Disclaimer JKR. Owns the HP world

So we are back to read about the ongoing war between Harry and Hermione. Things are not back to normal. The war is escalating, and they have a take no prisoners' attitude. Ron is getting caught in the middle out pure curiosity. Let's read some more.

Act III

The Pitfalls of the L-Four-Letter-Word

TMI

Many smart people throughout history have stated that between love and hate is but a hair's breadth. They have been correct, especially in this case, except here, our pair rapidly jumped across from one emotion to the other, from one side to the opposite one, continuously, which made it for a hair-rising experience.

This particular day, as she spoke, she was rising from the exercise mat but when she flipped her body to raise up; her short night gown rolled up and exposed a round bottom, clad in very tiny yellow boy shorts, which barely covered an inch of her delightful bum.

Her knickers had a stripe in the Bulgarian team colors, one golden snitch embroidered in one cheek, and a tacky heart with a "V" stitched in the center, tacky, yes, but what a delectable bum. His cock agreed by twitching an affirmative YES in response. Why keep fooling himself? Denial had lost this war, and he knew it. He loved the damn witch, and he had for a long time, but she was a ruthless slag.

"Oh tsk, tsk, dear me, are we tacky or what? So Quidditch slag knickers, is it now?" Harry growled as his face turned towards her; his eyes shut Voldermort-red flares of anger and lust.

"Are we packing those cushy buns for the big-Bulgarian-troll boy?" He said, raising an eyebrow, as his face turned a popish red.

"I never...you are loosing it Harry. And since when are my clothes your concern. Pervert, you are my brother, I might love you, but you are getting out of control. My love life is my business, not yours, not Ron's; it is M.I.N.E!"

"I never said I was your brother." He dared her.

"No? You have like a million times. At the tent, two days after we had shagged; and let me so kindly remind you that a good brother doesn't take his sister's cherry." She eyed him furiously, and he turned red, "add to that every time we have done it. And don't use the drunken, I-forgot-last-night excuses anymore; they no longer work with me." Her anger was not a pretty thing to watch.

"I am not the one with the Saint Potter's attacks. So if I shag Ron, or I did, Viktor, or Cormac or even the blond bimbo, Draco, or whoever, whenever or however, IT IS MY LIFE. IT IS MY BODY, MY RIGHT. LEAVE ME ALONE. Go and sniff after the Quidditch queens, whose snitches belong or have been used by others." She was an angry tornado coming at Harry at full-strength.

"So much for I love you more, and I love you best; and three days later, I meant, I love you like my sister—after you had shagged me, how many times? Like 30, in less than two and half days. Harumph!"

"Thirty three, you nasty witch, let me assure you that doesn't include all the blow jobs and the times I went down on you; learn your numbers." He huffed, totally annoyed at her inability to count. Thinking about it, was getting him hard, thinking about each of the times was driving him insane, no surprise there.

Ron tried covering his ears, thirty, thirty three, were those two sick or what, and not counting blowjobs and eating her. They must have taken a potion; yes, that had to be it. They were ruining his idea of what constituted hot sex; both had to be the best at all, prats, he wanted to be Obliviated. His sex life was forever ruined; he could never come to par.

However, too bad that morbid curiosity kept him captive to their mean banter. What they both needed was, clearly, a serious attitude adjustment. He heard one too many revelations. One of the worse was to find out that the Potter-the-pig had her cherry, in the tent, the damn liar. "Ron, it was a riding accident," she had told him the first time; yes, a-Harry-accident was more likely.

He, clearly, remembered Harry telling him, "Ron, mate, your dreams of Hermione and I loving each other, are induced by Voldemort's Horcrux," indeed.

They were both sick, ill; and they needed to be interned in St Mungo's, next to Neville's parents. All kind of morbid thoughts were invading Ron's mind, poisoning him against his best friends.

Hermione was yelling as she approached Harry. She looked positively ferocious, her finger was pointed forward, and if looks could kill, Harry would be burned toast at that very instant. She poked his chest with the strength of a high-powered drill bit.

