RP: Is it Friday yet?
Date: 21 September 2001
Characters: Ron, Rita, Ginny
Status: Public
Summary: Ron's had a bad week and it's not over yet.
Completion: Complete
Ron stormed into the house, past the hole in the wall that his fist had put there the night he found Neville's things gone, and into the kitchen with his coach's voice still ringing in his ears.
He had fucked up again, showing up to practice late, smelling like the floor of a pub, and displaying the Keeper skills of a first year. His coach had tried the day before to talk to him rationally. Today, he just threatened to throw Ron off the team if he didn't pull himself together.
The kitchen, though filled with piles of unread mail, a few weeks worth of newspapers, empty bottles of ale, and take-away cartons (unfortunately not empty), held nothing edible. Ron brandished his wand and, in a fit of rage, banished everything from the room that wasn't considered an appliance or furniture.
He stood in the newly uncluttered kitchen and ran his hair through his hands, thinking. The last thing he had said to his coach was a promise to go home, eat a decent meal, and go to sleep early.
But he had to eat! And there was nothing to eat in the house. And it was quiet and lonely here without…
It only took Ron a few moments to rationalize why he was walking toward the fireplace to floo to the Leaky.
"It's only for a bite to eat," he told himself as he threw the Floo Powder down.
Tom called hello as Ron took a seat at the empty bar and picked up a nearby menu, which was for show, really; he knew the thing by heart.
"Fish pie," Ron said, paused, and added, "and a - a pint."
Tom nodded and turned away. Ron rapped his knuckles on the bar and Tom looked back over his shoulder.
"And a bottle of Firewhiskey, Tom."
It would help him sleep, something he hasn't been able to do sober since Neville left.
Characters: Ron, Rita, Ginny
Status: Public
Summary: Ron's had a bad week and it's not over yet.
Completion: Complete
Ron stormed into the house, past the hole in the wall that his fist had put there the night he found Neville's things gone, and into the kitchen with his coach's voice still ringing in his ears.
He had fucked up again, showing up to practice late, smelling like the floor of a pub, and displaying the Keeper skills of a first year. His coach had tried the day before to talk to him rationally. Today, he just threatened to throw Ron off the team if he didn't pull himself together.
The kitchen, though filled with piles of unread mail, a few weeks worth of newspapers, empty bottles of ale, and take-away cartons (unfortunately not empty), held nothing edible. Ron brandished his wand and, in a fit of rage, banished everything from the room that wasn't considered an appliance or furniture.
He stood in the newly uncluttered kitchen and ran his hair through his hands, thinking. The last thing he had said to his coach was a promise to go home, eat a decent meal, and go to sleep early.
But he had to eat! And there was nothing to eat in the house. And it was quiet and lonely here without…
It only took Ron a few moments to rationalize why he was walking toward the fireplace to floo to the Leaky.
"It's only for a bite to eat," he told himself as he threw the Floo Powder down.
Tom called hello as Ron took a seat at the empty bar and picked up a nearby menu, which was for show, really; he knew the thing by heart.
"Fish pie," Ron said, paused, and added, "and a - a pint."
Tom nodded and turned away. Ron rapped his knuckles on the bar and Tom looked back over his shoulder.
"And a bottle of Firewhiskey, Tom."
It would help him sleep, something he hasn't been able to do sober since Neville left.