Situation Normal - R/Hr, H/G - PG-13
Title: Situation Normal
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ginny
Rating: PG-13
Word Count : 999

I just get randomly struck by the fact that they survived.

Yes, it's canon pairings, but – big surprise, haa haa – the girls don't actually make an appearance.


Situation Normal
****
The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One.

Undesirable Number One.

The only bloke ever to turn down four offers in one week to play Seeker for professional Quidditch teams, and thank Merlin none of them were the Cannons, because it would have broken my heart.

Vanquisher of Evil.

Youngest Auror candidate in history and Daily Prophet pick for Chief Auror before he reaches twenty.

Twice Winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award and voted Most Eligible Wizard Under Twenty-Five by their discerning readership.

My best mate.

Lord knows I love the bloke, and I'd do anything for him, and I like to see him happy, but he's starting to get on my nerves.

He has just thundered up the stairs and bounced into our room and plonked himself down on my bed, all rumpled shirt and insane hair and shining eyes and grinning like a lunatic. I try to concentrate on Quidditch Monthly, but he just hums and stretches and leans back on my raised knees until I crack and peer over my magazine at him.

He just smiles and waggles his eyebrows.

"All right, there, Ron?" he asks.

"What?" I demand finally.

"I just wondered what you think this is?" he asks, holding out his hand.

It's empty and I raise an eyebrow and he waves his hand in my face.

"Well," I say, sitting up and crossing my legs and looking down at it. "It seems to be a right hand."

"Close," he says, smiling at me, "but not close enough."

I roll my eyes and take his hand in mine, turning it over and examining it closely. It is strong and tanned and there is a scar across the third knuckle of the little finger and I've seen it almost every day for eight years and it looks just the same as always.

"I give up," I say. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"It's a right hand that doesn't have anyone trying to kill it," he says happily, flexing his fingers.

I snort with laughter and hold it up to the light. "Fair point," I say. "Although I'm not sure anyone has ever tried to kill a hand."

"Pfffrt," he says dismissively.

"Pfffrrrt?" I echo.

"And it's a right hand that's not trying to kill anyone else, either," he points out.

"Except at work," I say fairly.

"It's not trying to kill anyone at work," he protests. "It's mainly doing paperwork and making the coffee and learning to subdue suspects."

"Well," I say, patting it comfortingly, "very nice. Well done."

"And… guess what it just did," he says, leaning closer and leering at me.

I haven't let go of his hand, yet, but I hold it gingerly at arms length. "What?" I ask tentatively.

"It's just spent the best part – absolutely the best part – of an hour squeezing your sister's left boob," he boasts.

I drop his hand swiftly and he laughs and pounces and pushes me back on the bed and tries to grope my chest and I grab his wrists and squeal like a girl as I fight him off.

"Why the fuck would you tell me something like that, you smug bastard?" I demand as he straddles me, sniggering.

"Don't you just hate the thought of it groping your sister?" he asks, waggling his fingers as I struggle to hold them away from my chest.

"Of course I do," I splutter. "You know I do. What sort of question is that?"

"How many blokes, in the whole world, d'you reckon get hated for accessing someone's sister's boobs?" he asks, ripping one hand free and grabbing my… boob area.

"All of them," I grunt, squirming under him as his fingers slide into my armpit and tickle me. "All of the smarmy bastards are loathed by the poor, helpless blokes whose sisters they are molesting."

"I know," he says happily. "Exactly. I told Ginny you'd be furious. It's brilliant."

I stop squirming.

"You discussed my reaction while you're actually interfering with her?" I demand incredulously.

"Um, a bit," he admits. "Not the whole time."

I'm so baffled I forget to struggle and his hands settle on my chest.

"What the fuck did you say to her?" I ask.

"Just, you know… 'God, Ron would hate to see me doing this to you', and stuff," he says, pinching my nipple.

"You're insane," I splutter and I spend a couple of minutes trying to subdue him, before finally managing to push him off the bed.

"You're mental," I protest, looking down into his happy, flushed face.

"I'm normal," he says.

"That is still rather debatable," I say.

"No one hates me and wants to kill me," he points out. "The most danger I'm in is from my girlfriend's older brothers. This is bloody brilliant, Ron. Situation completely normal. Current attack threat level: very low."

"You are fucking certifiable," I protest, offering him a hand and pulling him to his feet.

"So," he says, holding onto my hand as he sits down and turning it over to peer closely at my fingertips. "How far have you and Hermione gone?"

"I'm not gonna answer that," I splutter. "She'd murder me."

"See?" he says happily, waving my hand at me.

"See what?" I ask.

"Doesn't that feel fantastic? The only thing you're worried about is Hermione killing you if you tell me where your lucky fingers have been."

I try to look serious, as if he'd be able to read on my face that I know what Hermione looks like, arching under my lucky fingers.

"I suppose that that actually is as close to normal as we've ever got," I admit.

He nods firmly.

"You, um… you know I couldn't have done it without you," he says quietly, squeezing my hand tightly and peering sideways at me, through his fringe.

I shrug one shoulder and grunt and lean against him, companionably.

"Just so long as you don't need help with the boob stuff," I say gruffly.