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Who: Ron and Hermione
Where: The Safehouse on Hoy
When: 20 March, 2002 - Close to moonrise
Status: complete

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[waningred]

Pacing agitatedly around the area that had been magically cordoned off, Ron stuffed his hands a little further into his pockets and concentrated on keeping his breathing steady and even. The one thing he'd learned in the rather short amount of time he'd been a werewolf was that, as the moon waxed, the edgier, more aggressive he became. And it really wouldn't do for him to lose it this early.

Hermione would knock him on his arse and out cold with a certain degree of satisfaction, he was sure, given the way he'd shut her down and out of his life the previous month.

A short, high-pitched laugh escaped his lips at such a rhetorical question. "Hermione. This is me we're talking about. I'm always hungry

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"Well rather than assume, I thought it fitting to ask first," said Hermione slowly, giving the contents of the tin a stir with a kitchen spoon. She moved the beans off the flame and held a couple of pieces of bread over it to toast them up. After assembling two slices with heaping spoonfuls of beans on top, Hermione levitated the whole thing up and over the small break in the barrier near the roof. It lowered down until it was low enough for him to pluck from the air

[waningred]

"S'fine," he mumbled around a mouthful of food. All the furniture and anything else he could harm anyone with had been moved across the room, forcing him to sit cross-legged on the floor. Engaging conversation never been one of his strong points, so if Hermione wanted to read aloud from some dry old tome to save them from enduring a lot of uncomfortable silence, that was just grand.

The first slice of beans on toast quickly disappeared - he wasn't kidding about always being hungry; Ron's stomach was truly bottomless. The second slice, however, he left on the plate, setting it aside for now. It had occurred to him midway through the final bite that the potion might not react well with what he was currently shoving into his belly with the grace of a starving teenager.

That was all he needed to truly make this whole miserable transformation complete: to become violently, embarrassingly sick in front of Hermione.

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Hermione watched Ron for a moment, lifting a small spoonful to her mouth. It was about all she could bear to eat and when he set his plate aside, she put the tin down. She could hear the clucking of tongues from various friends at her lack of eating. Already it had taken somewhat of a toll on her. At least no one had commented on her baggy jumper.

With a sigh, Hermione turned to her satchel. Part of her wished he'd say something more, but the other part of her was glad to escape into fiction. She pulled a tattered copy of David Copperfield. She sat down on the floor, opting not to take the chair because he didn't have one and it wasn't fair; she started to read.

"Chapter one. I am Born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night." Hermione rubbed the back of her neck, butterflying the book in one

[waningred]

"No, no. Go on." Ron motioned for Hermione to keep going. "I don't mind." And for once, despite his initial reaction, he really didn't; she had a good, clear reading voice and her company certainly beat the alternative. Having had his binge preempted the night before by Luna, he wasn't afforded the luxury of that hazy, detached feeling of inebriation. Quite the opposite, actually. He was clear-headed and not the least bit hung over.

"Seriously," he said, and found himself able to crack a smile after all. "I promise I won't nod off or anything."

She'd read to him in the past - and Harry too - though it had always been right before an important exam (or at least what she'd considered important). And yes, both boys had nodded off in the common room during her frazzled attempts to cram the necessary knowledge into their heads without a whole lot of luck.

Only four weeks until OWLs, she'd scold, and you've not even started studying!

Good times.