Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to Harry Potter.

A/N: Just a little plot bunny I had in my head just after Christmas. Thanks to my wonderful beta again, Pointless Nostalgic. I was inspired by two things: Seth/Summer from The OC (yes, it is a guilty pleasure) and the song, 'Baby, It's Cold Outside' by Frank Loesser. The title is also inspired by Loesser's song, where the male (aka Wolf) trying to persuade the female (aka Mouse) to stay at the end of the date.

Summary: Ron and Hermione are in a fight--surprise, surprise. It's New Years Eve and Ron attempts to keep her out of the cold. A post-DH one-shot.

The Wolf & The Mouse

By: Cross-Eyed Bear

It was twenty minutes to midnight. Ron wished he had more time. How did it get to this point? He found no desire to replay the recent events or to review his mistakes, so he deliberately let the silence between them stew. However, in actuality, it was Hermione's idea to play the who-can-keep-quiet-the-longest game. Even though she remained at his flat, she was ignoring him. If he was going to be completely honest with himself and sort through the mess he had made, he would have to admit (unwillingly, mind you) that he knew exactly why she was feigning ignorance to his presence, even as he sat next to her. Bollocks to this, he mentally cursed.

He thought of the furious row that they had just finished which had cast a most unflattering light on him. What was so wrong about being concerned? It wasn't snooping or violating her privacy as she insisted on labeling it. He was just concerned. She was the one keeping it from him anyways! What was the last thing she said again? Oh, right, Ron thought miserably. How could he forget? She was yelling at him, after all. Plainly, she had called him out on being completely, utterly, hopelessly, insufferably, oh, and incurably tactless. At least she had her vocabulary going for her.

He couldn't help it. It was as if her open purse, its contents bursting from its mouth, had lured him into snooping. Okay, alright, he admitted to himself, it was bloody snooping. One postcard in particular, with a return address to Bulgaria, was his undoing. In his defense, he had tried to stop himself by slapping the hand that was trying to nick the postcard several times before finally taking it. He even stopped reading it at the introductory greeting (or, more accurately, when she came back from the loo). He did try. But, she merely scoffed at any explanation he had to offer. He had continued, which unfortunately made matters worse, by saying he had only read it because he was wondering how the bloke was doing. 'Do you think I'm daft enough to believe that?'she had asked him in response, looking even more furious than she started out (if that was possible).

His thoughts abruptly dissolved as she moved from her seat, getting up and putting on her bulky-looking winter coat. He got up too, looking puzzled and slightly alarmed.

"Where are you off to then?" he asked, sounding anxious.

Her eyes narrowed on him. "Should I give you an itinerary of all my activities for today?"

He frowned at this and opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came.

She sighed before telling him as calmly as she could, "I need to go now."

"It's...it's...cold outside," he told her weakly.

"What?" she asked as her brows furrowed.

He cleared his throat. "There's a snow storm outside," he said, his voice gaining considerable strength. "You can't possibly be thinking of going out there."

"I am a witch capable of Apparating, Ronald," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"I know you're not going to Apparate," he said, suddenly annoyed. "You always take a walk to take your mind off of things, but I can't allow that to happen in that." He pointed outside the window opposite them, which displayed a blindingly white blizzard outside.

She looked exasperated at his behaviour, but continued nonetheless. "I'll be home in a matter of minutes. I hardly live a couple of blocks away. Besides, my mum will be expecting me home soon," she said, staring out the window.

It was ten minutes to midnight now. Ron cast a desperate look around his living room as if he would be able to find something to persuade her to stay. In all truth, he was tired of fighting, but since they had been together, he had not found a reason to completely stop bickering. In fact, he secretly enjoyed to see her wound up and heated. In many ways, when they were in school together all those years ago, arguing with her was the only way he could ever hope to engage her, and only her, wholly. This guilty pleasure even caused him to ignite arguments that could have easily been avoided, and he had a sneaking suspicion that she was fully aware of this and even enjoyed it herself. However, right now, his mind raced to find a solution to end this fight amiably.

Tonight, he wanted more than anything to have her stay, possibly until the morning. He would not readily admit his excitement over planning this date to Harry, but he really did believe in the picturesque scenario he had planned just for her. It would be their first time spending the holidays alone together, but everything was not going according to plan. Sadly, at this point, after the screaming match and the silent treatment, her staying would be the only thing that mattered now.

"I'll be fine," she said, as she fastened the buttons of her coat. "I'll—er—see you later then."

"What's your hurry?" he asked quickly. "You...you haven't finished your Butterbeer. You've been begging for one since you came here," he added hopefully, grinning.

"My dad will be wondering where I am, too." She ignored him, wrapping her scarf around her neck and putting her hat over her bushy hair.

"'Mione..." He walked up to her, holding her Butterbeer in his hands. "Finish your drink at the very least. It'll help you warm up," he said, still smiling widely.

She eyed him warily before taking the mug in her hands. "Maybe half a drink," she said before taking a sip.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, watching him jump to the CD player she had given him as a Christmas present.

She gave him a quizzical look as he popped in a CD, frantically pressing several buttons before successfully playing a song. "Just trying my new present out. It's a great machine. Muggles are crafty, aren't they?" He said excitedly, producing an uncanny fervour on the subject not unlike his father's. His grinning face left Hermione mildly intimidated and his sudden bright attitude made her suspicious.

"I see you've managed to operate it correctly, but, uh, I really must go," she said, taking one more gulp of butterbeer. Hermione looked down at the drink quizzically, furrowing her brow a bit. "Ron, is there something in this Butterbeer?" she asked, abruptly, eyeing him.

"No," he answered a bit too quickly. It was true that he hadn't, of course. But, he wished he thought of that earlier, as devious as it sounded. Desperate times called for...

