Prompt Bingo
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.
Don't mind me; I'm just playing Prompt Bingo. My five words are buddies, magnified, dome, great, and jingling.
"I need for you to tell me the truth, mate." Ron blurted out drumming his fingers against the top of his leg as if he was desperate to be doing anything other than looking Harry in the eyes as he made the request.
"That sounds ominous," his friend commented. Ron did not reply. He shifted his eyes up and to the side where Ginny was sitting before looking back down at his still drumming fingers.
[more]
"What?" Harry's wife scoffed at her brother. "I thought we got beyond the get lost, Ginny, I'm talking to my buddies phase a couple of decades ago." The man in question didn't say anything. He just briefly looked up at her and shrugged his shoulders. "Fine," Ginny told him as she got up from the table. "You do know he's just going to tell me later?" She added over her shoulder as she went through the door.
Ron sighed and snuck one more brief look as he tried to figure out if there was any way to lead in to the subject. Looking up didn't help - he wasn't quite used to the way the stronger lenses in the new glasses magnified Harry's eyes yet. It made him look weird. He wasn't in the completely over the top territory of their former divination teacher yet, but it still felt like his friend's face was disproportional every time he glanced at him.
"Am I getting fat?"
"What?"
"Don't make me ask again, Harry. You heard me." Ron sighed and switched from drumming his fingers to picking at a thread that was loose at the base of his sweater. "It's just . . . we were sending Hugo off to Hogwart's the other week and there was Malfoy sporting that bare all up front dome of his standing at the station again. I was snickering about it on the way home when I realized that maybe he's not the only one that is starting to look a little off."
"We are getting older," Harry replied sounding as if he would rather be having a thousand other conversations over the one that they were having.
"I don't know if I'm ready for that," Ron admitted sounding something like defeated.
"Can't you . . . I don't know . . . talk to Hermione about this?" Harry tried.
"Yeah . . . that's a stellar idea," Ron mocked. "Hey, dear, would you care to list all the ways that you no longer find me attractive?" He snorted and tugged so hard at the loose thread that it pulled completely off of the hem.
"Let's play Quidditch," Harry demanded suddenly after a lengthy pause.
"What?"
"This is awkward," Harry insisted. "Let's just go fly. When was the last time that we played some one on one?"
"That is a great idea," Ron smiled. "Brilliant even."
Ron and Harry enjoyed their afternoon, but questions lingered all around.
"Did the two of you have a good afternoon with your pickup game?"
"Yeah. It was nice."
"I'm sure it was. It's been a long time since any of us have played."
"Yeah."
"I can't even remember the last time we all played together."
Harry looked at his wife consideringly as she worked on straightening up the kitchen rather than looking at him. Was she hinting?
"Are you mad that we didn't invite you to play?"
"Don't be silly, Harry. I certainly don't care if my husband and brother shunt me out of the room for secretive conversations and then go off to play games without even bothering to mention it."
"Uh-huh."
"What did my brother want?"
He considered answering her. Then, he pictured word getting around. He could practically hear the tone of George's voice for the next hundred or so family gatherings as he demanded an opinion on whether or not his outfit was making his waistline look thick. He (and Ron) would never hear the end of it. He had been through enough awkwardness already for the day - he wasn't about to open himself up for more. He just shook his head at her in response. He was actually too busy being accosted by a sudden thought that he didn't notice her frown at his refusal to share.
"Gin . . . do you think these new glasses make me look too old?"
"What are you on about?" She questioned. "Wait. Is my brother having a midlife crisis? Is it catching?" She teased.
"Could we focus?"
"On that ridiculous question?" She reached over and took his hand and drew him to sit down in one of the chairs before plopping into his lap. "I married a man with the most stunning green eyes, Harry." She told him leaning in close. "It was my great good luck that he also suffers from truly terrible nearsightedness - which means that said stunning green eyes are nearly always wonderfully set off by a pair of frames." She leaned even closer and gave him a quick kiss.
"So . . . that means you don't have a problem with the glasses?"
"Harry James Potter! I was practically waxing poetic there."
"Sorry," he muttered before going quiet.
"What?" She asked. "What are you thinking? And it better not be anything regarding that strand of grey we found in my hair last week because you know good and well that your eldest . . . ."
He cut her off with a quick kiss of his own.
"I was just thinking that I am a very lucky man."
"Good then. We're both on the same page." She sighed. "We are, however, going to need to discuss what James' punishment for sneaking that tonic of George's into our bathroom is going to be when he gets home."
"We could do that."
