title: The Least Wonderful Time of the Year: Pt 2
summary: In which our three heroes join forces, and make a monumental cock-up of taming their womenfolk.
-o-
Surprisingly enough the Three Broomsticks, with its cosy fireplaces, festive air, and handily-placed shadowy little corners, was not a favourite haunt of the romantic couple on Valentine's Day. It was, however, a comfortable spot for all the beleaguered, the stupid and the just plain forgetful who had retreated from their significant others to take refuge. Here the pathetic and the lovelorn sipped at butterbeer, bemoaned their woes, and above all contemplated the phrase 'Oh, Valentine's Day? No, I don't want anything for Valentine's Day, honest."
Hannah Longbottom loved it. Madame Rosmerta told her she'd never seen a Valentine's Day yet where the pub didn't make a two hundred percent profit over the course of the evening.
In lieu of either barmaid, both of whom had left him to his misery after the first half hour of grumbling, Harry Potter poured out his woes to the moulting stuffed Kneazle propped up behind the bar.
"Simple! Bloody simple, wasn't it? Ask the girl you love to give up her dream and instead settle down to marry you. Well, maybe not give up on her dream per say, just maybe...be a little less good at it? Or maybe – I don't know, find a new dream, one where I don't look like such a runt in front of all those other gits that try to chat her up. Seriously, why are all of them so much taller than me? But oh no no, she had to completely lose it, had to act as though I was manacling her to the kitchen sink or something like that – "
"Sounds like you did well tonight, mate."
He turned around and abruptly recoiled back. There he was, his best friend, the hero of the Battle of Hogwarts, of the Ministry of Magic and a dozen other skirmishes, looking as beleaguered and woe-begone as Harry had ever seen him. One corner of Ron's robes was hanging from his shoulder, his jaw gaped listlessly, and – was that the imprint of a Sneakoscope on his forehead? The poor bloke wasn't just walking, he was staggering, as if from a terror-strewn battlefield. Harry Potter had seen one or two terror-strewn battlefields in his time, and he was pretty sure that that was how you staggered away from one.
"You look bloody awful. What happened?" A disturbing thought occurred to him. "You didn't set another Venomous Tentacula on her, did you?"
Ron shuddered. "I wish."
The Chosen One drew up a barstool for his friend. Anything worse than the Venomous Roses escapade had to be bad.
"We were just doing a bit of last-minute shopping," he grumbled. "Two more minutes, and then back to my place for a Valentine's dinner. It was all so bloody close – you know, I had a lot of ground to make up for after that cherub incident last year – "
Harry nodded sagely. Arrows coming in at inopportune moments could really ruin the mood. And as for that particularly fat cherub whose wings got caught in Hermione's hair…
"Anyway, we were almost ready to go home, and then bam, Hermione mentions Vicky." His best friend's face crumpled into an expression of permanent dislike. "And, y'know, I may have mentioned that I didn't ever want her talking to the Bulgarian git ever again, and she then noticed that me and Lavender were still chatting, and – well, now she's thrown about half of Dervish and Bangs' stock at my head and stormed off. And said something about finding an article in Witch Weekly that'll remove my manhood from the rest of my body, except I'm not entirely convinced she was joking about that."
Ha. Ron. Poor, silly, thoughtless Ron. Imagine telling Hermio – wait. What?
"Valentine's?"
Ron peered over the rim of his tankard. "You didn't forget, did you?"
Yes.
"Nooo."
"Yes you did. You forgot Valentine's Day." The young man narrowed his eyes darkly, taking a long, slow sip from his butterbeer. "You confronted my sister about committing to your relationship and giving up on her dream to be with you and so on and so forth – and you forgot Valentine's Day. How stupid are you?"
"Did you or did you not tell Hermione to never contact Viktor Krum again, and then in the same sentence admit you're still chatting to your bimbo ex-girlfriend?"
"…Ah."
Morosely Ron swigged down on his Butterbeer, muttering something particularly unrepeatable beneath his breath. Evidently the universe was conspiring against him.
This hypothesis was confirmed with great panache by the universe when the next person to storm into the Three Broomsticks was Draco Malfoy.
The former Gryffindor made an ugly face. Forgiveness and the healing of old wounds be buggered – despite the continuous advice of Hermione that the only way to repair the wizarding community was to trust each other again, there was no getting round the fact that Malfoy was, to all intents and purposes, a tosser. Harry had once told him that he and Ferret Face had learned to tolerate each other when they came into contact at the Ministry. Ron had found a far more elegant solution to the problem – ignore the slimy git, and occasionally throw things at the back of his head whenever possible.
His hand began inching towards the empty bowl of peanuts on the bar.
For a moment the young man's eyes scanned across the crowded room, before coming to sit with a huff on the stool next to them. Ron made an inaudible sound in the back of his throat.
"Before you start getting your wand in a knot, Weasley," Malfoy announced with a snarl to the row of Firewhisky and Dragonrum bottles adorning the top shelf of the bar, "I'm going to ignore you both, so you and your little boyfriend can just enjoy your drink in peace."
"Hello to you too, slimeball."
Harry rolled his eyes.
