The Wrath of Mrs. Weasley
"Come on, dear," Mrs. Weasley coaxed to Hermione, who had insisted she was able to walk herself, though Ron had to support her. "Let's sit you down. No, I don't need to know anything right now," she added, as Hermione opened her mouth to explain. "Just relax."
She set the wounded leg tenderly on a chair opposite the girl and performed a simple Cleaning Charm on it before wrapping it in bandages. "I won't try to heal it right now; it'll take too much out of you. We'll save that for when you're well rested. Ron, I have some sleeping potion in the cupboard; pour some in a glass and take it up to her room, would you? There's a dear." She shot a fiery glance at his back. "We'll talk about you when Hermione's asleep. Now come on, love, let's get you resting properly. You can tell me what happened tomorrow."
Mrs. Weasley hobbled up the stairs, Hermione's arm draped over her shoulder, her leg sagging limply, after Ron, whose ears were redder than Hermione had ever seen them before. His friend felt a sense of pity for him; Molly Weasley's wrath was more famous than Fred and George's mischief; but then, she told herself, Ron did bring it on himself, and apart from that, it wasn't her business anyway. A feeling a bit like the one at the Yule Ball seared her heart for a moment, but she shoved it away; her mind had more power than her heart. Besides, Ron hated her so much that he couldn't possibly return those feelings. Ever. She remembered the way he had so gently carried her all the way back to his house. No, she told herself, you're being ridiculous and naïve. Remember what happened to Lavender when she had that crush on Seamus? She was sure he returned the feeling, but he never did. Poor Lavender had been devastated. That would not happen to her.
Hermione fell into bed, Ron pressing the foul-tasting potion to her lips, his eyes not meeting her own. He was too ashamed. Good, he should be.
A feeling of dread settled itself in Ron's stomach. God, he was going to get an ulcer from his mother's wrath. She was looking daggers at him, glaring at him from the kitchen counter, while he sat, like a prisoner being interrogated, flat against the back of his chair at the table.
"Six O.W.L.s, Ron!" she screeched (She had put a sound barrier around the kitchen before she had started on him; that was how he had known he was in for it). "SIX! That's only HALF of what Hermione got, and even Harry got ten! Couldn't you have at least tried a bit, Ron? Just for my sake, and your father's? I haven't told him yet. When he finds out, he'll be bloody FURIOUS!"
"I still did better than Fred or George, though, and you weren't so mad at them," he muttered. It was best to keep his voice down during times like this, or the whole house would explode.
"Oh, and that's SUCH a good thing! We expect more from you, Ron! Fred and George have always been like that! You are a Prefect! You should KNOW better! Do you want to end up running a joke shop when you grow up?"
"They're not doing so bad," he said reasonably. "And they're having loads of fun inventing new stuff."
"They at least got good marks in Charms! You only did well in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Herbology and things you'll hardly ever need!"
"You haven't any idea what I want to be, Mum!" he countered. "How can you tell me what I'll need? You've got this whole plan for me, don't you? Your last son. Well, I might not follow that plan, and you'll just have to get used to it!"
Ron stormed out of the kitchen, breaking the sound barrier furiously, before running out to the gardens, where he would at least have time to think.
He paced around the yard for fifteen minutes before he finally sat on a rock, head in his hands. His mother could afford to lose the tension. He was sure she was going to become so wound up one of these days that she wouldn't be able to get out of bed.
He had lied, sort of, to her before stalking out. Even he didn't know what he was going to be when he left Hogwarts. McGonagall had suggested being a Magical Law Enforcement officer at the Ministry, or, like his father, part of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Though being in law enforcement did slightly draw his interest, he had never really thought of it. Always of being an Auror, and after the end of last year, he never wanted to see Dark magic again.
His thoughts were drawn once more to Hermione. Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? She was a bossy know-it-all who had constantly been at odds with him for the past five years. It was just male hormones. He'd like any girl he could get, so why did he have to think about her?
She's sleeping right now, he thought. You could just watch her. Ginny and Harry are out at the Quidditch pitch right now with Charlie; no one would disturb you.
Before he could stop himself, he was going though the back door, charging right towards Hermione and Ginny's room. Just five minutes. Then he'd feel better. Just five minutes.
That's my next chapter, for you. If I don't get some reviews (come on, two is meagre) by the end of this week there'll be no update for awhile. Heehee!!!
