Ach, well... I'm not happy enough with this one-shot to post it anywhere else but here. I think it's the monkey references. They make me laugh, but are otherwise pointless :) So enjoy the fluffy Ron/Pansy fest.


******

Caught Off Guard

Ron Weasley was angry. Spitting mad. Bloody furious. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been full of burning rage; even though, logically, he knew it had only been a week. A horrid, nightmarish week.

The mere thought of that slimy Slytherin bastard touching his sister was enough to turn his entire face red. Having to see them snogging every possible moment, indoors and out, open hallways and crowded rooms... well, Ron was fairly certain he was close to having a stroke.

“You’re starting to turn purple, Ron,” Harry said, glancing up from his plate.

“Doesn’t it bother you? Why the hell aren’t you angry, too?” Ron asked through clenched teeth, his eyes still boring holes into the back of Malfoy’s skull.

Harry turned to follow Ron’s gaze. “They’ll have to come up for air sometime,” he said wryly.

Ron glared at him. “Malfoy is touching my sister!”

Hermione nudged his arm playfully. “Doing a bit more than touching, I’d think.”

Ron scowled at her and lit into his lunch with a vengeance, shoveling food into his mouth without really tasting it at all. He was too damn angry to even savor his pudding. Swallowing hard, he glanced across the room and started slightly to see Pansy Parkinson staring at him, her eyes narrowed. She gave him a slow, wicked smile, dimples flashing. What the hell was up with that?

“Parkinson’s seems to really have it in for you lately, Ron,” Harry noted, nodding over to where the girl was finishing up her meal.

“Bloody horrible Slytherin,” Ron muttered. “She’s the one who wrote that message in the Prefects bathroom. I just know it.”

Harry laughed. “It was funny, Ron.”

“I doubt you’d find it as amusing if it was your…” he made a vague, somewhat vulgar movement with his hands, “being questioned.”

Hermione muffled a laugh. “I don’t think ‘questioned’ is quite the right word to describe it.”

Ron’s jaw tightened, but before he could yell at her, Hermione scrambled to her feet.

“I’m off to the Library, boys,” she said and smiled fondly down at Ron. “Please try to lighten up some, Ron, all right? You’ll end up popping a blood vessel.”

“She’s right, you know,” Harry said as they watched Hermione hurry from the hall. “You’re going to have to try and let all this anger go.”

Ron’s grin was full of malice. “I could go beat the crap out of Malfoy,” he said. “That would make me feel a world better.”

Harry shook his head. “Then Ginny would get angry and beat you up.”

Ron sighed, knowing full well that while he could take Malfoy easily, Ginny would flatten him in less than a minute. “Can I beat you up?” Ron asked hopefully.

“You could try,” Harry said with a grin.

“I’m taller and stronger than you, Harry,” Ron pointed out.

“Yeah, but I’m scrappy.”

“Scrappy?”

“Yeah, you know; wiry and fast and determined. I’d wear you out, mate.”

“Right, then. Let’s go.” Ron said, pushing back from the table.

“What, now? Here?” Harry asked, glancing warily around the room.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Not in here, stupid. Outside.”

Harry got to his feet and frowned at him. “I didn’t actually think you’d take me up on this,” he grumbled.

“Too late now, Harry. When I’m done with you, you’re going to need a helper monkey.”

Harry glared at him. “Keep in mind I’m your best friend, Ron. Not Malfoy.”

Ron, feeling better than he had in days, grinned cheekily at the other boy. “Could I interest you in a Malfoy mask? Polyjuice?”

“The only reason in hell I am doing this,” Harry ground out, following Ron from the hall, “is because—“

“You’re secretly dying for a helper monkey? Yes, I suspected that, Harry.”

Harry groaned. “Not for the first time, I find myself regretting ever telling you about Dudley’s monkey. But,” he added, “at least you’ve still got your sense of humor.”

“There is nothing at all funny about a helper monkey. Well, except for maybe the diaper. And if you made it wear a hat? Hilarious.” Monkeys, Ron thought to himself, were comedy gold.