"Nothing to add, Malfoy?" Ron continued recklessly after another ten minutes of sullen silence coming from his left. The former Slytherin was radiating the air of the deeply aggrieved – not to mention reasonably drunk. "You're not being your usual charming self."
The other man scoffed. "Please. You're perfectly normal, sane company after what I've had to deal with."
Well, just pfft to that. Had Malfoy had a hard life? Had he been saddled with the world's most insane – not to mention downright violent – girlfriend? Had he ever been driven into the cold, cold winds by said violent girlfriend hurling the entire contents of Dervish and Banges at his head? Did Malfoy know what it was like to go skidding down the road with an entire set of Gobstones being hurled one by one at his back? For that matter, had Malfoy ever had a demented flock of canaries set on him? A half-mad, rabies-infected cat try to chew his arm off? No, Malfoy knew none of these miseries. Sod.
"Cry me a river," Ron hiccupped darkly. "Whatever you've been through today...I guarantee I've been through worse."
"Oh yeah? Did you just nearly get kicked out of your own apartment by some hell-bent, deranged harpy?"
"No…" He paused briefly. "It sounds like a good story. Carry on!"
The former Slytherin glared at him, before scowling and taking a swig from a glass containing something toxic-looking enough to clean drains. "That damn…Greengrass brat decided it would be fun to try and throw me out of my own flat. Vicious little brat." He took another swig, and nearly choked.
There was a deep, solemn pause for thought.
"Astoria Greengrass?" Harry remarked. Vague memories of a short, dark-haired girl attempting to set Malfoy's trousers on fire in the middle of the Great Hall filtered through his brain. "I always got the impression she hated you."
"Yeah, well, now she does."
"So what was she even doing in your flat?"
"Please, I wouldn't even let her set foot in my home if there weren't," there was a pause for the patented Malfoy Smirk, "compensatory factors."
The most coherent sound able to escape Ron's lips was: 'eew'.
Why was it always the bastards that got the girls? Malfoy, Krum – was it the whole black-looks-stylish thing? Or had some kind of severe and violent brain damage just been experienced by the majority of the witching world?
Harry tapped his chin thoughtfully. "And you didn't feel the need to correct her at any point. Maybe kick her out?"
Malfoy levelled the two of them with a look that one might fling to a particularly slow troll. "You really don't know Astoria, do you?" When both of them shook their heads, he shivered. For a moment the ghosts of a particularly savage war appeared to flit past his eyes. Ron had seen that look before, albeit on the faces of extremely traumatised St Mungo's patients. "She's…a scary lady," he muttered, downing a second drink. "Think of your worst Bogart, yeah? Now double it. Triple that. And you still wouldn't come close to how downright terrifying that girl is."
"And this is the girl who just nearly chucked you out of your apartment."
"How can you be with someone who keeps you terrified for your very life?" Ron sneered.
The door to the Three Broomsticks exploded open once more. "And you're still coming to dinner with my parents on Saturday, Ron Weasley! I don't care if I have to drag you there by your bollocks!"
"Anything you say, Hermione!"
He glanced back. Malfoy was very pointedly not looking in his direction.
"Completely different situation."
-o-
The hours had slipped past on the giant grandfather clock in the centre of the room. Many drinks had been drunk. Many, many drinks. Some of the more sober patrons were beginning to take bets on who would be the first to fall from their bar stool. The smart money was currently on Ron, who was swaying from one side to the other with alarming alacrity, although Malfoy's current goal of unsteadily leaning his stool back so only two legs touched the floor was gaining some interest. Harry, slumped spread-eagled against the bar, was fully out of the running.
"Women!" As Ron managed briefly to become vertical he made a miserable gesture. "They overreact, and scream at you, and throw things at you…"
"Like books."
"Eh?"
He swivelled in his chair to glare blearily at the Malfoy heir. The Malfoy heir currently swigging from a shot glass and occasionally poking it when the drink ran out.
"Like books. They throw books at you. Your own books. Not their books, no-no-no-no-no, they don't have the common decency to throw their own books at you, they go and bloody pinch yours!"
Ron nodded very soberly – or, in this case, rather drunkenly. It all made perfect sense. What a wise man Malfoy was!
"Yes! And Sneakoscopes!"
"Yes!"
"And then – then they scream bloody murder at you again!"
"Yes!"
"And make unreasonable demands!"
"Yes! And blame you for trying to get into bed with flipping fantastic Veelas!"
"…Sorry?"
The Slytherin waved a hand amiably. "Brought this girl home – half Veela y'know – and 'Tor was there. Bloody ruined it. Ruined my chances with Fio – no, Fai – dammit, I knew her name…Bloody sexy though."
Ron blinked.
"So you keep on sleeping with this brilliant girl and at the same time go off having affairs with gorgeous, desireable Veela women? That's not – it's not – " He trailed off. "It's just not fair…"
"Damn straight it isn't fair; she was gorgeous! And then – and then – and then 'Tor has to go off and say she's going to go out with this," the mood dropped significantly, "Quidditch star."
Boo. Hiss. The temperature of the room dropped dramatically.
"Bloody Quidditch stars!"
