28. "Ron, get your drunk arse out of the fireplace." HP

What is this, I don't even?

28. “Ron, get your drunk arse out of the fireplace.” - Harry Potter

“Harry, the lights are pretty.”

“I know, Ron. You've said so already.”

This was going to be a very long night.

Harry had been woken up at just past midnight by Ron almost knocking his front door off the hinges.

He and Hermione had had a fight. And, Ron being Ron, he had gone out and drunk his sorrows away – except that alcohol is a depressant, as Hermione had told them and the rest of the Weasley brothers countless times (oh, and Seamus too), which meant that Ron had drunk his sorrows into expanding.

He had collapsed onto Harry's sofa and told him about what had happened, his words slurring every so often as Harry flopped onto the old armchair next to it.

He had come home late again, after pulling off a double shift for his partner, because Henry was ill, and Hermione was fed-up with his always being at work and never at home (not to mention the fact that her pregnancy hormones were all over the place and made her three times as irritable as usual), so they fought.

It was terrible, but Harry couldn't help thinking that it was a little bit like being back at school – hearing one side of the story while the other two clashed because they liked each other but were too stubborn to admit it.

He wondered what the fight was really about. He always checked, because Ron had the memory of an amnesiac goldfish sometimes – it wasn't their wedding anniversary, Hermione's birthday or Christmas, and the baby wasn't due for another two months.

Ron was currently lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, where the light bulb was dangling (Harry really needed to get round to buying some sort of lampshade) and swaying slightly.

“Do you think Hermione will hate me forever?”

If Harry could slam his head into the wall without waking the neighbours, he would have been sorely tempted to do so. As it was, he was more tempted to smack Ron.

“I don't think so. She's a lot more rational than that. On the other hand, she's pregnant, so it may take a while for her to see the logic in it.”

“Hmm,” Ron mumbled, clearly not listening, “because it would be bad if she hated me. I love her, you know.”

Harry didn't really care, at this point. He was tired and he had work in the morning. He loved Ron dearly, he was his best friend and the closest thing he had to a brother, but really. He needed some damned sleep, or Shacklebolt would have his head by lunchtime.

“I know. We had this conversation the night of your bachelor party, Ron. Over and over and over. You love her. I get it.”

“Yeah. Cos she's amazing, you know.”

Harry shook his head and went to the loo.

When he got back to the sitting room, Ron had his eyes closed. Thank Merlin, maybe now they would both get some sleep.

He went to get a pillow and a blanket for him, but by the time he got back, Ron was trying to Fire Call Hermione.

“Hey Harry, where's your Floo powder?”

With a sigh, Harry dumped the pillow and blanket onto the sofa.

“Ron, get your drunk arse out of the fireplace.”

“Where s'a Floo powder?”

“Ron, you can't Floo Hermione.”

“Why not? She's ma wife.”

There was that temptation to smack Ron again, “She also kicked you out because you fought.”

Ron looked shocked and upset, “Why did we fight? I love her!”

Harry couldn't stop himself. He smacked Ron upside the head.

“Bed, Weasley. Now. I will deal with you in the morning.”

About half an hour later, Harry got woken up by Ron climbing into bed and getting in under the covers.

“What the?”

“Hiya, Harry.”

Harry could almost see the smile on Ron's face, despite the lack of light and his lack of glasses. No. This was absolutely ridiculous and needed to stop at once.

“Ron, your bed for the night is in the living room.”

“S'cold,” Ron mumbled, actually cuddling up to Harry – in quite a disturbing manner, “and you're warm.”

“Go away. You're drunk and I'm sleepy.”

“Your bed s'warm. Sofa's cold.”

“Ron, no. What? No. Go back to the living room.”

There was a distinct whine in Ron's voice, “But the living room is cold and Hermione's angry with me and nobody loves me except you because you're like another brother except better because you'll let me share you bed and it's warm and you defeated Voldemort and stuff.”

No, Harry took his previous thought back, this was ridiculous.

He tried to push Ron out of his bed, but the man was larger than he was, and heavier than he looked.

“Gerroff,” he said, pushing Harry's hands away, “m'not in the mood. Wanna sleep.”

It took Harry a good ten seconds to get over the shock of that.

“Ron! This is Harry! You're in my bed.”

“Goonigh', Harry.”

Harry huffed and turned his back to Ron. He would get his revenge. In the morning.

The next morning, Harry woke up feeling shit, but once he had got out of bed and thought about it a bit, he decided he was happy in the knowledge that Ron would feel even worse.

He went to make breakfast with a smile on his face.

He wondered what would put Ron off the most.

There was a groan from the bedroom as the red haired hung over beast rose from the depths.

Excellent.

He bounded into the bedroom like an excited five year old.

“Good morning!” Harry said, in tone of voice a few pitches higher and much louder than his own and smiling, “What do you want for breakfast?”

Ron glared at him from under his hair.

Harry made sure Ron knew he was going to enjoy this particular hangover.