The Roasting of Ron Weasley

It was all Fred's idea.

George had been in another part of the shop, illustrating the stunning effectiveness of their newest product, tongue-tying taffy. One of the youths in the cluster around George who had volunteered to eat the candy tried to speak, but merely grunted, speech temporarily robbed from him. The other boys around him laughed, and one even clapped, then elbowed his friend and said, "Now this will come in handy with my prat sister."

"Stag night!" Fred shouted, slamming his hand down on the counter by their till, and the few customers all turned to stare at him.

"What are you on about?" George shot back, putting the innocuous-looking box of taffy back on its pedestal and walking to the front of the shop.

"Stag night. For Ron." Fred gleefully picked up a knut and rolled it across the top of his knuckles from one side of his hand to the other, the coin undulating in a sea of freckled joints.

George nodded, grinning. He stood for a moment, rubbing his fingers on his goatee-covered chin. "Yes," he agreed, then patted his twin's back. "Bloody brilliant. Wish I'd thought of it myself."


***


Owls were dispatched, eight in all, each with an identical parchment.

"He may have eloped, but he cannot escape the bachelor party he should have had," the invitation read in bold letters. The words undulated beneath a picture of Ron when he was a toddler, stark naked, standing in a hallway of the Burrow, proffering a Chudley Cannons badge, then sticking it in his mouth. "Join us as we toast our younger brother in his marriage to Hermione Granger, and ensure that it is an evening that he never forgets."

One by one, over the next twenty-four hours, the twins heard from all of them. They would be there, in five days, at the back room in the Three Broomsticks. George and Fred Weasley's joke shop was now more established than some of the other businesses in Hogsmeade, and the proprietress had smirked when they asked for the use of the private area, and explained their purpose. "I won't charge you for the rental, but the pub bill is yours," she replied, winking. "Ah, to be a fly on the wall for that party, eh?"

George reached out for her hand, leaned down, and kissed it with a flourish. "Probably more stomach-turning than anything else, but you are welcome to stick your head in, if you're feeling brave."

She blushed. "No, I'll have plenty to do on a Saturday out in the main part of the pub."

The details were set. Now all they had to do was kidnap Ron once he came back to England.


***


Ron dumped the contents of his suitcase on the bed- our bed! he thought, suddenly giddy again in the knowledge that he and Hermione were married and there was nothing anybody could do about it, while simultaneously praying desperately that she wouldn't change her mind- looked at the rumpled clothes and postcards he had purchased but not written on, and shook his head.

"Sod it," he muttered, and went off to find his new bride.

Hermione was in the tiny kitchen of their small rental flat, making neat piles out of the small mountain of correspondence dropped by an affronted owl upon their return: letters for her, letters/adverts for Ron, Things Which Needed Immediate Attention and, lastly, rubbish.

He walked up behind her and gently encircled her in his arms, leaning down to breathe hotly into her right ear and relishing the shiver against him as her body responded.

"Ron," she purred, twisting her head backward to look at him, her brown eyes lidded with desire and fatigue. "Are you unpacked already? That was awfully quick, even for you."

He leaned in and kissed her, his tongue searching out and finding her now-familiar taste of cinnamon and sangria which lingered from the many beverages they had enjoyed while hidden away in Spain.

"Couldn't stay 'way from you, love," Ron murmured into the curls of her hair. "Besides, packing and unpacking are both overrated. We have plenty of other rooms to…" He began whispering about various ways he was going to pleasure her, how beautiful her skin was in moonlight, at the same time, moving his hand down to cup her backside.

"Ron!" she yelped, swatting at him affectionately.

Suddenly there was the unmistakable double crack sound of people apparating. Ron whirled around, grasping for his wand which was not in his pocket. Damn, he thought. Bedroom.

"You're back!" "Congratulations, you weasel!"

Ron found himself in a stifling tangle of arms between his twin brothers, but still managed a vehement, "Bloody hell! Get off me!"

Fred and George released him, feigning hurt. "C'mon, Ron," Fred began. "That's no way to greet your own family, especially since we are the ones who have had to deal with Mum constantly in tears thanks to your unexpected trip."

Straightening his rumpled shirt, Ron cringed with guilt as Hermione rushed around him to hug first George, and then Fred. "You two," she said, smiling. "I do hope that Molly wasn't too angry. It was Ron's idea, you know. He's such a romantic at heart."

The twins looked at Ron, whose face was now slightly flushed, despite the fact that Hermione had intertwined her hand in his and was beaming.

Fred's face was alight with mischief. "Oh yes; we know."

"Sorry to do this to you, Hermione," George said matter-of-factly, pulling Ron to him and holding him a vice-like grip, despite the fact that Ron had a good couple of inches on him, "but since you ran off like that, Ron didn't get to have a proper bachelor party. So we're having one tonight."

Fred stepped over to help restrain his younger brother, who was spouting all kinds of obscenities and trying to stamp on George's foot while jabbing his elbow into his ribs. "Enjoy your quiet evening, but don't wait up. We promise to bring him back in one piece," Fred said, giving Hermione an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

"Don't what?!" Hermione gasped, as the three redheads disapparated and she found herself alone in the kitchen.

Crookshanks emerged from their bedroom and walked in winding circles around her ankles, rubbing his head on her legs and purring.

Hermione sank down into one of the two dining room chairs and stared at the cat. "What have I done?" she moaned, holding her head in her hands.

Crookshanks meowed in reply.

"I need a drink," Hermione mumbled. She walked over to their mostly-empty refrigerator, and after scowling at the meager contents, poured herself some very flat champagne. "Stag night," she said to the glass. "Only Fred and George." She shook her head, but found that she thought the idea was rather sweet, in its own way. "They better not splinch themselves, or I'll have to kill them."


***

to be continued…

---

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