******

“Well, I’ve got to say, Harry. You are scrappy.” Ron rolled over onto his back, panting slightly, and stared up at the gray sky, squinting his right eye against the glare. His left eye, thanks to Harry, was already swollen shut.

“Right,” Harry breathed heavily. “Told you. Are we done yet?”

Ron snorted. “Don’t think I can move,” he admitted.

“Thank Merlin,” Harry groaned and groped at the ground around them for his glasses. “I think I’ve shattered every bone in my hand.”

Limbs sprawled, they stayed there in silence for a bit, the only sound their rapid, broken breathing. “What class are we missing?” Ron finally asked.

“Erm, Herbology?”

“Oh, all right then,” he said, then fell silent again. Ron didn’t really care all that much about Herbology, most likely due to the fact that Ginny tended to blather on and on about potion ingredients over the holidays. He scowled, thoughts of Ginny causing the anger and frustration to creep back to him, despite his physically exhausted state. Damn it, why the hell did Ginny have to choose Malfoy?

“Ron?”

“What?”

“You’re turning red again.”

Ron would have clenched his jaw if it didn’t hurt so much to even talk. “Am I?”

“Well… it could just be the blood.”

Ron sighed. “Guess we should see if Pomfrey can clean us up.” He shifted and pulled himself up onto his knees. “Merlin, Harry. I think you cracked some ribs.”

“At least I didn’t slam you in the spleen,” he returned, glaring meaningfully.

Gingerly getting to his feet, Ron reached out a hand and helped Harry up. They stumbled around the side of the castle and up the front steps, leaning heavily on each other. “Man,” Ron said as they fought to open the solid oak doors, “what I wouldn’t give for a helper monkey right now.”

Harry gave him an odd look, then dug out his wand. “We’re bloody wizards, mate,” he said, opening the door with a simple spell. “We don’t need stupid monkeys.”

Ron frowned. “Well, if you want to do it the easy way…”

“Sane,” Harry corrected. “The sane way.”

******

They were doing it again. And on the bloody Quidditch pitch! Gryffindor had just finished a grueling game against Slytherin, in which Parkinson seemed intent on providing him with an undignified death by Bludgers. He didn’t need to see Ginny and Malfoy practically shagging just outside the Slytherin changing rooms.

He had taken a step towards them, curling his hands into fists, when Parkinson’s petite form moved in front of him. For a moment, he paused, wondering how it was possible for her to look so lovely and composed, even with sweat and grit smudged across her face. Finally, he growled, “Out of my way, Parkinson.”

The dark girl’s eyes flickered with surprise before narrowing slightly in disapproval. Her mouth a pretty pout, she widened her stance and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m not about to let you ruin this for Draco, Weasley. Back off.”

“Ruin…? Why the hell do you care, Parkinson?” Ron shouted. “You’ve been panting after Malfoy for years.”

She arched a brow. “He’s happy with your sister,” she said simply.

Ron’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You did this, didn’t you? You sparked this.” He didn’t wait for her to answer but continued on, his voice raised in anger. “I should have known. You’ve both entrapped her for some nefarious Slytherin plan, haven’t you? Haven’t you?” Ron asked shrilly, staring into Parkinson’s wide, incredulous eyes.

“Calm down—“ Parkinson started.

Ron cut her off, his voice now tight and controlled but his eyes snapping fire, “I swear Parkinson, you better stay the hell away from me and my sister. I don’t have any qualms about hitting a girl.”

******

“You did not.”

“I did,” Ron said glumly.

“Well,” Hermione sputtered, “it’s not true!”

Ron sank lower in his chair. “Of course it’s not true. I don’t beat up girls, even evil Slytherin ones. Besides, she’s barely taller than you.”

Hermione shot him a glare across the table. “Then why did you say it, Ron?”

“I was angry,” Ron said, frowning. “But do you know what she did? She laughed, Hermione. At me!”

