Strawberry flavoured froth dripped of Ron's face, forming a small pink puddle on the floor.
To say that the night out had gone well, would have been the understatement of the year.
If Harry had not been mad at him already for setting him up on a blind date unknowingly, the froufrou drink Yoiko had thrown in Ron's face - when he told her that she just must not be Harry's type and say would she be interested in meeting his good friend Hermione - would have amused Harry to no end. Had he not already stormed out. Stupid bint.
That he could hear Hermione in his head gloating: 'told you so, you should have asked him before you set him up on a blind date' did not help either.
Ron was at his wit's end. Finite Incantatem had not worked either. Whatever it was the bastard had done to Harry, it was bloody strong. But what?
He had to do something. Everyday that bastard got his disgusting hands on Harry was one day too much.
Ron nearly hit himself in the head. Was he an Auror or what?
He looked left and right, and left again, before he opened the gadget storeroom and snuck inside.
He had not felt this nervous since Harry and him had nearly been caught by Snape while sneaking around under Harry's Invisibility Cloak.
Ah, Snape. Stupid twat. All his fault. Who did he think he was pawing his best friend, disgusting traitor!
Harry deserved better and he, Ron, would make sure Harry would get it.
Self-righteous anger burned and consumed all doubts Ron might have had as he pocketed the surveillance kit.
Ron sat cross-legged on his couch, scratching his head in frustration. Bugger it; they had specialists for this stuff far a reason. Sighing, he summoned another beer.
The manual was giving him a headache. The only thing that kept him going was his mantra of: 'Harry is my best mate; I am doing this for Harry.'
Two hours later Ron thought that he had a decent idea on how to operate the bees. Apparentlythey came with a hive conscience. So, each one of the little buggers is connected to the globe-thingy. This I get.
Once one has transferred X amounts of bees onto a photo or portrait of choice, which then had to pass the wards of the place one wished to put under surveillance.
Put bees in picture, bring along past Harry's infamous 'wards of paranoia'. Ron smirked; the morning paper should do the trick.
Once the wards have been bypassed, the bees 'swarm' and hide in any picture available.
Using spell B34 the location of each bee can be adjusted to optimise transmission.
Yes, I get it. Bees spread, pictures can be changed.
Each bee reports live-stream from its picture to the hive-globe, where it would store up to capacity.
Time limit, darn. It took Ron a minute to calculate the amount of hours and bees he needed. He settled for 52 hours, enough time to record the weekend, and for him to return the surveillance kit to the storeroom before it was missed. This wasn't worth losing his job over if caught.
Ron brushed his bad conscience away. He was doing this for Harry. If anyone was going to take the fall it was Snape. Bastard.
The bees were transferred easily enough from their hive-globe to the newspaper.
Choosing the 'Avalon Potions Research, Inc.' ad to hide his little snitches - it seemed fitting - Ron used his wand to place bee after bee into the photograph.
It really was a brilliant piece of magical engineering. He pondered for a moment where to hide the hive-globe that would store and replay the information. He needed somewhere safe – Lavender-proof to be precise - somewhere no one in their right mind would ever look.
Grinning, he took down the dusty box labelled 'Weasley Wizard Wheezes, BETA' from his bedroom wardrobe. A big orange and lime sticker on the front proclaimed: Mostly Harmless.
Taking off the lid, Ron made room for the hive-globe, careful not to touch any of the more volatile items.
The 'Snape-in-the-Box' glared at him. Ron took it out of the carton.
Bloody hell, he totally had forgotten about this ingenious prototype.
Snape gently swayed back and forth. At four inches his sour scowl was … kind of adorable. Ron smirked. Giving the enormous nose a gentle push, he watched Snape rock violently on his spring.
"FIFTY points from Gryffindor! "DETENTION!" Ron shuddered.
Even the twins were not suicidal enough to try and sell this. Not while Snape lived.
It was Sunday afternoon before Ron had time to go through the recordings.
Sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, notepad and pen handy, Ron started a random recording. The globe filled with static and a picture swam into focus.
The Daily Prophet seemed to have been discarded on the floor. The angle was odd, tilted, from the ground up, but the best that he could get. Bless Harry for reading in the loo.
Ron could see the claw footed tub and the door. He skimmed forward through the recording, past their daily ablution.
Snape, trousers around his ankles, taking a dump; that was way too disturbing. Snape seemed to take a long time too. Ron smirked. Constipated bastard, should eat more fibre. Maybe some dried prunes now and then, and he would have been less of a pain in the arse back in school. Less of a pain in his arse, too.
The amount of money he could make selling a picture of this to Gryffindor House… Snapey Poop plastered all over Hogwarts.
Ron shook his head and switched to another bee. Disturbing. WAY too disturbing.
The next recording that caught his attention was from a bee in the kitchen. Kitchen, Snape making tea. Good place, kitchens. No toilets.
He switched to normal speed and leaned closer.