"Bloody international Quidditch stars!"
"Bloody Quidditch!" Harry chimed in weakly, who until now had felt rather redundant, and was enjoying having something to join in with.
Malfoy pointed a finger at him – or at the very least, made a valiant attempt to do so. "You wait Potter. Just you bleeding wait." With an irritable gesture he reached out with his spare hand to keep the waving finger steady. "Two months down the line, your girlfriend'll be shacking up – "
" - oi tha's my sister – "
" – s-sorry – with some poncy Quidditch star with a name like Prettia, or Gosanovsky, or – "
"Vikky!"
"Who?"
"Viktor. Viktor Krum." Ron put his head to one side. "Why, what d'you call this bloke – the one 'Toria's run off with?"
"Pretty. Sounds kind of like Prettia."
"Oh. Nice."
"Thankyou."
"Welcome." The young Weasley nodded imperiously to his two companions. "B-But I put down the law, didn'n I? Told her never to speak to again. Ha! I put my foot down. Showed her who was in charge." He patted his pockets mournfully as he spoke. "Would've been nice if she'd let me keep my house keys though…"
Women. Sodding women. Who knew what went through their minds? Apart from, y'know, the actual women themselves. They probably knew. Ron continued to sip sadly at his drink, in mourning for the days when his girlfriend was normal and he didn't have the imprint of a Sneakoscope embedded in his forehead. Those far-off glory days of battling spiders and Death Eaters seemed so far away.
"So, let me get this straight," Malfoy interrupted slowly, peering with hazy uncertainty through the tumbler of Ridgeback Rum he'd ordered. "You ordered Granger to never contact her friend Krum again."
"Yes."
"Your girlfriend Granger."
"Yes."
"And Krum."
"Indeed."
"In case anything happened."
"Damn straight."
"Viktor Krum."
"You are correct."
"The international Quidditch star, Viktor Krum."
"Indeedy."
From somewhere behind the pair, Harry groaned. He'd not yet ingested as much alcohol as his companions, and was dearly hoping this was going somewhere.
"From Bulgaria."
"Yessir."
"The international Bulgarian Quidditch star, Viktor Krum, who," Draco reached down warily to make a grab for the wizarding papers piled at the edge of the bar, and waved a section of the Daily Prophet in Ron's face, "got engaged last week to his teammate's sister after a year of dating."
"Ye – eh?"
The page was laid down with great aplomb. Ron stared at the cutting once, and then twice. And then a third time. Come to think of it, Hermione had mentioned something about a girl called Svetlanka…
Malfoy was smirking.
"I'm such an idiot…"
"I've been saying that for over ten years," Malfoy replied magnanimously, and waved a hand with regal cheer, "have another drink."
-o-
A few hours, and many drinks, later...
"Y'know what?" Ron announced merrily to the world at large. "Stuff it. Bloody well stuff it. I'm not going to compete with Vikky…I'm – I'm gonna be the anti-Vikki."
Malfoy blinked up from where he had taken up residence somewhere beneath Harry's bar stool. "You're going to be not handsome, not intelligent, not talented?"
"…Well no. Some other way."
Harry strenuously fought the urge to aim a kick at the blond head currently lolling against his seat. There was no denying he was getting thoroughly sick of the whole thing; managing to drink his body weight with his best friend and worst enemy was not how he had planned to spend Valentine's Day.
…had he actually remembered Valentines' Day, which he hadn't.
He shook his head and straightened up, with the air of a veteran general girding himself for battle.
"Now look," Harry said, with more confidence than he actually felt. "We're all men here – manly men – "
"Present company excepted," Ron, who hadn't appreciated the anti-Vikki jibe, added spitefully.
Malfoy chose that moment to throw a small olive at his head.
"We are men." Harry ploughed on regardless, talking with all the self-confidence of a man who has downed more than his fair share of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. "Manly men. And as such we should not be allowing ourselves to be driven into hiding by our own girlfriends! We should be standing up to our womenfolk!"
He lifted his chin and blinked through double-vision to regard his brothers-in-arms.
"Right – right – you and you," he poked his fingers in their general direction, missing by several yards, "and me, we are all going to deal with them, and we're not going to return until we have succeeded! We shall be firm but fair! Are you with me?"
The three slipped from their seats – or, in Malfoy's case, struggled with some difficulty from his position on the floor – and marched towards the door, ready to do battle.
...
"Ginny, I realise that you have been under stress recently, and that is why I am going to be perfectly reasonable, and just let tonight, and your unfair reaction, go – "
...
"- all things considered, 'Mione, and bloody irrational behaviour aside, it's Valentine's Day, and so I am proposing - in the spirit of good will and romance and all that - to let go of your ridiculous obsession with Krum – "
...
"- So, all in all, I am perfectly willing to listen to your apology, batshit crazy lady though you might be. You may now present it to me."
...
"Tell me, Potter," Malfoy growled into his Ridgeback Rum fifteen minutes later, nursing an arm that had very recently been Transfigured briefly into an octopus' tentacle, "was it this attention to detail and meticulous level of planning that allowed you to defeat the Dark Lord?"
"Shut up, Malfoy."
-o-