“Well, it doesn’t matter in any case,” she replied, opening up her Transfiguration book. “You’re going to have to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Ron asked, eyes wide. “To her?”

“Yes, Ron,” she said sternly. “It was uncalled for.”

“Uncalled for?” Ron, still stunned, dropped his quill onto the nearly blank page of his Potions essay. “She was trying her very best to kill me during the game! And,” he continued, his face red, “she’s in league with Malfoy to hurt Ginny!”

“I’m disappointed in you, Ron.” She arched an eyebrow. “You’re acting irrationally and paranoid, which isn’t too much of a stretch for you, I admit, but harsh threats are a bit too Slytherin, don’t you think?”

Ron scowled at her. “That’s hitting below the belt, Hermione.” She stared right back at him, her gaze unwavering. Finally, Ron shifted his eyes away and grumbled, “Fine, I’ll apologize. But if she laughs at me again, it’ll be on your shoulders.”

******

Ron had procrastinated approaching Parkinson for as long as he could, but by Friday Hermione was glaring at him more often than speaking, so Ron knew he finally had to rein in his pride and apologize.

Bulstrode, Parkinson’s equivalent to Malfoy’s bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, glared up at him when he reached where the two girls were sitting at the end of the Slytherin table. “Go—“

“Away,” Ron finished, nodding. “Right.” He turned around to retreat and caught Hermione’s eye from across the hall. She pressed her lips together and shook her head. Damn it. He took a deep, fortifying breath and spun back to the two Slytherins, thankful that their table was mostly empty. Ignoring Bulstrode, he shoved his hands into his pockets and forced a painful grin at Parkinson.

She arched her eyebrow. “Yes, Weasley?”

Ron’s faux smile dropped and he tightened his hand over his wand, wanting desperately to hex her, or at the very least transfigure her into a cow. Her tone was so annoyingly grating. “Can I speak with you for a minute, Pansy?” he asked, carefully modulating his voice to be as bland and neutral as possible.

Parkinson eyed him curiously and nodded once.

“Alone?” Ron added, sending Bulstrode a disgusted glance.

Bulstrode glared at him, then gave Parkinson a questioning grunt.

“It’s all right, Millie,” she said with a smile, waving Bulstrode away.

Ron dropped down into Bulstrode’s recently vacated seat, careful not to touch the tabletop lest he get any Slytherin germs, and opened his mouth to apologize, only instead, to his utter embarrassment, he blurted out, “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you, Weasley,” she said, giving him an over-sweet smile. “I don’t hate anyone; it’s bad manners.”

Ron fought the urge to jump up, reach out and strangle her. He curled his fingers tightly around the edge of the wooden bench. “All right,” he said through his teeth, determined that since he’d brought up the subject, he’d bloody well get a straight answer from her, “then why do you dislike me so much?”

Parkinson’s smile blossomed into an enigmatic grin, her eyes dancing with mirth.

“You don’t have a reason, do you?” Ron accused, half rising from his seat.

“Other than you’re a Gryffindor and, therefore, my mortal enemy?” She laughed. “Calm down, Weasley. Granger’s sending you death glares.” She frowned playfully. “I get the feeling she’s put you up to this.”

Ron lowered himself back onto the bench, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Weasley?” she asked.

Ron, startled by her soft voice, opened his eyes and straightened. “I’m sorry,” he said, finally.

“Sorry?” Her face was a picture of genuine confusion, dark brows furrowed over her golden brown eyes. “For what?”

Merlin! Why couldn’t she just forgive him and let him leave? He glanced over at Hermione who nodded her head encouragingly. “For, you know, what I said the other day.”

“In Potions? About the helper monkey?”

Ron groaned. “No,” he snapped, frustrated. “About… beating you up.”

She paused for a moment; her rosy lips parted in surprise, and then she promptly burst out in husky laughter.

Ron shot Hermione a glare before getting up and stalking from the hall, slamming the doors satisfyingly behind him.

