(A/N: In this story, Ron's (still) whipped, (still) Quidditch and Cannons obsessed, Harry's a randy devil, and Neville is a party animal. Dean Thomas guest stars as the voice of reason.
Setting: Post-Hogwarts, they're about 20 or so and all married, except for Dean.
Pairings: R/Hr, H/G, and Neville/Susan Bones (iono why, I just always thought they'd make a good pair.)
Rating: PG for language and romantic situations)
***
"Get him…GET 'IM!…aah…"
Ronald Weasley flopped down on the couch, one disappointed heap of man. His best friend, Harry Potter, pityingly tossed him a can of butterbeer.
"Too bad, mate. I told you the Cannons were a lost cause...Oy, pass the pork rinds, Neville."
"It would help if Finnegan would break through Goyle's defense positioning! Dammit, Seamus!"
"Now, Ron, I've told you already. Swearing at the telly won't do any good," said a third voice sharply as its owner strode into the room, reaching for her woolen mittens. "Can't you three do anything productive instead of sitting on my couch and soiling it with those cursed pork rinds?"
Neville farted loudly. "That productive enough for you, 'Mione?" Hermione Weasley sighed, most displeased, as the three men howled with laughter.
"Now really, Neville! There was a time when you wouldn't even breathe in front of us, and now you've become some sort of…Wheezes poster boy!" Hermione's lecture went unheard through the uproar from the couch, and she let out her own snarl of frustration.
"What's happened now, Hermy?" asked a concerned Susan Longbottom, tucking her long plait into her winter coat and tugging on her gloves.
"Your husband—honestly, Suzie!"
"Now, Hermy, let's be fair. It's not just Neville. It's Harry, too!" yelled Ginny Potter, emphasizing the last part of her speech as she bundled up her daughter's coat. Harry, however, seemed to take no notice, but put up the volume on the television set.
"And it's Greg Goyle for Wales flying up the field there, looks like he's trying to pelt a Bludger towards Cannons Chaser Angelina—"
"Move, Johnson, move! He's feinting, I tell you, woman!"
"Johnson swerves left just in time, she misses the Bludger but drops the Quaffle, where it is caught by—"
"YES! Nice catch, Terry!"
"Boot retrieves the Quaffle and shoots off…ooh, nasty steal by Nymphadora Tonks of Wales, she's really gathering speed…it's just her and Keeper Seamus—"
"Dive, Finnegan, you prat!"
"Finnegan dives—"
"SAVE!" Ron, Neville, and Harry roared in unison with the television.
"Honestly," said Hermione again, "I never should have charmed that blasted contraption to the Quidditch Channel. Let's go." And the three women Disapparated.
"Oy, Hermykins, could you get us some more pork rinds?" pleaded Ron to thin air, employing the special nickname he used whenever he wanted some…thing. He only unglued his eyes from the screen when the station went on break.
"Huh…they must have gone shopping. Ah well…pork rinds, Potter, chop chop!"
"Yes, Master Weasley," replied Harry in a drippy, oozing English butler accent, taking the bowl and walloping Ron on the head with it.
The doorbell rang as Harry headed into the kitchen; he distinctly heard Neville teasingly say, "Shove it up your arse, I ain't your house-elf."
Dean Thomas floated in across the threshold as Harry retuned, the sappiest of looks on his face. Harry almost dropped the bowl. Ron and Neville looked shocked.
"SOUND THE ALARM!" they cried together.
"WHAT IS IT, MAN?" Harry added to the hubbub, tossing the bowl to Ron and slapping Dean's cheeks in resuscitation as he guided his former classmate to a chair.
"Hmmm?" Dean said brilliantly, seeming to come to himself.
"Ron, shut off the telly, this is serious!"
Ron looked as if he could not believe his ears. He glanced at Neville.
"Might as well, Wales just got the Snitch."
Ron swore loudly and snapped the television off, grumbling.
"So why do you come in here like the Cannons won the Cup?"
"I was over at Parvati's—"
The three couch mates gave each other evil, knowing smiles before hooting and catcalling.
"Way to go, Dean!"
"Aroo!"
"What are you on about?"
"Well, let's think," said Harry, a finger on his chin, "you didn't show up at the pub last night, because you were at Parvati's house…you didn't come with us at midnight to toilet paper Malfoy's place, because you were at Parvati's house…and you owled me this morning…from Parvati's house…therefore…heheheh."
