Cleaning House

Cleaning House

"Honestly, Ron!"

"Aw, come on, Hermione. You're ruining the moment."

"Moment! The 'moment' was ruined, Ronald, the minute I heard something crunch beneath your sofa cushions!"

"Hermione!" Ron screamed. But the familiar pop had already sounded, and Hermione was gone. This was the third time Hermione had left Ron's apartment in a fit of disgust. Ron didn't understand what the big deal was. Every guy had a messy apartment. They were best friends--she knew how he was. Granted, Hermione had tried to ignore his . . . untidiness. An amazing feat, really, considering Hermione's . . . amazing attention to detail. Three dates and three times she came back to his apartment only to be accosted by some creature, some smell, some ghastly sight. Ron sat on his couch and shoved his hands through his hair.

"Women."

Harry nudged Ron with his elbow as they walked down the street.

"So," Harry grinned, "what's up with you and Hermione? How was date number three? Any snoggage?" Ron sighed heavily.

"Man, I can't even get her to stay five minutes."

"Are you serious? I thought for sure you guys had gotten over this will we, won't we crap!"

"Well, I'm sure I'm over it, but every time we, you know, start, all she can think of is how she can organize my cupboards, or something. That woman! I wish for once she could just go with the flow instead of always trying to make things perfect!"

"Ron," Harry started. He paused for a moment while they entered the restaurant. Harry knew what a bossy perfectionist Hermione could be. He also knew how completely oblivious Ron could be, and what an amazing slob he could be, as well. Harry knew where this was going and he wasn't about to let his friends' relationship crash and burn before it even got off the ground.

"Look, the truth is, well," Harry took a deep breath and plunged right in, "your place is gross. Women can't stand stuff like that--especially, Hermione. And if you had any sense at all, you'd make your place a love nest instead of a rat's nest. There. I said it."

Ron stood open mouthed at the bar as he and Harry waited for their table. The clink of glasses and the din of voices floated above their heads. Harry created fringe along the edge of his napkin while he let Ron get his bearings.

"I thought you'd be on my side!"

"I am on your side. Someone has to think of your paltry sex life. And if it's not going to be you, then it might as well be me." Ron looked appalled.

"Look, mate, were too old to behave like bloody teenagers. Clean up your damn house!"

Harry clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a reassuring look.

"I'll help."

******

"How long have you been living here, Ron?" Harry said behind a red paisley scarf that made him look like a Texas outlaw. He winked at himself in Ron's hallway mirror. Harry James rides again!

"Twelve months," mumbled Ron, snapping Harry out of his imaginary trip into the wild, wild west. Ron braced himself in front of the living room window, small spray bottle in hand.

"Twelve months," Harry echoed, "One year."

"That's right."

Harry came to stand beside Ron, bracing himself in the same fashion. Knees bent, muscles taught.

"We draw on three, partner," Harry drawled in his worst Texas accent.

"What the bloody hell, Harry?"

"Erm, nothing, mate--on three, then? One . . . Two . . . Three!" Harry shook the buzzing curtains with a long pole and out popped little fairy like creatures with razor sharp teeth and black hair that covered their entire bodies.

"One year, Ron!" Harry groused as he sprayed the mean spirited critters. One by one they began to freeze in midair and fall into a big, red bucket.

"What?!"

The bucket meant to catch the creatures as they froze began to fill up. Ron wiped his hand across his sweaty forehead and chanced a quick glance at Harry. So far they hadn't had to use the anti-venom, but they didn't want to risk being bitten because of a moment of distraction. The bites stung like a mother.

"How is it possible, Ron," Harry said, his face twisting in disgust as the last one fell into the bucket, "that you have fifteen doxys hiding in your curtains after only living here for ONE YEAR? Do you remember the doxys at Grimmauld Place? That house had been empty for 10 years!"

Ron loosened the orange tie-dyed bandana that had been covering the bottom half of his freckled face. He scrutinized his flat for a moment as he removed his protective gloves. He looked at Harry, but quickly averted his eyes and sighed, a grin spreading reluctantly across his lips.

"Alright, you're right," he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His face began to color violently as he began his confession. It seems the doxys had been the last nail in the coffin. "My place was like a rundown, dilapidated old crack house. You, Hermione, my mother, my sister--even bloody Fred and George--were all right. Thank you, you effing git, for helping me out. Okaaay?"

Ron drew the last word out melodramatically and rolled his eyes as he headed for his newly de-bugged couch. (It was definitely more inviting now that you could no longer see things moving beneath the cushions.) He flopped down grumpily and put his feet up on the brown leather cocktail ottoman. (The leather had a lovely sheen once the film had been scrubbed off.) His eyes darted around his gleaming flat once again. It didn't even look lived in anymore. Just then, Harry began to amble over to him doing a kind of erratic, spastic--could you call it a dance? What's more, to Ron's utter horror, Harry's convulsive movements were also accompanied by a sort of . . . singing.