******

“You like her,” Harry said, his face lit with sudden dawning.

“What?” Ron asked, horrified.

Harry turned to Hermione. “Remember when he had that crush on Hannah? He was exactly like this.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Ron ground out in a furious whisper.

Hermione nodded cheerfully, ignoring Ron. “You’re right, Harry. He acted like a bear for days, brooding and sulking.”

“You two are insane,” Ron said, shaking his head. “I do not like Pansy Parkinson.”

“Ron,” Hermione said patiently. “Think about it. You haven’t made one monkey comment since she laughed at you on Friday. Not even seeing Ginny and Malfoy together did that to you. You always joke about monkeys.”

“Except when you’re moping about a girl,” Harry added. “Face it, mate. You like her.”

Ron screwed up his face in disbelief. Did he like Pansy? She was rather attractive, he admitted to himself. And, of course, there was that one dream that continued to plague him, involving riding crops and chains and bindings with fur padded leather for less chafing; but he figured that was all perfectly natural, considering... He shook his head. “I just don’t see it. She’s an evil, malicious Slytherin. I can’t even stand being around her for more than five minutes.”

“Because?” Hermione prompted.

“Because…” Ron paused. “Well, because she makes me so damn angry. Every time I talk to her I end up wanting to put my hands around her neck and squeeze.”

Hermione placed a hand at her collarbone. “That’s horrible,” she said in a shocked whisper.

“See,” Ron said smugly. “I hate her.”

Harry gazed at him, his eyes thoughtful. “She doesn’t hate you.”

Ron’s grin faltered.

Harry leaned forward. “She didn’t even say she didn’t like you, did she?”

“Well,” Ron muttered. “She implied it.”

“But she didn’t say it,” Harry needled.

“No,” he grudgingly admitted. “But… but she’s a Slytherin,” he said lamely. “I know she’s planning something horrible for Ginny.”

“Oh you know, do you?” Hermione asked, brow arched in skeptical amusement.

“Her and Malfoy… they’re turning her against me! She hasn’t been the same since… since…” Ron thought hard about when Ginny had started acting so strange.

“Since way before she started dating Malfoy, Ron,” Harry said with a shake of his head. “She’s mad at you for something entirely different. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“’Course I remember,” Ron said indignantly, when he really hadn’t a clue.

Hermione sighed and shared a glance with Harry.

“Remember this past October, at the Halloween Feast?” Harry asked. “Ginny had just dumped Finch-Fletchley and he was spreading nasty rumors about her.”

Hermione nodded. “You practically attacked him in the middle of the Great Hall. You screamed at each other for a good five minutes before you came to blows. Don’t you remember?”

“Vaguely,” Ron admitted. “He got in a couple good hits to my head.”

“And you managed to say something horrible about Ginny. About her being a slut.”

“What?” Ron shouted, earning a glare and shushes from the librarian. “I didn’t… I couldn’t have.”

“You bloody well did say it, you stupid sod,” Ginny hissed at him as she stepped out from behind a stack of books, where she’d obviously been listening to them for quite some time.

Ron started at the sight of her, and then jumped up out of his seat. “Gin, I…” He stopped, stunned to see a sheen of dampness over her eyes. “Gin?” He reached out and awkwardly touched her shoulder. “Gin, are you crying?”

Ginny turned away and sniffed. “Certainly not,” she said, her voice thick with unshed tears.

“Aw, Gin…” Ron wrapped an arm around her, drawing her into his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“S’alright,” she murmured into his robes, sniffling.

“No, it’s not. But I’ll take your forgiveness anyway.”

She pulled back from him, wiping her palms over her cheeks. Giving him a small smile, she said, “I never cry.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “I just can’t believe you’d think that about Draco.”

Ron’s brows shot up. “Really?”

“Oh, well, I mean…” Ginny trailed off. “I mean to say that it’s not true. None of it. Not even about Pansy. She’s been rather nice to me, even.”

