100 Ways to Kill a Weasley

Hermione Granger was a hard working young woman. Truthfully, Hermione Granger was came squalling into this world a hard working infant, and only became older from there. At any rate, tonight, the young woman in question was a very hard working, very tired, and very grumpy young woman. Ron should have seen it coming. But then again, HE just wasn’t all that bright.



The grumpy, tired young woman, arms laden with bags of groceries, came up to the front door of the flat that she shared with the unsuspecting, not-very-bright young red-head, and found, for the umpteenth bajillion time, that the door was. Indeed. Locked. Again. Arms aching, Hermione stood and stared at the offending lock, wishing that she could reach into her handbag and retrieve her wand without breaking the eggs that were in the grocery bag that was slowly sliding towards the floor. Just once, thought Hermione, just ONE TIME, I would like to have someone open up the smegging door when I get home!



Placing her parcels next to the door, Hermione retrieved her wand and cast Alohamora at the door with a force that, not only unlocked the lock, but flung the door backwards on its hinges with a resounding BANG as it hit the inner wall.



She was a sight to behold, thought the dumb one, as he stared at the place that the door was a minute ago. Unfortunately, his mouth engaged before his brain, and he said something monumentally stupid; “Geeminy, Mione”, he said, “you could have just knocked”.



Hermione heard a faint buzz, similar to the sound of faint static on the Wizarding Wireless when the announcer forgot to return from the loo before the current song ended. As the sound became louder, a red haze formed in her vision. There must have been some indication of the state of Hermione’s emotion, because Ron, dear, simple Ron, rolled his eyes and said, “ Mione, you’re going to blow a vessel if you don’t learn to calm down. Maybe your job’s getting to you, you know? Working with Snape would raise anybody’s blood pressure. The git.”



The noise from the telly that Ron was watching drowned out her growl as hundreds of Quidditch fans celebrated the addition of another goal to the Hollyhead Harpies score. Hermione levitated the bags of groceries into the small kitchen and began putting them away, all the time thinking about her much maligned boss, how very intelligent he was, how his black eyes flashed when he passionately argued a point, and how his black hair, oily as it may be after working all day in a potions lab, had absolutely no red to it at all. Her concentration was broken by the age-old bane of tired women the world over, the one question in the world (well second-to-the-one question in the world, the first being “did you come?”), that could make said weary woman’s mind implode; “Hey, Mione, what’s for dinner?”



Witches, when pushed far enough, can do the most extreme, elemental, uncontrolled, wandless magic. Hermione was pushed well over that line, and indeed straight down the hill in that moment. The only recollection she had was that, where Ron once was sitting, there was now a rasher of bacon. Which answered the age-old second-to-the-one question of the evening. Bacon and tomato sandwiches……