rontherun (rontherun) wrote in uprisingrpg, @ 2010-10-14 17:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | - retired: hermione granger, harry potter, ron weasley |
Who: Ron Weasley, open to Harry or Hermione (or both!)
What: Ron and cheap whiskey are not a good combination
Where: Trio’s Manchester hideout
When: 3:00 AM, Friday morning
Warnings: Language
Status: Incomplete
At first glance, it would look like Ron was relaxing; slouched over the couch with his eyes closed, idly shuffling a deck of cards with one hand. The deck seemed alive in his hand, the cards flipping through his fingers seemingly of their own accord; a few had flown from his grasp entirely, the first subtle clue to those that knew him that Ron was on the edge of losing his temper (which, at this point, meant Harry or Hermione). The red tinge of his ears, the fact he’d kicked one of his boots off with such force that it had actually chipped the pain on impact with the wall, the journal he’d thrown after it (which was now lying on the floor in a way that suggested he’d damaged the binding) were also clues. The half-empty bottle of whiskey clenched in his other fist was another clue. Ron took a swig, coughed, threw up in his mouth a little, and took another swig for good measure.
He was in a mood.
Ha, ‘mood,’ that’s a good word for it; this thought formed somewhere in the miasmic drunken haze that had settled in his head but he couldn’t quite hang onto it, not amid the general sense that absolutely everything had gone to shit and that he really, really wanted to break something. Or someone, he wasn’t too picky at the moment.
For a man whose ‘work’ meant he spent a lot of his time in dingy pubs or else in the sort of smoke-filled storerooms and basements where a bottle of liquor was essential furniture, Ron didn’t drink very often. Because of course when he was working Ron needed a clear head and an even temper . . . but sometimes getting drunk with the lads was part of the job, if you didn’t want to arouse suspicions. It had been Bill the Face’s birthday today. Bill the Face was not a man Ron would deal with, normally, but when you were in his pub on his birthday, you bought a round for him and his crew and sang happy birthday or he set your head on fire. Ron knew this because the last bloke who’d declined to do the honors had run screaming out of the pub as he’d been on his way end. Clearly, he needed to find a new pub. Scratch that, he needed to find a new hideout, preferably a new city; they’d been in Manchester for too long, the abandoned house he’d found and that they’d fixed up with a bit of basic magic was starting to feel too comfortable. Maybe, if they put some good wards up, they could come back to it now and again, but they needed to keep moving. They were getting complacent. It was a good way to get dead.
’course so’s getting drunk to the health of a pyromaniac loan shark he thought bitterly, bet Mum’d be proud. The thought made him want to punch someone. He settled for throwing his other boot at the wall.
Ron avoided drinking for a reason.
Luckily, he’d managed to get the hell out of the pub before blows were exchanged, as Bill the Face’s gang were not the forgiving sort. Neither was Rody, for that matter, the owner of the pub (it didn’t have a proper name, it was just ‘Rody’s Pub’). Ron had no idea where Harry or Hermione were, at the moment. He’d been home for five minutes, maybe ten, and so far nobody had yelled at him. Maybe they were asleep. He hoped they were, because he wasn’t up for dealing with them right now.