Ron groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Damn it. I’m going to have to apologize to her again, aren’t I?”

Ginny patted his shoulder sympathetically. “You do realize why she laughed at you, don’t you?”

“You mean, other than my being an amazing prat?” He shook his head.

“Ron, the mere idea of you hitting her is absurd.”

“It is rather far-fetched,” Hermione interjected.

Ron turned to find both Harry and Hermione smiling at him in amusement. “So it had nothing to do with my being weak and unmanly?” he asked.

“Nothing of the sort,” Ginny said. “You can be quite threatening if the situation requires it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re humoring me, aren’t you?”

Ginny grinned. “Maybe just a bit. Ron,” she said, placing a hand on his arm, “you’ve got a soft heart. You’re all bluster.”

“Hang on, I beat Harry up the other day,” he argued petulantly.

“Hey!” Harry said, indignant. “You did not beat me up.”

“I heard about that,” Ginny said, her eyes twinkling. “Blowing off steam?”

Ron gave her a disgruntled frown. “I couldn’t bloody well pick a fight with that evil git you call a boyfriend, could I?” he growled.

Ginny’s grin was blinding. “Thank you for that, Ron.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, sitting back down at the table across from Harry and Hermione. He was not looking forward to facing Parkinson again at all.

******

Ron was nervous when he met her at the lake, sweating despite the chilly December air. Wiping his palms absently on his cloak, he gave her a tentative smile. “Parkinson,” he nodded hello.

“Weasley,” she acknowledged, her lips slightly curling up at the corners, her pert nose rosy from the cold.

“I owe you an apology,” he said directly, not wanting to get sidetracked as he had before.

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?” she drawled. “Again?”

Ron’s smile fell at her tone and he felt the familiar frustration burn across his cheeks. “Yes,” he said, voice tight. “Again.”

“Well, then,” she waved a hand in the air, “by all means.”

She looked at him expectantly and Ron’s anger faded into confusion. Hadn’t he already apologized? Shouldn’t she be forgiving him right about now? But he could tell by the set of her shoulders and firm stance that she was waiting patiently for him to continue groveling. “I’m sorry,” he finally snapped.

She bit her lip, mirth dancing in eyes.

Ron couldn’t believe it. She was laughing at him again. Well, at least on the inside, which, to him, was just as bad. “What the hell are you laughing at now?” he shouted.

Pansy shook her head, a few chuckles slipping out. “Really, Weasley. You are so entirely clueless.”

She took a step towards him and he eyed her warily. “About what?” he asked, shifting his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Cocking her head to the side, she gave him a lopsided smile. “Hold still a moment. I want to try something,” she said, moving to stand directly in front of him. Slowly, she reached up to stroke his cheek; her eyes focused intently on his mouth.

Ron, stunned by the touch of her hand, held his breath.

She smoothed her thumb over his bottom lip, and then, pressing it downward ever so slightly, she stepped up on her tiptoes and brushed her mouth against his. She made a low humming sound and settled back on her feet, dropping her hands to her sides.

Feeling as if a rogue Bludger had just sideswiped him, Ron swallowed hard. “What was that for?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

“That,” Pansy said, flattening her palm against his chest and slowly pushing him backwards, “was for apologizing to me last week.” Her lips turned up in smug smile. “If you hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave the hall, you might’ve gotten lucky then.”

Ron backpedaled awkwardly, spurred on by Pansy’s advances, until his back bumped against the rough bark of a large oak tree. When he couldn’t retreat any further, she ran her hand up around the back of his neck, her slim fingers burrowing into the thick hair at his nape.

“This,” she said, pressing her length against him and urging his head down towards hers, “is for apologizing to me today.”

Unconsciously, Ron’s arms encircled Pansy’s waist, holding her tightly to him as she opened her mouth under his. He was completely and utterly bewildered; his mouth and hands working on instinct alone. This was Pansy. The girl -- no, Slytherin -- who had made it clear from the day they had met that she found him lacking in every way possible. And she was kissing him like she had been dying to do it for years. And, vaguely, Ron sensed he was behaving in much the same way.

