Harry and Ron stood in Hermione's kitchen, both with their 4th glass of wine in hand, having enjoyed a delicious meal. Ron gazed absent-mindedly through the open door, to where Hermione and Ginny sat, chatting.
"Hello?" Harry murmured, "Uh, Ron? Earth to Ron. Can you hear me?"
Ron shifted his gaze to Harry. "Sorry, what?"
Harry chuckled. "I hope that that longing look in your eyes is for Mya, and not for my wife and your sister."
"What? Eurgh, no! And I haven't got a "longing look" in my eyes!" he said, gesturing quotation marks in the air.
Harry looked at him, mock sternly. "Ron, I've known you for 13 years, and that," he said, drooping his eyelids and letting his jaw drop, in imitation of Ron, "is a longing look. I mean, for God's sake, why don't you just tell her how you feel."
"How could I tell her…anyway, there's nothing to tell,"
"Ron…" Harry said, exasperated.
"Alright, I do like her. But how do you tell a girl you've known for 13 years that you love her?"
"You love her?"
"Oh, please tell me I didn't just say that!" Ron cried, looking up to the ceiling.
"You love Mya? Since when?"
"Year 4. That stupid Yule ball, where we went with the Patels and she went with Viktor," Ron muttered, defeated.
"Ron, you've got to tell her,"
"Yeah, yeah, alright. Fine. OK. I'll tell her after you and Ginny have gone home. I'm staying the night here, and tomorrow we're gonna do some work for the ministry,"
"And maybe a little bit of other work, if you know what I mean," said Harry, winking and elbowing Ron in the ribs.
"Shut up," Ron laughed, and then grimaced. "Right. Today's the day. Or tonight's the night. Or this evening's this…oh whatever,"