"Or?"
"Or you could challenge me to a game of Quidditch."
"Are you sure you aren't too old to handle two games in one day?"
"I think I'll manage."
Ron's uncertainty hadn't been alleviated by the game either (although he had come home in an excellent mood on the day of). Eight days in a row of turning down pudding after dinner left his wife confused, concerned, then exasperated as a shrug was the only response she continued to receive to her inquiries.
"Ron Weasley!" She finally snapped after she had made an extra effort of coming home early to make what she knew was one of his favorites in an attempt to help him shake off whatever was bothering him only to have him brush off the dish with a wave of his hand. "What has gotten into you?
The look on her husband's face set her nerves on edge. She knew that look. Something was very wrong. She slid into the seat next to him and reached out for his hand bracing for him to tell her something awful (twenty three different scenarios ran through her head in the time it took her to wrap her fingers around his). He wouldn't even look at her. She felt her breath catching in her throat.
"I'm giving up dessert," he told her solemnly. She waited for a few beats sure that something else was coming. When nothing did, she looked at him in confusion.
"You're giving up dessert," she repeated feeling like she must be missing something. Her shoulders were still tensed from the expectation of being told something potentially devastating.
"I just don't want to be a set of jingling bells away from being mistaken for Father Christmas by children on the street."
"I don't think that's going to be a problem," Hermione told him doing her best not to laugh.
"Easy for you to say - you had two children and if anything look better than the day I married you," he insisted.
"Biased viewing perspective right there," she muttered under her breath.
"Huh?"
"I have lines on my forehead," she told him matter of factly.
"Huh? What lines?"
"I don't know whether to roll my eyes at you or kiss you for that one," she admitted fondly.
"Do I get a vote?"
"Us getting older is rather inevitable," she ignored his question.
"Didn't always feel that way," he muttered squeezing her fingers. She squeezed back knowing exactly what he meant. They hadn't always been sure that they were going to live long enough to be adults - let alone aging ones. "I'm glad though," he added after a moment. "That we get to get older - us together." She smiled at him and leaned in closer.
"Are you still giving up dessert?" She whispered.
"Maybe every other day," he decided tugging her in closer whispering in turn. "You know something, wife of mine?"
"What?"
"I don't think we've been taking adequate advantage of the children being off at school."
Don't mind me; I'm just playing Prompt Bingo. My five words are buddies, magnified, dome, great, and jingling.
"I need for you to tell me the truth, mate." Ron blurted out drumming his fingers against the top of his leg as if he was desperate to be doing anything other than looking Harry in the eyes as he made the request.
"That sounds ominous," his friend commented. Ron did not reply. He shifted his eyes up and to the side where Ginny was sitting before looking back down at his still drumming fingers.
[more]
"What?" Harry's wife scoffed at her brother. "I thought we got beyond the get lost, Ginny, I'm talking to my buddies phase a couple of decades ago." The man in question didn't say anything. He just briefly looked up at her and shrugged his shoulders. "Fine," Ginny told him as she got up from the table. "You do know he's just going to tell me later?" She added over her shoulder as she went through the door.
Ron sighed and snuck one more brief look as he tried to figure out if there was any way to lead in to the subject. Looking up didn't help - he wasn't quite used to the way the stronger lenses in the new glasses magnified Harry's eyes yet. It made him look weird. He wasn't in the completely over the top territory of their former divination teacher yet, but it still felt like his friend's face was disproportional every time he glanced at him.
"Am I getting fat?"
"What?"
"Don't make me ask again, Harry. You heard me." Ron sighed and switched from drumming his fingers to picking at a thread that was loose at the base of his sweater. "It's just . . . we were sending Hugo off to Hogwart's the other week and there was Malfoy sporting that bare all up front dome of his standing at the station again. I was snickering about it on the way home when I realized that maybe he's not the only one that is starting to look a little off."
"We are getting older," Harry replied sounding as if he would rather be having a thousand other conversations over the one that they were having.
"I don't know if I'm ready for that," Ron admitted sounding something like defeated.
"Can't you . . . I don't know . . . talk to Hermione about this?" Harry tried.
"Yeah . . . that's a stellar idea," Ron mocked. "Hey, dear, would you care to list all the ways that you no longer find me attractive?" He snorted and tugged so hard at the loose thread that it pulled completely off of the hem.
"Let's play Quidditch," Harry demanded suddenly after a lengthy pause.
"What?"
"This is awkward," Harry insisted. "Let's just go fly. When was the last time that we played some one on one?"
