“I’m dying,” Hermione proclaimed from the bed. She was getting sick in the mornings again and Minerva had moved the younger witch’s morning class to an afternoon independent study, which young Mrs. Weasley wasn’t very fond of.
“You’re not,” her husband proclaimed from in front of the mirror.
Since everyone had found out about his marriage to Hermione, people started noticing him and speaking to him a bit more. So he’d started taking the time to wear some nicer robes. He’d comb his hair. And he’d piss his wife off.
“Stop primping,” she told him with a frown. “You look like and idiot when you do things like that.”
“Just because people are saying you’ve put on weight doesn’t mean that I’m not looking quite well,” he told her in a haughty voice – one that he had perfected to sound almost exactly like his own.
“That’s it, Ronald Weasley. You are sleeping on the couch tonight. I have had just about enough of you constantly putting me down …”
“ – But! – ”
“And you know what? You can tell your friends Neville and Harry that their girlfriends will be informed of your misbehavior … and I think they will blame you when they are no longer being snogged. I’m going on strike and you can be sure that Luna and Ginny will follow quickly behind,” she said as she threw her covers off and stomped out of bed.
“Shite,” he swore as he watched her leave the room. “She’s a bit angry,” he continued to himself. “Best warn Harry and Neville.”
So Ron left his wife in their rooms while he went down to breakfast. He sat down beside Harry and started helping himself to the food.
“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked the redhead.
“In a right snit in our room.”
“What did you do?” When his companion shrugged, Harry let out an exasperated sigh. “Ron, you know we can’t make ‘Mione angry right now. It’s the bloody middle of November. You get her mad enough now, the middle of next month may not turn out exactly as we had planned.”
“Shite,” Ron swore for the second time in less than 30 minutes. “Uh, Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“’Mione mentioned something about going on strike and taking Ginny and Luna” - Neville’s head popped up from across the table – “with her. What does that mean? She mentioned something about snogging as well, so I was a bit distracted and missed it.”
“It means you’ve gotten us all in trouble, you thick prat. No one will be snogged while Hermione’s sore at you. Way to go, mate,” Harry grumbled as he picked at the food on his plate.
Ron sighed as Neville frowned.
Ten minutes later, three unhappy young witches waltzed into the Great Hall. And none of them even looked at their significant others.
“Hey, ‘Mione,” Ron tried but got the cold shoulder from his wife.
“Morning, love,” Harry tried but got a sniff and a hair-toss from a particular redhead.
“I like your earrings, Luna,” Neville said.
“Thank you, Neville, but I am supposed to be mad at you and not talk to you, so forget I told you thank you,” the flighty blonde responded as she moved to the Ravenclaw table and Hermione and Ginny moved to talk to Pavarti Patil.
“We’re buggered,” Harry muttered as he saw the other witch’s head shoot up and her pretty face contort into a frown. “You’d better find a way to fix this, mate, or the guys around here will make sure you don’t live to see your kids.”
“They won’t touch me,” Ron said confidently as he took a sip of pumpkin juice.
“How do you know?” Neville asked.
“Because if they do,” Ron explained in his best know-it-all, confident voice, “then they have to put up with ‘Mione being angry and sad … and no one wants that.”
“Too true,” Harry sighed as he polished off his breakfast.
--
A week later, things weren’t that much better. Luna had given in and Neville was doing fine, and most of the other girls had gone back to their boys, but Hermione and Ginny were holding strong. And Harry and Ron were getting weaker and weaker. It was quite funny to watch.
Saturday morning found Harry and Ron on the brooms hovering above the Quidditch pitch. It was a cold late November day, so they were bundled up nicely.
“Hermione took her NEWTs today, didn’t she? Back in London?”
“Yeah,” Ron said in response to his best mate’s question. “McGonagall took her down there last night and they should be back tonight. I think if she does okay she’ll be in a better mood.”
“You’d better hope so. You have about three weeks to make her like us again or we’re all done for,” the black-haired boy responded. “I don’t fancy your kids killing us all because you’ve made ‘Mione mad.”
“Well, I reckon as long as you’re on her good side, everything should work out. I mean, the prophesy has nothing to do with me. Lupin said it was you.”
“I know that, Ron, but if she keeps Ginny steamed at me then she will be too. It’s some kind of vicious cycle or something. Hermione’s mad at you, Ginny’s mad at me, Ginny’s mad at you, Hermione’s mad at me … we have to think of a way to get them back on speaking terms with us.”
“Hermione talks to me.”
“Hermione shouts at you, Ron,” Harry corrected. “It’s not the same.”
“We’ll be fine, Harry,” Ron stated confidently.
“You should be kind of worried, Ron,” Harry told him seriously.
“I know she loves me, Harry. We all do. She’s going to get over it after she finds out what I have planned.”
“And what’s that?”
“A wedding,” Ron said with a smile.
“Thought you had one of those already, Ron. I mean, rings … changing last names … Australia … any of this sound familiar?” Harry asked in a befuddled manner.
“I know we had a wedding, but none of the people we love were there. So I am getting Bill and Fleur to help me plan a big England wedding for Hermione. And I plan on telling her when she gets back.”
“You are the master,” Harry said in awe.
“I know,” Ron smirked before he made a dive for the Snitch that was zipping around the pitch.
Printer Friendly Version