"And, furthermore, do I ever say anything when you still crawl to the Gingery-Maxi-slag, which could care less for you, since we all know who her true bed warmer is. Yes, she goes into your room, even now that she is married, what kind of wizard are you?" Her small frame had grown a good ten inches, Ron thought.

"You, nasty, nasty witch, don't dare call her any names! Ginny is not a slag, and she only loved me at the time. She was just helping Seamus, Neville, Dean, and Goyle through rough spots, they are just clients. She is a mental health counselor, don't you forget. Besides is none of your business, there." He said it. And who was the jealous one here. Besides Ginny was married, and they had only hugged since, kind of hug, or something close to it, whatever.

"Agh," muttered Ron who was quickly retreating back to his room. One thing was clear to him; he needed to leave as fast as humanly possible; while he still had his sanity intact because all their revelations, were way too much information.

Crookshanks and Sarah, Harry's Norfolk terrier, followed their Uncle Ron's smart exit and ran straight into Hermione's room. In the room each sat on one of her pillows to weather the thunderstorm brewing, to let it calm.

Must be hurricane season, Crookshanks thought. But, no, there are none in Britain; the telly says that hurricanes are not a weather occurrence here. Oh well, moving right along, it must be naptime. And he tried to get some shuteye, unsuccessfully; the fighting was way too loud.

"Hey Sarah, what do you say, how about a cozy nap by the humans' fireplace in the upstairs library." At the library, it was quieter, and the furry tenants lay close to one another, and dreamed of treats, and the nice humans they used to have before the V-Incident warfare got started.

Downstairs, in the living room, the storm was gathering strength, with the thunder makers poking each other's chests, hair flying, pheromones and anger enzymes raging, noses flaring, and tempers exploding. It looked like a battle reenactment, and unfortunately it wasn't the first time.

Act IV- Other players in the ongoing war.

If the truth was told, the last two years had witnessed several of the same scenes. It was worse since Ginny had shown her true colors and decided to marry an older Wizard, eighteen months after the Malfoy bimbo's disgraceful wedding.

Well not older, more like really old, like forty-two years old, and she had married recently, six months before. The wedding took place after a speedy courtship; short of two weeks after meeting him after a Harpies game.

He was a Polish count, whose nickname was Bluebeard. Ginny seemed to be related to the three wives, who all had died while giving birth. He lived in an old spooky palace (according to Ron and Harry), and had the galleons to make him very sexy.

Ginny had figured out Harry would not marry her any time soon. She and Molly had suspected that Hermione, that ugly frazzled hair short troll, had given him the same potion she fed the lot of the males who met her.

They knew, or hope, to be right; and for a long while, neither gave the credit Hermione deserved. Both, at the time, had refused to see the fey like beauty, the slight swan she had grown into, never mind her mind boggling intellect, courage, and most of all loyalty, love and self-sacrifice and lack of malice. Let's not forget her bad temper, and ability to make Harry mad.

It is no wonder, that Ginny dropped her bait, sink, bobber, and hook to catch her blue-bearded fish, and voilà, Count a la Almandine. Within days of the first date, a Las Vegas wedding and no time for introductions; and even smarter, she kept Harry on the side. He didn't seem to mind the night escapades when she came into the guest room to administer massages, or when she dropped at all times to check on them.

As for Ron, he was smarter and had long given up on Hermione. He was the business manager of a large enterprise largely owned by the warring couple. For now, he was too busy in the money growing business, and astutely managing his wise investments and the company's. He had personally invested a million in marketing, which incorporated products designed and made by Hermione, Harry, George and his father.

The company designed and made anti-hex protective clothing and security devices, combining wizardry and Muggle technology. They hired consultants to work in the electronics portion, and the company grew.

Fleur was their accountant, Bill and Charlie were field men, and Molly was in charge of taking care of all of them. They had all prospered beyond their dreams on a short six years.

