Who: Ronald & George Weasley When: March 7, 2009 - afternoon Where: Ministry -> Pub -> WWW What: Ronald and the terrible no good very bad day (aka- Ron has a mental breakdown) Warnings: Language, Violence, alcohol.
Ron was late to work… again. Maybe Ron shouldn’t have stayed out so late the night before, but it wasn’t like he didn’t do it regularly. Usually he could gather himself out of bed in time, but today, he was just a little behind. He was certain that no one would notice, but everyone had, of course. Everyone always seemed to notice his failures.
He’d spent the morning at his desk, he hadn’t been called out, and so with his head pounding he’d reviewed his paperwork from previous events. He tried not to notice the glances as people passed by him. Everyone was so damn nosey in this place.
“Poor chap,” He heard one of the younger Aurors mutter. “I thought for sure when Granger and Potter got moved up, they’d move him up too.” He did that thing, that pitiful tsk noise, and Ron snapped. He slammed his fist on his desk, and stood with such force that his chair went flying.
“Fuck you,” Ron growled, practically bowling over the lot that was standing there, in a beeline for Hermione’s office.
“Mrs. Granger is in a meeting with Head Auror Pott--” Ron didn’t give the receptionist time to finish the sentence. Of course Harry would be in Hermione’s office, where else would he be in a time like this. Merlin, they probably spent every moment of the damn day together, she always liked him better, he’d always known it. He threw open the door with a loud bang, probably startling the two occupants.
“I’m done. I’m fucking down. With this, with everything, just done.” Ron was red faced and gesturing wildly. He was making a scene, but he couldn’t damn well care, everyone in the office already knew he was a fuck up, there was no point in letting them down now. “I quit. I quit, Hermione.”
Ron turned on a heel then, slamming the door just as loudly as when he entered, and made a quick exit. In a flurry of anger, Ron left, and before his he knew where he was going, his feet had already carried him to a pub. No, not Victory or the Leaky or Hogshead, no, those were too classy and bound to be full of people who knew he should be at work. He went to a tiny hole in the wall that he only frequented when he was looking to place a bet or get ahold of something that wasn’t strictly on the books.
Before he knew it, he was truly off his gourd, but he didn’t care. It was pleasant not to think. The room was spinning-- no he was falling-- no someone had him. The hand on the back of his neck, the one that had pulled him off the barstool, was heavy.
“Weasley,” The snide voice said, “heard about your trantrum.” Ron knew that voice, it was Barnabus Tenbrist, a thick tongued bookie. Ron swore under his breath, and the room swam again as the man apparated them out of the pub. Ron didn’t know where they were, but it was dingy and empty. There was no one to help him here.
“You owe me quite a few Galleons, Weasel. How do you plan on paying if you don’t have a job.” Barnabus’ eyebrows raised, as he pushed Ron back against the wall. He scrambled to stay on his feet, and form a response. “I’m good, you know I’m good, you know I’ve got it. You’ll get it.” Ron tried, but his tongue was tied.
A swift kick came to Ron’s ribs, and he fell to the ground. “You’re already late, Weasley. If you don’t have it, maybe I should ask your mother? Hm, would she like that? Or how about your baby sister, she makes quite a bit of money, doesn’t she?”
Ron howled, he was too drunk to fight back as Barnabus took swing after swing against him. He needed to get away, but he could barely think straight. He squeezed his eyes shut, the shop, it was the only place that he could see clearly. He was too drunk to be aparating, but he had to get away.
He knew he’d splinched himself before he’d even landed, just outside George’s shop. He just had to hope he was there. Clutching his cut up arm against his chest, Ron pushed his way through the door, red faced and bruised and smelling like booze. Luckily, the middle of a weekday meant that the shop was pretty empty.