He broke away from her mouth, breathing hard, his thoughts and fears and wants making his head whirl. “I don’t understand,” he breathed, aware that he still had one hand tangled in her hair, the other flat against the small of her back.

She sighed and rested her forehead on his, rolling her head back and forth slightly. “I love you, Ron. Have loved you for quite some time now.”

He jerked back. “That’s not true,” he protested, his heart clenching in his chest.

“It is,” she whispered, a small, satisfied grin gracing her face. “You are the most infuriating, blind, clueless, lovable, kind hearted man, Ron. And you have the worst possible sense of humor.” She pressed a gentle kiss on the underside of his jaw. “But I love you anyway.”

Ron stared at her, his eyes wide, his heart pounding so loud he could hear it in his ears – feel it in his throat. He swallowed and rasped out, “I think I’m going to be sick.” He quickly shoved her aside, circled to the back of the tree, and heaved his entire lunch onto the grass.

Moments later, he felt a hand stroking his hair and looked up to see her standing over him, a wry smile on her face. “Not exactly the response I was hoping for.”

Ron stumbled to his feet and wiped his mouth. He felt cold and clammy and hot and sweaty all at once, his hands shaking perceptively. “You can’t just spring that on a guy,” he managed to say, his voice unsteady.

“Well,” she said, “the subtle hints didn’t seem to be working.”

“Hints? What hints?” Ron shouted. “Ever since you became a Beater you’ve tried your very best to kill me! You’re rude. You glare continuously at me. You… you had evil Slytherin plots…” and he trailed off, aware that she really hadn’t had any evil Slytherin plots against him, at least none that he could prove. But the bathroom, he thought indignantly… “Why, then, did you write what you did in the Prefects bathroom? Was that a ‘hint’?”

Pansy looked at him blankly. “Write what?”

“Are you telling me you didn’t write it?”

“Perhaps, if you told me exactly what I supposedly wrote,” she said, matter-of-factly, “I would be able to let you know if it was me or not.”

“You wrote…” he started, but paused when he saw the twinkle in her eyes. “You did write it.”

“No,” she smiled. “I just wanted to see if you’d actually repeat what it said. Really,” she grinned wider, “I’m almost entirely sure Hannah wrote that after you two broke up.”

Ron could feel his face heat up, a blush spreading inward from his ears. “But we never… She didn’t…Argh!” he sputtered, covering his eyes with a hand. “This is a complete nightmare.”

“Really, Ron,” she said calmly, tugging his hand from his face. “It’s not so bad.”

He scowled down at her. “It’s bloody horrible!”

“Honestly,” she frowned. “If I wasn’t so sure you loved me too, I’d be insulted.”

“You’re insane,” Ron shouted, his eyes wide.

She arched a slim dark eyebrow. “Am I?”

Strangely, on the verge of spitting out a very harsh ‘yes,’ Ron hesitated. Her eyes, clear brown and confident, were almost mesmerizing in their intensity; her smile, bright and wide, teeth flashing, reflected in their depths. He dropped his gaze to their joined hands, her fingers, honeyed and slim, linked through his. He squeezed gently, testing the feel of her warm skin, feeling the slight callous on the pad of her thumb, rubbed there, no doubt, from the flicks of her wand.

“Am I?” she asked again, but softer.

“No more than me, I suppose,” he replied in wonder, his eyes returning to her face. He was crazy. Nothing and no one could possibly be more so. And at the moment, he didn’t particularly care. “You’re a bloody horrible Slytherin, though,” he murmured absently.

“And you can’t seem to resist me, can you?” She lifted her hand, bringing his up to her mouth, gliding her lips lightly along his knuckles. “I’d kiss you again,” she grinned up at him, eyes twinkling mischievously, “but you did just throw up.”

Yes. He rather thought he could be in love.

Fin

*****

Too fluffy by half, I know. Not gelling. *sigh*