"I'm glad you love your gift, but I—" she started, but he interrupted her quickly.

"Did you do something new to your hair...it looks different," he told her, taking off her hat in a desperate attempt to make her stay. The top of her head was frizzy and stray locks stuck to the hat he was pulling away from her. "It's lovely," he added in a suddenly deeper, huskier tone.

"Lovely? If by different you mean running a brush through it, then, yes, it is different." She tried to snatch her hat back, but he had thrown it behind him to land on the couch. "Ronald! I have to go now."

"Hermione... it's freezing outside," he said calmly. He drew closer to her, and idly played with the buttons of her coat as he locked his eyes on her form.

Her eyes blinked several times before it seemed to flash with realization of what he was attempting to do. This change of expression did not escape Ron, though, and he knew that he would have to be very careful with his subsequent comments.

"Look, I simply must go," she said, remaining calm and put a hand on his chest.

He looked thrilled at her touch and another unabashed grin spread across his face. His husky voice returned as he said, "You'll be missing that roaring fire here when you're out there."

His smile twisted into a smirk when he saw her, for a split second, throw a worried glance outside the window behind them. Five minutes to midnight remained.

"It's been a wonderful time, but I can't stay," she insisted.

"You could catch something," he said hurriedly. "What if you got that NEW-MON-YUH thingy. Didn't you say that it's fatal?"

"Pneumonia," she corrected him. "I'll be fine."

"It's freezing, frigid cold out there..." he begged persistently. "I have a right to have you stay—"

"Like you have a right to look through my things and read my mail." Her tone was dangerous and he knew all too well that he was not smooth enough (or ever was to begin with) to get out of the bigger hole he dug for himself. "You haven't even said that you're sorry!" she exclaimed, huffing.

"Wait!"

She dodged his hand from grabbing her, found the hat he had thrown behind him, and shoved it over her head. "Goodbye!" she snapped, stalking past him. She reached for the door when he dove in front of her.

"I am insufferable, I am daft, and I am completely horrible at this," he said breathlessly, protectively hiding the door behind him. "But, I was, as selfish as I was being, only thinking of you."

"How exactly were you thinking of me or how I felt by reading that postcard?" she asked, crossing her arms tightly to her front.

"I always think of you," he said, and then paused to think. She looked expectant as her eyes watched him in tight scrutiny and her lips pursed. Those lips sure were distracting... It was both the most trivial and irresistible thing she did when she was cross. "It's a defense mechanism!" he finally blurted out.

"From what exactly?" she queried, tapping her foot impatiently now.

He looked uncomfortable before speaking again. "From…waiting years to finally be this way with you…being with you," he confessed. "I've spent years believing that you would never, in this lifetime, think of being with me. Of all the blokes you could've chosen, I never thought that you would even think of me."

His eyes took a quick glance at the clock again. Two minutes remained. Then, he focused on her face and saw that her stern expression had softened. She opened her mouth to say something, but she closed it quickly.

He gave a low, diffident laugh before continuing, "It's a defense mechanism because sometimes I think that you could, one day, change your mind about everything…and I act, well, you know how I act. I always thought he was a prat." She frowned at this. "But, I know you don't think of him the way I do. Either way, Harry's right and even I know that he's an international Quidditch player." He saw her screwing her face up in confusion now. Suddenly, as he reviewed the things he had just admitted to her in his head, he felt foolish—it all sounded completely mad! She had shown him time and time again that she was certainly in love with only him, and yet he acted on impulse instead of rationalizing. Why on earth was he telling her all of this? He felt a sick sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, and chided himself mentally. If only Vicky would stop mailing her. If only he had kept out of her mail...

"I know I'm being stupid about this, a complete git, really. But, er, never mind, okay? In fact, just forget it, okay?" He found a seat on the couch behind him and slumped over, the time remaining before midnight the farthest from his thoughts now.

"Ron…" she started, slowly. "You are a git."

She sat next to him, beaming at him for the first time since his transgression. He stared at her, raising a brow for a moment, then promptly averting his gaze to his feet.

"I think I already established that," he said, glumly. "You don't have to tell me twice." He roughly ran his fingers through his red hair and rested his elbow on his lap to prop up his face by the chin.

"You're a git for not seeing that I chose you…" she said quietly. "I've been waiting too, waiting for you to wake up and see that I have wanted to be with you and not him or any other boy for that matter. Just you. I chose you to spend all the important days of my life with. We shared each other's company on a deadly mission against the darkest wizard of our time, for heaven's sake!"

He turned to face her now and smiled sheepishly. He could feel his cheeks fuming. "I'm sorry," he said, finally.

"If I show you the postcard, will you promise to stop fantasizing about this double life I'm just dying to run off to?" she asked. "Promise."

He took his finger and drew an imaginary X over his chest, then raised his right hand in the air. "Promise. But, you really don't have to…"

She rolled her eyes at him and unearthed Victor Krum's postcard from her deep purse in order to read it aloud. With each line she read, he grew more and more embarrassed, wanting nothing to do with it, not caring whether or not she shared its contents now. He realized that it was minutes past midnight when she finished reading the postcard.

"So, you see, he didn't write 'I miss you' or even signed it off with 'love', but finished it off by saying, 'Give my regards to Ron'. Goes to show you that you have absolutely nothing to--"

He kissed her full on the mouth, and smiled in between a few final quick pecks to see her eyes widen in mild surprise. "I could really care less what it says," he told her. "Happy New Years, love."

"Happy New Years," she replied, amused. Then, with a brazen look in her eyes, she asked, "Now, in this grand scheme to keep me out of the cold, when were you planning on persuading me to stay the night?"

End.