"Come on, dear," Mrs. Weasley coaxed to Hermione, who had insisted she was able to walk herself, though Ron had to support her. "Let's sit you down. No, I don't need to know anything right now," she added, as Hermione opened her mouth to explain. "Just relax."
She set the wounded leg tenderly on a chair opposite the girl and performed a simple Cleaning Charm on it before wrapping it in bandages. "I won't try to heal it right now; it'll take too much out of you. We'll save that for when you're well rested. Ron, I have some sleeping potion in the cupboard; pour some in a glass and take it up to her room, would you? There's a dear." She shot a fiery glance at his back. "We'll talk about you when Hermione's asleep. Now come on, love, let's get you resting properly. You can tell me what happened tomorrow."
Mrs. Weasley hobbled up the stairs, Hermione's arm draped over her shoulder, her leg sagging limply, after Ron, whose ears were redder than Hermione had ever seen them before. His friend felt a sense of pity for him; Molly Weasley's wrath was more famous than Fred and George's mischief; but then, she told herself, Ron did bring it on himself, and apart from that, it wasn't her business anyway. A feeling a bit like the one at the Yule Ball seared her heart for a moment, but she shoved it away; her mind had more power than her heart. Besides, Ron hated her so much that he couldn't possibly return those feelings. Ever. She remembered the way he had so gently carried her all the way back to his house. No, she told herself, you're being ridiculous and naïve. Remember what happened to Lavender when she had that crush on Seamus? She was sure he returned the feeling, but he never did. Poor Lavender had been devastated. That would not happen to her.
Hermione fell into bed, Ron pressing the foul-tasting potion to her lips, his eyes not meeting her own. He was too ashamed. Good, he should be.
A feeling of dread settled itself in Ron's stomach. God, he was going to get an ulcer from his mother's wrath. She was looking daggers at him, glaring at him from the kitchen counter, while he sat, like a prisoner being interrogated, flat against the back of his chair at the table.
"Six O.W.L.s, Ron!" she screeched (She had put a sound barrier around the kitchen before she had started on him; that was how he had known he was in for it). "SIX! That's only HALF of what Hermione got, and even Harry got ten! Couldn't you have at least tried a bit, Ron? Just for my sake, and your father's? I haven't told him yet. When he finds out, he'll be bloody FURIOUS!"
"I still did better than Fred or George, though, and you weren't so mad at them," he muttered. It was best to keep his voice down during times like this, or the whole house would explode.
"Oh, and that's SUCH a good thing! We expect more from you, Ron! Fred and George have always been like that! You are a Prefect! You should KNOW better! Do you want to end up running a joke shop when you grow up?"
"They're not doing so bad," he said reasonably. "And they're having loads of fun inventing new stuff."
"They at least got good marks in Charms! You only did well in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Herbology and things you'll hardly ever need!"
"You haven't any idea what I want to be, Mum!" he countered. "How can you tell me what I'll need? You've got this whole plan for me, don't you? Your last son. Well, I might not follow that plan, and you'll just have to get used to it!"
Ron stormed out of the kitchen, breaking the sound barrier furiously, before running out to the gardens, where he would at least have time to think.
He paced around the yard for fifteen minutes before he finally sat on a rock, head in his hands. His mother could afford to lose the tension. He was sure she was going to become so wound up one of these days that she wouldn't be able to get out of bed.
He had lied, sort of, to her before stalking out. Even he didn't know what he was going to be when he left Hogwarts. McGonagall had suggested being a Magical Law Enforcement officer at the Ministry, or, like his father, part of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Though being in law enforcement did slightly draw his interest, he had never really thought of it. Always of being an Auror, and after the end of last year, he never wanted to see Dark magic again.
His thoughts were drawn once more to Hermione. Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? She was a bossy know-it-all who had constantly been at odds with him for the past five years. It was just male hormones. He'd like any girl he could get, so why did he have to think about her?
She's sleeping right now, he thought. You could just watch her. Ginny and Harry are out at the Quidditch pitch right now with Charlie; no one would disturb you.
Before he could stop himself, he was going though the back door, charging right towards Hermione and Ginny's room. Just five minutes. Then he'd feel better. Just five minutes.
That's my next chapter, for you. If I don't get some reviews (come on, two is meagre) by the end of this week there'll be no update for awhile. Heehee!!!