more ron!

Part three of a Ron story (part one, part two)

Although now resembling a raisin more than a Weasley, Ron endured the downpour of cold water, refusing to get out. Sullenly he washed his hair and cleaned his feet, wishing he could simularly scrub some of the less than appropiate thoughts from his head. His daydream of Hermione had once again produced some rather ill effects and -once again- Ron was filled with a terrible sense of guilt and defeat. Fantasising was as good as fighting a dragon with a wooden sword - a study both of futility and foolishness.

A swift kick to the side of tub helped not only to relieve him of some anger but also stubbed his toe which took his mind off his problems. It also gave him the oppotunity to curse profusely.

Ron stepped out and grabbed a towel. For a moment he stodd dripping on the titled floor (which once had been ivory but now had turned slightly green due to the mold) and debated returning to the shower and spending the rest of the day there. Instead he sighed (number five so far), and wiped the steam from the mirror.

If he squinted and crossed his eyes a bit, what he could see of his reflection wasn't too ugly (naturally, ignoring its strange expression). His freckles, amazingly and thankfully, weren't as copius as Charlie's who looked as if his entire face was just one huge freckle and his eyes sported particularly long eyelashes for a person of the male persuation. Women adored long eyelashes on a bloke, he'd read in one of Ginny's Witches' Weekly. His hair wasn't that bad, he could be bald like his father. He had all his teeth, and that was something to be proud of, right?

In conclusion, he was no Lockhart, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Lockhart was all beauty and no brain, and Ron prefered being sane, thank you very much, even if it meant not having wavy golden hair or legions of adoring female fans.

Comforted slightly, but still morose, Ron dried off his hair and desperately tried to keep Hermione from his thoughts. It was a losing battle. Thinking of Lockhart had progressed to thinking about her again. Like his mother, Hermione had fallen for Lockhart's roguish charm. It had all been rubbish, of course. Still, she had fancied Lockhart even when it was painfully obvious to the rest of the world (namely, Ron and Harry) that their professor was a fraud. "Bloody Lockhart," Ron mumbled. "If he weren't in St. Mungo's right now..."

He gave the basin another kick. His already bruised toes smarted awfully after this repeated attack and Ron swore a second time that morning. "Damn tub," he grunted as he hopped about on one foot, "One of these days you'll find yourself in a junk yard where you belong."

(no subject)

The shackles held firm, despite Rosabiel's unceasing assults against them. Clearly the were not metal - her powers would have destroyed them with the slightest of touches. They were a charmed creation, untouchable to her angelic magic.

Ancient curses poured from her crackled lips. The demon had the upper hand, she realized with sickening logic, and any effort she made to escape would be thorted.

From the other side of the bars, Hinnom watched and caculated. The angel had yet to be broken completely. To approach her now would be a walk to a certain death. Furious with anger and desperation, Rosabiel would kill mercilessly. From the darkness he saw her eyes glittering in the waning light of her halo. Though her prsion would hold her, Hinnom took a step back, warily eyeing her as he dialed a number on his phone.

The hours past with grueling slowness, but Rosabiel waited, sphinx-like, for the oppunity that had yet been dancing out of reach. When the bewitched door finally opened and a man with shattered wings stared down at her, she readied for war.

Thaumiel's cigarette was dropped to the ground and then crushed into the floor with a heavy heel. "Forgive this cruelty," he said as he walked toward his prsioner, "But I knew you wouldn't willingly come to me."

Rosabiel remained silent.

"You aren't usually so haughty," he complained. After another moment of silence, he waved his hand dismissively. "I'll grant you that this is less than ordinary. You have every right to be sullen."

Her wine red eyes stared through him to the open door. She had previously assumed that she was trapped with high demon magic, a cell possibly constructed by Belial himself. With the appearence of the Fallen, her assumption had been proven wrong. The Fallen survived on a twisted, atramentous version of angelic magic. Forced serenity blanked her stare and she turned a disinterested face on Thaumiel. "Disappointed," she corrected. "I was hoping that perhaps I could save you and reurn you to the Heavens. Pity that you've chosen to be my enemy rather than friend."