Title: Ron And Bull
Author: Viridian Magpie
Rating: K+
Genre: Humour
Summary: flashfic. Who is R.A.B.? Ron makes suggestions
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I don't. Nuff said.


There was nothing wrong with trying to impress your girlfriend, Harry guessed, provided you didn't make an idiot out of yourself or were called Ron Weasley - which amounted to the same.

Ron's case was difficult, he... well, he had a girlfriend you could only really impress with intellectual stuff and that wasn't quite Ron's forte. Oh sure, he was a good chess player, an excellent one, and had a knack for strategies, but when it came to figuring out other things he wasn't likely to ever make Hermione ogle at his cleverness.

He definitely shouldn't even try.

"It could be, yenno, a thingy. When the letters are all mixed up."

"An anagram," came Hermione's sceptic reply.

"Well, yeah. I mean, he signed as 'Rab' but he might as well be called, uh, 'Arb'."

Or 'Bar', Harry though, inwardly rolling his eyes. Where would be the point of that?

"Or 'Bar'," Ron continued.

"'Bar'," Hermione echoed, raising both eyebrows.

"Yeah, he, um, could be a bartender?"

Harry knew that inside Hermione amusement and annoyance were fighting a desperate battle. For Ron's sake – and his own – he hoped that the former would win out. Hermione in a tiff was not fun. At all.

"Or 'Bra', uh."

When Harry had been about nine or so, Uncle Vernon and Dudley had spent an evening watching a documentary – practically unheard of for Dudley; maybe this was why Harry remembered it so well. It was about bull fights in Spain. Harry, who had to dust in the lving room, had sometimes risked a peek.

It was interesting, though a bit too bloody for his tastes. He had kind of ptied the bull and had not understood how Dudley could be so happy about the injuries that the torero and the animal suffered. He'd been really glad he was only a watcher.

As he observed Ron's face going red and heard Hermione starting to snort like a bull, Harry decided he would be nothing more than a silent observer now, as well.

"Er, it, um, could be a woman?"

Warning: suicidal torero on the loose, bull in tow.

Hermione's answer was prompt and sugar-sweet. It might have convinced Harry if he hadn't seen the literal daggers shooting out of her eyes.

"Or it could be a pervert," she replied.

"Um, yes!" Obviously, Ron was easily convinced or he would not be looking so relieved.

And thinking about the Dursleys, Harry continued his inner monologue, there was one good thing he'd been taught – or better put, had taught himself – there: the Art of not attracting attention. Millimetre by millimetre Harry inched backwards, away from the threatening bloodbath; and the loud shrieking which would ensue. Hermione did have lungs and she knew how to use them if necessary. Harry swore he saw Ron's ears vibrating when his girlfriend speared him.

… then again, he was answering in kind. As the shouting match progressed, Harry turned more and more of his attention to projecting the image of being just another piece of furniture. Or better yet, thin air. Now if only he could vanish without either of them noticing and stopping him to ask for his opinion.

Or at least, vanish his ears, he moaned inwardly, when another shrill cry threatened to burst his ear drums.

Even better, if only he could vanish or glue shut Ron's mouth. He really shouldn't try to use it for impressing his girlfriend.


AN: Reviews are greatly appreciated