As for Ron, he would marry Loony in three months; and he couldn't wait to fly away from this battlefield, a true warring zone.

Nobody dared to intervene because without their talent, the enterprise would fail. Albeit, George and his father's gadgets were powerful sellers, the brains behind the big money making ideas came from the trouble makers; however, but this was pure hell.

Stupid Ginny's shenanigans, besides her frankly sluttish attitude, really stinks. Those were Ron's thoughts after the disaster he had witnessed. Never mind, Harry's betrayal, (he had shagged Hermione when he had been in love with her, often it seemed) hurt him a bit; and his mind was in turmoil.

However, most of his anger was focused on Ginny who was making a bad situation worse. Of course, she had been a guest in their house a few days ago. Ron was sick thinking about Ginny and wishis that he had not stayed to hear the rest of the fight.

Even Molly was tired of her comings, and as result her attitude towards Hermione had changed radically. Even if Ginny's hadn't. Just last week, a drunken Death Eater that had gone to Hogwarts with Bill, had dropped Ginny in the Burrows' back door. She was absolutely intoxicated, with her stockings tied around her neck, and looking as if she had been snogged by an army.

Actually, Arthur had found her sleeping in an outside chair covered with an old blanket, stinking of firewhisky, and still drunk. The same day, Charlie had taken her back to her husband, who grew weary of Ginny by the day.

The Count, as Arthur called him, was really a lovely person, dead wives aside. The last time they saw each other, Arthur pulled him aside, "Son, a piece of heartfelt advice, keep your wife in a short leash, and make her pregnant, soon. She hides her potion in a small red and yellow tin with her face creams." The count had hugged Arthur gratefully. He loved Ginny and didn't want to lose her.

The Count made a wise decision, this time he wouldn't trust his wife to the old midwife, and would go to St Mungo's with her for the baby's delivery. So much for a murderer, instead, his spouses had died because of his old attitudes. He had refused to be modern; and no, it wasn't the old midwife either. It was his desire to conform to the old tradition, which demanded the babies were delivered in the old castle; where a murderous ancestor roamed, the real Bluebeard's ghost.

Now that Harry's status wasn't necessary, Molly no longer wished for the match. The Burrow had been renovated and made extraordinary by Audrey, Percy's wife. With the fortune earned, the Burrow was a feat of magical architectural genius, and it was all hers.

The structure was put right and to stand straight, the roofs had been shingled in tiles brought from Toscana, columns to support the crumbling structure; a new wing with large bedroom suites and private bathrooms was added. The kitchen was expanded and now sported Muggle state of gourmet tools, and appliances. Favorite of everyone was the popcorn maker, the cappuccino machine, and the convection stove with an indoor grill, a giant stove magically designed to fit a large cauldron, and was outfitted with a steam oven.

But prosperity did not quench the fire of the Wizarding World War Three's daily battles, fought between the two warring factions, the golden duo members. The scrimmages and full blown battles, had already spilled into their office and the outside world.

The dueling events were now commonplace in the boardroom, during meetings with clients, and currently famous at every restaurant and bar at Diagon Alley. They had made first page in all the Wizarding world magazines. Bookies had bet pools going, it was a real mess.

The last incident, involved a brawl between Krum and Potter while they waited for Hermione to show up. Viktor had made a date with her, and Harry overheard their Floo conversation. Armed with his gathered data, he promptly decided that the Oaf wasn't going to meet his witch.

A few seconds later he was facing Viktor. The conflict started with, "You don't deserve her."

Which was followed with a shove, and, "You, brutish ox, still have the Dark Mark, " (true).

And a purposeful push, accompanied by, "Pervert, you shagged a 14 year old when you were 19," (not true).

Tempers truly flaring and a real hard push later, along with, "You nearly killed her first date after the ball in (a lie) a jealous attack," (not true).

By this time the crowds were gathering around her, not caring and quite loud, "Be a wizard and tell the truth, you rotten s.o.b."

