Ordinary Writing Levels, Day 13, Prompt: spiders
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
word count: 423
Ron tipped his head back and finished off the amber liquor in his tumbler. The ice in the glass clinked as he set it back down. His face scrunched as the alcohol burned on the way down his throat but he didn't cough.
He rocked his jaw back and forth, one of those angry ticks that Hermione had always chided him about. "It'll give you jaw problems, Ronald." He could hear the nag in her tone in his head. He didn't care. He sat slumped on his bar stool not drunk enough to drown out her voice yet. He gestured toward the bartender to pour him another round and before the Muggle left he found his voice enough to say, "Leave the bottle."
The bartender raised his eyebrows but nodded and the bottle of Muggle whisky was left.
Ron scowled at the bottle like it was the cause of offence, knowing it wasn't. Her silence. As much as her nagging about every, little thing drove him 'round the bend it was her silence that had ruined him. Somewhere in the seven years since the end of the war, in the six they were married, Hermione had stopped loving him. He didn't know when. He wished he did so he could go back to that moment, to the moments before that moment, and stop it from happening. Change it.
He downed the whisky in his glass in as few gulps as possible and poured himself another glass. He was sloppy about it, spilling a bit over the edge and filling far higher than the bartender had done. He watched the golden drops as they slid down the side of the glass, watched in fascination as they beaded on his fingers before spreading out.
Just past his fingers on the wood of the bar, almost hidden in the little black streaks of the warm wood grain was a tiny spider. Eight little, spindly legs twitching as it walked, skittered across the bar top.
He frowned at it, wondering where his fear and revulsion was when it waded through some of the spilt whisky. He smacked his hand down on top of it, squashing it flat, smearing it into pieces. If only he could do that with the other spiders in his life.
A neighbouring patron glanced up at the sound and raised his eyes at Ron. "Wha's that?"
"Spider," Ron answered, slurring the middle letters into one sound. He raised his fingers to show the insect's guts mixed with spilt whisky. "Didn't want to share."