. Still, he manages to grin at her, and fetches forks from the kitchen. They eat their dinner using boxes as furniture, and Hermione smiles every time he nicks a bite of curry from her Stytrafloam container, so he does it as much as he can. That Cat stays the hell away, mostly, and he feels better than he has most of the day.
They don't get any more unpacking done, which he is fine with, and not too long after the forks are in the sink and the takeaway rubbish is in the bin, he's gently steering her towards the bedroom for what he hopes will be the first of many rounds of "Christening The New Flat" (proper capitals and all). Hermione squeezes his arm gently.
"Let me go to the loo, freshen up a bit. My breath reeks of curry," she says, and he kisses her to prove he doesn't really care.
She breaks away anyway, and flaps her hand at him. "Just a moment," she says, and he grins, heading into the bedroom.
His grin abruptly fades. In another display of feline precognition, That Cat is on his pillow, tail curled neatly around his toes, daring him to try. He glares at the cat, saying, "Not this time, oh no you don't."
But before he can even take a step, Hermione's joined him in the doorway. She peers over his shoulder (technically, under his armpit, but that's just semantics) and coos.
That's right, coos.
"Aww, isn't that sweet," she says, looking at That Cat (who is about to get upgraded to That Bloody Interfering Arse of a Cat). "Crookshanks wants to sleep with us!"
He groans, swipes a hand over his face, and knows, deep in his bones, that this battle has only just begun.
::