From there, it had escalated into all blown out wand and fist scrimmage, with the lunch crowd witnessing the display. Meanwhile, statically happy Paparazzi fired their cameras away, and bookies collected bets.

Regretfully, the Aurors picked up the two famous multi-millionaires, and they made all the tabloid and serious news, magical wireless stations the world around, for the sixth time in a few weeks.

The last three weeks had been a particular hell.

Act V

The-Underhanded-Proposal or Viktor throws a Gauntlet.

Monday, three weeks earlier-

"Hermione Jean Granger have you seen my pink tie? The one you brought me from Milano for my birthday?" A gruff voice asked.

Better, Harry asked, damn well knowing what had happened to the tie. As soon as Ron heard "Pink tie," he decided to make himself scarce and no longer wished to eat any breakfast; immediately, he Apparated outside of the house and took a Muggle taxi to the office. However, he still had time to catch the just of the fight.

"Harry, Dear, I have told you at least three times. Last time that Viktor slept over, I packed it for him. He had a similar tie, and I put yours in his bag by mistake, the one you had left on the entrance table. Viktor had his luggage stolen and nothing can be done. I will buy you a new one. As a matter if fact, I already placed a request, but as you know, it will take several days, maybe weeks."

"I thought you would say that. Look at Vicky's tie during his last interview in Quidditch Weekly, it arrived today. Do you recognize it? No, no, ha, ha, no such luck. Please my Dear Miss Granger, would you allow me to read for you?" Hermione was looking at him horrified; she had long suspected Viktor's hand.

Ms. Hanna- "Mr. Krum, you are always such a fabulous dresser, I love your tie. Isn't an original Milano's Magic Ties, made out of silver spider silk, hand made, colored with a special process that takes several weeks..."

Ms. Hanna- "You are so right, that pink brings out your lips…"

The new and upcoming announcer of WNN, Wizarding News Network, was nearly on Krum's lap.

Krum, who never flirted or smiled, didn't this time, at least not publicly." I'm not sure, but you are probably right, my sweet Hermione only buys the best for me. She had bought me another shade, also exquisite, but when I asked her to exchange it for this colour she, my true angel, promptly made it a reality. She had to make others upset to please me. I love that witch, wherever you are my love."

He turned to the camera, "Hermione, I love your taste," He winked his eye, "and thank you that I am always your first." And for the first, ever, in public, he did another unusual gesture, the wink being the first, and he blew imaginary Hermione, an air kiss, the second.

"So you packed it, in error, did you say?" Harry's accusatory voice's, tinged with deep darkness, was worthy of Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione had blushed, but not because she was guilty, because she was sick and angry with Viktor; the underhanded wizard, he had been playing dirty since the weekend seven weeks before. The L-weekend, the one that had gone sour; the tie was a trick from the Bulgarian, damn troublemaker.

"My Mimi, you marry me now, no big vedings, just you and I. Yes? I am going to make you say yes. You, my little gold snitch, do I play dirty, yes? Very dirty, but I, Viktor Krum, I am best seeker in world, and Potter is babe in dirty playing games. All fair in love, yes?"

Yes, the underhanded Bulgarian, had indeed said it, at the end of the interview to all those who read Quidditch news, and of course, for the Wizarding world at large; he had thrown a gauntlet. The balls, the nerve, face it, he was an idiot.

No, no, and no, Hermione thought, she needed to get rid of Viktor, but how? Albeit, he never flirted in public, and she had him investigated before, nevertheless. He had affairs carefully hidden by his PR wizards; hidden yes, but Hermione's female intuition was clear, and had told her that he was a player.

After the ill fated, public proposal, the screaming started and spilled into the office, that very same day. Hermione cried hard and finally was so very sick, that she ended up throwing up right at the conference room before meeting with clients. And Molly had come and cradled the crying witch in her arms.

It really had to end. However, there was no end in sight. Viktor had just proposed and Hermione was torn.

A/N

Next time tomorrow, we are past the mid point. The story is around 12,500 Words. Let me know if you like it. thanks.