Written for Hogwarts (Challenges and Assignments), Pop Music Chart Day.
Prompts: 60s songs — "These Boots Are Made For Walking", by Nancy Sinatra
You keep saying you got something for me...
Hermione unlocked the door to the flat she shared with Ron, Harry, and George. They had bought it after the war, and it was nice enough, as far as flats go. It had a bedroom for each of them, a small but useful kitchen, and a large living room, which the guys insisted on calling the 'Den'.
As she walked into the kitchen, she heard a rhythmic thumping coming from the direction of the bedrooms. She rolled her eyes. It was probably George. He had started turning to alcohol, which they had finally — thankfully — weaned him off of, and sex. This wasn't the first time she had come home from work and discovered some blonde bimbo in there.
She knocked on the wall that connected the kitchen to the rooms a few times, and the thumping stopped. "Oh, shit," came a voice.
You've been a'messin' where you shouldn't 've been a'messin'...
Hermione perked up her ears and listened to the sound of someone dressing hurriedly. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and waited, tapping her heeled foot on the tile.
A blonde woman came down the hall from the bedrooms, peering around the corners anxiously. She wore a matching red bra and pantries set, and she held a short black dress to her front, though it didn't cover much. Hermione suspected it was very tight and meant to accentuate her assets.
And what assets they were!
Hermione wasn't surprised that George had decided to bring her home.
And now someone else is getting all your best...
The blonde bimbo jumped when she finally noticed Hermione standing in the kitchen in her smart navy blue pencil skirt and matching jacket and black heels. The brunette raised an eyebrow.
The woman smiled weakly and quickly pulled on her dress. It truly was a tiny dress, barely covering the red panties in the back, and showing hints of the red bra in the front.
Hermione pointed to the door.
And that's just what they'll do...
"How many times have I told you..." Hermione's voice trailed off as she opened the door to George's room. Empty. Frowning, she called, "George?" No answer.
She knew that Harry was out, which only left...
"RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!"
You keep samin' when you oughta be a'changin'...
Hermione had thought that after they got engaged, Ron would quit flirting with other girls. It had never gotten physical, but she became jealous whenever he lavished attention on some brainless harlot instead of his girlfriend.
But this...she had certainly never expected that he would turn to cheating.
Ron stuttered, pulling the damp sheets up over his naked body. It was too late, though; Hermione had already seen enough.
You keep playing where you shouldn't be playing
And you keep thinking that you'll never get burnt (HAH)...
As she stormed around her bedroom, waving her wand at her possessions in a furious silence, Ron kept stammering out apologies. She ignored him, focused on packing everything into her faithful beaded bag.
Until she heard him say something.
She turned, slowly, and faced him. "What did you just say?" she hissed.
He looked taken aback, but puffed out his chest with false bravado. "I said — if you'd only have put out, none of this would have ever happened!"
Her eyes flashed and her lip curled up in disgust. "So you're saying that if I had slept with you, you wouldn't have cheated?" He flinched at her blunt question, but nodded. She could tell that he was getting nervous, though.
"Yeah."
Her anger finally bubbled over, and she threw a high heel at his head. His Quidditch reflexes kicked in — unfortunately, she thought bitterly — and he ducked. The shoe hit the wall behind him, leaving a round indentation in the plaster.
"Get out!" she shrieked. "I cannot believe you! You expect me to — to have sex with you when we've barely been engaged for a week?" Her voice was an octave higher than normal, and Ron winced.
"We've known one another for year, though, 'Mione! I know you like I know myself!"
Her eyes narrowed.
I just found me a brand new box of matches...
"So, you know me like you know yourself, do you?" Her voice dripped sarcasm — but then again, sarcasm had never been Ronald's strong suit. "Go ahead, then. What's my favorite color? Favorite food? How many boys have I liked in my lifetime? What's the only book that I've hated?"
He smirked confidently. "Gryffindor colors, french fries, one, and...you're Hermione Granger. You love all books!"
She shook her head disappointedly. "You 'know me', huh?" His eyes widened. "For your information, Ronald," he flinched at the venom in her voice, "my favorite color is neither red nor gold. It's green. I hate french fries, and live off of coffee. I have liked five other boys in my life, and right now, I'd much rather be with them than you. And, contrary to what you believe, I do actually hate some books."
He sneered. "So? That doesn't prove anything!"
She pursed her lips and stared down her nose at him. Lanky frame, dull blue eyes, fire-engine red hair... Had she ever really loved him, or was it all fake? Was she with him because they were a good match or because it was what everyone believed was right for them?
"I'm leaving," she told him, shutting her bag after the final item floated in. She took one last glance around her room and was surprised at how bare it looked with none of her decorations or knick-knacks. "I've had enough of your childish antics. Don't following me."
Are you ready, boots? Start walkin'...
The last thing she saw as she walked out the door was Ron's shocked face as he stared down into his hand.
In it was her engagement ring.