In Like a Lamb

He can't figure out why they're broken up if she is still running shit.

Which clearly -- she is -- 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 in 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.

No.

Instead, he is in the rowdy Diagon Alley pub with the rest of the poor schmucks whose fuck-misery misfortune is 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 a word she's saying.

Check that -- if he cares to pay attention, he probably can. But she had this silly habit of running her mouth even while the FlooVision was on. And since - according to her - the FV always seemed to offer something better than what she had to say, so why waste ones breath having any real conversation or even bothering to listen at all?

Again. Angst-Hermione.

His turquoise eyes lift above the crowning glory that is her hair -- which at the moment is not particularly bushy -- and settle on the frantic, swooping motions of two Chudley Chasers in the large mirror which stretches behind the bar.

[Thank Merlin someone finally gotten smart to smuggling two-way mirrors into pitches.]

His face crumples as a collective empathic groan goes up in the bar. Ogglesby, who looks 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 pushes back his chair and slowly rises, easily towering over her in a way he could not otherwise; not with his wit and nor certainly his dull brain, as she'd been always been 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.

~~~*~~*~~*~~~

His flat, as usual, is a pigsty. He can feel her disdainful eyes skating all over it. He continues effortlessly into the gloom and oversteps a tangle of things puddled at the door without warning her. She swiftly curses the discarded muddied trainers that has set out to do her in.

"Honestly, Ron." She is already a window, attempting to fix things. "It wouldn't hurt to let some light now and then."

"I'm not a plant, Hermione." His tone is flat and strangely mild.

She ceases her battle with the ornery shade.