Disclaimer: I own nothing. Had a silly plot bunny and wrote a silly drabble, is all. Couldn't think of a better name. I've read through it a few times, so hopefully there's no glaring errors but please point them out to me if there are, and please don't favourite without reviewing. :)
Dedication: For Rachel (amor deliria nervosa) - who's been my friend for over a year now and who has never failed to be there for me - because she's the Molly to my Arthur and all that. :3
"MOLLY PREWETT."
She starts, almost jumping up in alarm at the sudden shout, and turns around to see the perpetrator chuckling at her reaction – completely oblivious to the glares they're both receiving from the other occupants of the library, but that's Arthur for you: eternally oblivious.
"Arthur," she hisses, her voice of a more appropriate volume for the location. "Madame Xavier is going to kill you."
"Nah, she left the library a few minutes ago." He declares cheerfully, his voice still loud enough to irritate the Ravenclaw at the other end. She wonders if Arthur even has a quiet voice. Probably not. "And I wanted to talk to you."
"I'm doing my transfiguration essay, sod off." She tells him as she surreptitiously moves her arm to cover the paper that she's been doodling on for at least the last ten minutes. She still hasn't quite gotten over the shock, and as a result her voice is harsher than perhaps it should be.
When he talks, his voice is packed with more sobriety than she's ever heard in his voice before. "This is serious, Molls."
So he can be quiet, then. She wishes he would utilise that ability more often (except no, she doesn't, because then he wouldn't be her Arthur).
"What is it?"
He doesn't talk for a while, and a sort of spasm passes across his face before he starts grinning again, any attempts at keeping a straight face flushed down the drain. "Did you know gingers are going extinct?"
"… What?"
"Gingers. Muggle siii-en-tists say that we're going to die out." He over emphasises the word 'scientists' to the point that it sounds kind of sing-song.
"And your point is?"
"It's going to be tragic! No soulless little kids running around setting fire to things."
She opens her mouth once or twice, almost spluttering at his absurdities, but he doesn't wait for a response before continuing.
"So I was thinking," he winks at her and her heart starts beating far faster than it should be, and she's not quite sure why, "We really ought to breed. You know. Have a bunch of ginger babies. Just for the sake of our race, of course." He's grinning at her with that infuriatingly charming grin of his, and she wants to hit him. Or kiss him. One of the two.
"You are absolutely ridiculous, Arthur Weasley." She informs him as she starts to gather her books and papers – it's not like she was going to get any more work done today, anyway. She doesn't bother telling him that she's fairly certain muggle scientists have said no such thing, nor that gingers aren't a race - what would be the point?
"I know," he beams at her, and then, "Hey, that wasn't a no!"
She stands and smirks at him – Merlin, she's never smirked before, she doesn't even know if she's doing it right – "I guess it wasn't."
