Author's Note: This collection is inspired by Chicago's "Cell Block Tango." Six drabbles, six pairings.
Warning for: murder, dark themes.
She was happy with him. She really was. She could overlook his tendency to eat with his mouth open, the way that he steadfastly ignored any attempt at learning now that his Hogwarts days were over. The way he spoke over her, and seemed to believe that now that she was pregnant, she would turn into the brown-haired version of his mum, content to pop out babies and keep house, hanging up her dreams with her apron.
And then he discovered the new flavours of Drooble's Best blowing gum.
Ron had always liked sweets. Hermione couldn't blame him for that; so did she, although her parents' voices always tended to speak up quite sternly in her head when she indulged, scolding her about cavities and tartar and gingivitis.
Ron, though...She didn't know why, but he'd developed a tendency to not only chew massive quantities of gum, but pop bubbles. Loud, obnoxious bubbles that tended to coat his face in gum, and then he'd grin at her. Like it was the most brilliant thing he'd ever done.
It was enough to drive any girl mad. And was it any wonder, with her pregnancy hormones running amok through her body, that she would snap?
They were visiting her parents when Hermione finally had enough. Her mum and dad had stepped out for their nightly constitutional. They invited Hermione and Ron to go with them, but Hermione wasn't feeling so well, and in a rare show of solicitude, Ron volunteered to stay with her.
She should have known it was only an excuse for him to watch Muggle telly, turned up to an obnoxious volume that made her head pound, and chew still more gum, this kind virulently blue and touted to be blueberry pie-flavoured.
Another bubble popped, sticky and brilliant blue over his chin. Hermione stared at it, and hated it. Hated him. What kind of wife was she, hating her own husband?
"Could you please turn that down?" she finally said, striving to keep her voice calm. He looked over at her, popped his gum again.
"Sure, 'Mione," he said, and turned it down. For all of ten seconds, upon which it was right back up again, as loud as ever. And he stuffed still more gum into his mouth, chewing messily.
Hermione looked around the room, fingers clenching, and her eyes lit upon the shotgun on the mantle-piece. It was more for decoration than anything else, but she knew her dad kept it always ready for firing, in case of intruders.
Pop.
That decided her. Heaving her unwieldy body up off the sofa, Hermione grabbed the shotgun and aimed it carefully at her husband's head.
Just a warning shot or two, that was all, she thought, and then a diabolical smile crossed her face, just as she pressed the trigger.
This pop sound was so good, she had to repeat it.