"That is a great idea," Ron smiled. "Brilliant even."
Ron and Harry enjoyed their afternoon, but questions lingered all around.
"Did the two of you have a good afternoon with your pickup game?"
"Yeah. It was nice."
"I'm sure it was. It's been a long time since any of us have played."
"Yeah."
"I can't even remember the last time we all played together."
Harry looked at his wife consideringly as she worked on straightening up the kitchen rather than looking at him. Was she hinting?
"Are you mad that we didn't invite you to play?"
"Don't be silly, Harry. I certainly don't care if my husband and brother shunt me out of the room for secretive conversations and then go off to play games without even bothering to mention it."
"Uh-huh."
"What did my brother want?"
He considered answering her. Then, he pictured word getting around. He could practically hear the tone of George's voice for the next hundred or so family gatherings as he demanded an opinion on whether or not his outfit was making his waistline look thick. He (and Ron) would never hear the end of it. He had been through enough awkwardness already for the day - he wasn't about to open himself up for more. He just shook his head at her in response. He was actually too busy being accosted by a sudden thought that he didn't notice her frown at his refusal to share.
"Gin . . . do you think these new glasses make me look too old?"
"What are you on about?" She questioned. "Wait. Is my brother having a midlife crisis? Is it catching?" She teased.
"Could we focus?"
"On that ridiculous question?" She reached over and took his hand and drew him to sit down in one of the chairs before plopping into his lap. "I married a man with the most stunning green eyes, Harry." She told him leaning in close. "It was my great good luck that he also suffers from truly terrible nearsightedness - which means that said stunning green eyes are nearly always wonderfully set off by a pair of frames." She leaned even closer and gave him a quick kiss.
"So . . . that means you don't have a problem with the glasses?"
"Harry James Potter! I was practically waxing poetic there."
"Sorry," he muttered before going quiet.
"What?" She asked. "What are you thinking? And it better not be anything regarding that strand of grey we found in my hair last week because you know good and well that your eldest . . . ."
He cut her off with a quick kiss of his own.
"I was just thinking that I am a very lucky man."
"Good then. We're both on the same page." She sighed. "We are, however, going to need to discuss what James' punishment for sneaking that tonic of George's into our bathroom is going to be when he gets home."
"We could do that."
"Or?"
"Or you could challenge me to a game of Quidditch."
"Are you sure you aren't too old to handle two games in one day?"
"I think I'll manage."
Ron's uncertainty hadn't been alleviated by the game either (although he had come home in an excellent mood on the day of). Eight days in a row of turning down pudding after dinner left his wife confused, concerned, then exasperated as a shrug was the only response she continued to receive to her inquiries.
"Ron Weasley!" She finally snapped after she had made an extra effort of coming home early to make what she knew was one of his favorites in an attempt to help him shake off whatever was bothering him only to have him brush off the dish with a wave of his hand. "What has gotten into you?
The look on her husband's face set her nerves on edge. She knew that look. Something was very wrong. She slid into the seat next to him and reached out for his hand bracing for him to tell her something awful (twenty three different scenarios ran through her head in the time it took her to wrap her fingers around his). He wouldn't even look at her. She felt her breath catching in her throat.
"I'm giving up dessert," he told her solemnly. She waited for a few beats sure that something else was coming. When nothing did, she looked at him in confusion.
"You're giving up dessert," she repeated feeling like she must be missing something. Her shoulders were still tensed from the expectation of being told something potentially devastating.
"I just don't want to be a set of jingling bells away from being mistaken for Father Christmas by children on the street."
"I don't think that's going to be a problem," Hermione told him doing her best not to laugh.
"Easy for you to say - you had two children and if anything look better than the day I married you," he insisted.
"Biased viewing perspective right there," she muttered under her breath.
"Huh?"
"I have lines on my forehead," she told him matter of factly.
"Huh? What lines?"
"I don't know whether to roll my eyes at you or kiss you for that one," she admitted fondly.
"Do I get a vote?"
"Us getting older is rather inevitable," she ignored his question.
"Didn't always feel that way," he muttered squeezing her fingers. She squeezed back knowing exactly what he meant. They hadn't always been sure that they were going to live long enough to be adults - let alone aging ones. "I'm glad though," he added after a moment. "That we get to get older - us together." She smiled at him and leaned in closer.
"Are you still giving up dessert?" She whispered.
"Maybe every other day," he decided tugging her in closer whispering in turn. "You know something, wife of mine?"
"What?"
"I don't think we've been taking adequate advantage of the children being off at school."