Summary: Hermione can't take a compliment, and Ron has had enough.
Rating: K+
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling does.
Slamming the door
By Skotosenigma
Ron had decided women were a mystery.
He had also come to the conclusion that no male was ever going to understand the other gender. Not in a thousand years. Impossible.
Especially when it had to do with clothes.
Now, Ron wasn't a specialist concerning fashion, but he knew what matched, what didn't and what looked good.
And that's what it was all about, right? Right.
Hermione didn't seem to share his vision, and she insisted on making a fuss every time they had to attend a party or anything of the sort.
He had thought she was above fretting over her appearance but after a year of marriage, nice as it was, he had come to dread the hours in which his lovely wife got ready.
She would come out of the bedroom, downstairs to where he was sitting (already fully clothes and ready to go, mind you.) and ask his opinion.
No answer seemed to please her.
When she asked him how she looked, and he answered 'fine', she got angry.
' "Fine? What do you mean, fine? Not good enough, is that it? It is, isn't it? Ugh, Ron, you prat!" ' (On which she would storm out of the room, go back upstairs and slam the bedroom door with great force, only to come down ten minutes later to ask him the same question.)
When he answered 'you look gorgeous', she called him a liar and said that flattery would get him nowhere. (His answer to that was that he didn't need to get anywhere because they were already married, on which she would storm upstairs and slam the bedroom door.)
No matter his answer, she got angry (He even had had to fix their bedroom door.) and to be honest, he was sick of it.
So here he was, sitting downstairs, fully dressed and ready to go to the dinner party his sister and Draco were having, with Harry seated next to him.
"You think 'Mione's going to be long, because I still have to pick up Padma." His best friend said, glancing at his watch.
Ron shrugged.
"No idea mate. It's like trying to predict the way the sea is going to move."
Harry nodded, and leaned back into the couch, just as Hermione came down the stairs.
She was wearing a beautiful deep red gown, simple yet elegant, with her hair straightened and loose around her shoulders.
She looked breathtaking.
"So, Ron, how do I look?" she asked in a sweet voice, but Ron knew better. This time, she wasn't going to trick him. Oh no.
Harry sent him an uncertain look, knowing exactly how Hermione tended to react to these things. Ron had often come to him complaining about it.
Ron waved it away, looking sure of himself.
"Dreadful. Your breasts are too small for that dress, it makes you look fat, your arse looks like two bludgers, the make-up makes you look like a cheap whore and your hair looks as if a squirrel decided to hibernate on your head. Anything else? No? Alright then, let's go."
Harry's eyes were wide as he gaped at his friend, wondering if he had finally gone mad.
Hermione was staring at him with an unreadable look, her gaze switching between his face and the offered arm.
Without another word, she took it, and they walked to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder.
"Harry, you coming?" Ron asked, glancing back, and threw the powder in.
"Malfoy Manor!" he shouted, wrapping his arm around his wife's waist.
Hermione never reacted the same when he said she looked fine, and never had to fix their bedroom door again.
A/N: Short and stupid, popped into my head after I watched Bridget Jones' Diary: The edge of reason.
