Who: Ron, Hermione What: Pacing, brewing up a lecture, that sort of thing Where: Shell Cottage When: Tonight Rating/Warnings: TBA
Ron's mind was turning over about as fast as he could get from one side of his little shared bedroom to the other. I'll be back in two hours, she'd said. And that was it. As though there were no reason to worry, as though two hours for skipping off to Hogwarts was like running down to the corner for a quart of milk, and she'd be back before he had time to notice she was gone. And he hadn't noticed she was gone, not until it was too late, and hell if he was ever letting her out of his sight again now. "Not bloody likely," he snapped to the clock at his bedside, which he was pretty sure had broken. It had been more than thirty minutes. It had been much more than thirty minutes. What kind of ridiculous game was she up to, leaving a note - notes were the sort of thing you were supposed to leave for your mother when you were going to be out late, or had to take the car for a spin. Not to announce that you'd just run off into mortal danger without taking anyone along. That was not what notes were for.
The voice in his head was very quickly starting to sound like his mother's. That was fine by him. She'd have come up with a damned withering speech in half the time he could, and he longed to deliver it, at length and volume, as soon as possible. He had a horrible feeling the words would come out wrong, if they came out at all. It was just as likely he was facing ten minutes of infuriated sputtering, which Hermione would cut through in two seconds with her usual cool reasoning. It made him want to pull his hair out just thinking about it. Of course she would.
He hoped she would, anyway. He took a seat on the foot of the bed, resting his chin in his hands and kicking angrily at a pile of dirty laundry. She had better.