"Ron is gonna get some booty," Harry 'sang' to the tune of Sly and the Family Stone's

Play That Funky Music, Whiteboy. "Ron's gonna get some tail, toni-iight!"

"Good grief, Harry, would you shut it!"

Harry froze mid gyration.

"What's crawled up your stinky bum, then?" Harry said, taking note of the glower darkening Ron's pale features.

"Nothing . . .It's just that, well, it's not me, is it? This place. It's so . . . so--"

"So neat? So clean? So hygienic?"

"You know, at Hogwarts, you weren't so funny. Quite boring, actually."

"Tosser."

"Tremendous Prick."

"I certainly hope so," said Harry cheekily, as he plopped down on the couch.

"Harry!"

"Look, Ron, you're being far too dire about this whole thing. All we've done, here, is finally make some room for the only woman you've ever loved."

Ron's throat suddenly constricted and he responded with a high pitched squeak.

"I know, I know, you're worried about upkeep, but I'm sure Hermione will relish having another counter to dust!"

"Who said anything about, love?!" Ron protested, finally reclaiming the use of his vocal cords.

"Bollocks, Ron. You've loved her ever since wingardium leviosa."

"Love, Harry?! We're barely dating, Harry?! What's love got to do with anything, Harry?!"

"O-o-oh, what's love got to do, got to do with it?" Harry began to sing. He jumped off the couch and began beckoning to Ron. "Sing with me, Tina. I've been taking on a new direction--"

"What on earth?"

"But I have to sa-ay!"

"Harry!"

"I've been thinkin' 'bout my own protection."

"Harry!"

"It scares me to feel this wa-ay!"

"Harry!"

"O-o-oh--"

"All right, already, I give!" Ron bellowed. "I'm," he sighed, grasping the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "I'm scared, all right."

"Duh, Ron, but you don't have anything to worry about. If she had wanted Malfoy, they'd be together right now. She wants you and she's wants you now." Harry waggled his eyebrows.

"That's just it. She wants me. We're, like, best friends, Harry. What if it doesn't work? What if we end up hating each other? Or worse, what if the sex is dreadful?!"

"First off," Harry began, plopping on the couch and hoisting his feet onto the ottoman, "You two already hate each other. Second, she's been with Malfoy and Zabini. Everyone knows Slytherins are freaks. I'm sure she could teach you a thing or three."

"Ew, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Whatever, Ronald. You're almost 30 years old. You haven't had one meaningful relationship in your entire adult life. You've been agonizing and denying and saving yourself for one person all these years--"

"Saving myself?! You make it sound like I'm a bloody virgin!"

"I'll start singing, Ron. I swear it."

"Okay! She's my . . . I . . ." Harry clapped Ron on the knee and lifted himself off the couch. He walked over to the fridge, opened it and grabbed a bottle of butterbeer, while Ron stumbled over his feelings. He took a grateful swig and looked over at his pitiful friend.

"Spare me your sappy unbosoming, mate. Tell Hermione. Tell her in your shiny, new apartment. Tell her while you shag each others' brains out." Harry sat down next to Ron, handing him a beverage. Ron took a swig.

"Right, you're one to talk, aren't you?"

"What?"

"All this talk about my love life. But what about yours? Do you even have one?" Harry took another swallow of butterbeer, staring straight ahead.

"I have one."

"Right, not some old slap and tickle--"

"It's Cho."

"Cho?" Ron looked nonplussed. "But it's been, what, ten years?"

"About that."

"But . . . but what about . . . Cedric?"

"Cedric? Gods, Ron, ten years, remember?"

"I know, but--"

"Bu-ut, unlike you, Ronald, some people actually have the ability to get on with their lives without the aid of horrible singing."

"Well, why didn't you tell anyone? And could you shut up calling me Ronald?"

"I'm telling you now, Ronald. I love that name. Ronald." Harry took off his bandana and stuffed it in his pocket. It gave him a great idea for his next romp with Cho. He grinned naughtily and looked over at Ron who was thoughtfully tracing the lip of his bottle with his index finger.

"How come it's taken so long for me and Hermione, Harry?" Harry shrugged.

"Because you're a social midget, Ron. Utterly daft. And so, it's taken you a bit longer than the rest of us to realize that you're a social midget and, of course, utterly daft. It's time to quit martyring your non-existent relationship and be happy for once."

Ron lifted his arms over his head and flopped them back down.

"I . . . I suppose you're right."

"Good of you to notice," Harry said, rising from Ron's couch with a groan. "Now let's go and see your mum."

"My Mum?"

"Yes, your mummy. I'm hungrier than an anorexic horklump."