"Jeez, Potter, is that all you think about? That's not what happened at all. First, I took her out to the most expensive place I could find, right, then, we went for a walk in the snow, sharing a mug of hot chocolate. Finally, we went to her house, and we spent the entire night in each other's arms, talking until dawn. It was so romantic."
Neville shook his head sadly. "Sorry, mates," he whispered dramatically. "We've lost him; he's gone." Then he turned to sob heavily into Ron's shoulder before Harry burst into laughter.
"This is exactly why I'm not married."
The laughter ceased.
"And just what do you mean by that?" asked Ron, highly offended.
"He means if he doesn't like the kid then he can just put it back in!"
"Neville!" Ron reprimanded sharply through a smile.
"Babies only come one way, you twit! They can't go back!" shouted Harry.
"Sorry, grandpapa." Neville hung his head.
"Great! Another person I need to teach! Now, where did I put those diagrams?" and Harry proceeded to get off the couch.
"Hold it, Dr. Love. First off, this is my house. Secondly, you are not to ever retrieve those diagrams—I don't want any other human being having to endure the same hell I went through."
"Anyway, why are you not married?" Neville directed to Dean.
"There's no romance!" said Dean, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Sure there is!" Harry smirked. "Look how mine turned out."
"Thank you for that gorgeous image, Potter; I really needed reminding that my sister had your child, and that I am now 'Uncle Ronnie'."
"Think about this, mates," interrupted Dean. "When was the last time you gave your wife a long, passionate kiss?"
"Now that I think about it, it's been awhile," mused Neville.
"Not since Hogwarts," chortled Ron.
"I believe it was Rosie's birth," Harry said.
"Exactly," smirked Dean. "You're all in a rut. There's no passion anymore."
"You say it like it's a bad thing," Ron mock-pouted.
"C'mon, Thomas, it's not like we're old men!" chimed Neville. "We don't need to worry about romance! The wives don't care about it!" he looked around at Harry and Ron for backup. "Am I right?"
Ron flushed. "Actually, I did overhear them talking about it earlier today. They seem to think we're Quidditch-obsessed prats who pay no attention to them unless we want something."
"Now you see my point." Dean smiled wickedly.
"I don't," grumbled Neville. "Susan would have nothing to complain about. I'm dead romantic."
Harry coughed. "No offense, mate, but I would have to say I'm much more romantic than you."
"Ha!" simpered Ron. "I'm more romantic than the lot of you put together!"
"Now wait just one bloody second, Weasley—"
"See here, Ronnie boy—"
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried Dean over the ruckus. "There is only one way to settle this. We shall make a wager."
"Keep talking, Thomas," pressed Harry, somewhat intrigued.
"You shall have dinner here, tonight, I say, and, with the aid of only 25 sickles total, buy the most romantic gift for your wife that you can."
"But it's Christmas Eve!" shouted Ron, scandalized. "Everywhere is packed!"
"Exactly," said Dean again.
"Ooh," said Neville. "I like that. But how will we tell who wins?"
"Easily. By looking at the reaction on your wife's face. The one who receives the greatest reaction will become the king of romance."
"All right," Ron alleged. "But, if we agree to do this, then you, Thomas, must propose to Ms. Patil."
"Done and done," promised Dean. And just as the four men shook on it, a harrased-looking Ginny Apparated out of thin air.
"Lost something, love?" questioned Harry.
"I don't believe it!" muttered Ginny distractedly. "Rosie! Rosie! Where are you?"
A shrill giggle came from behind the television set.
"Rosalind Lily Potter, come out from there this instant!" Ginny demanded, stamping her foot.
There was a loud raspberry being blown, causing Ron to snicker and Ginny to swell.
"Come on, then, Rosie. Be a good girl."
"Yes, Uncle Ronnie," murmured the little girl, emerging from the crawl space. Ginny took her firmly by the hand and pulled her to the fireplace, chastising sharply. "Out of my mind with worry, but did you care? No! I've never—Diagon Alley!"
Ron smiled as the pair of them disappeared into the flames. "I've heard that one before!"
Neville rubbed his hands briskly. "Well, chaps, we've got some shopping to do. Let's get cracking!"
***
(A/n: well, what do you think? Shall I keep going? Send it to the graveyard? Burn it and move to Iceland in deepest shame? (I'm trying to get back into the writing loop, so cut me some slack, will yas? Pretty please, review and tell me what you think! You count, you really do!)
::muah:: Muchos besos,
HiSpAnIc PaNiC