Cherie. A Harry Potter Romance.

Chapter Six.

Blah, blah, blah. Don't own recognisable characters or places. They belong to the badass person called J.K. Rowling, and somewhat to StarKid (because due to them never copyrighting anything and calling it AVPM instead of HPtM). I own Sweetie and these... er.... predicaments.

x Ruby.

So, there were probably only two things that really made Sweetie sad. There was Death, predictably, and love. Love was just kind of upsetting for her. Not that she’d been jinxed romantically, or back-stabbed or whatever. If anything, she was the one to always ruin the relationships with cheating, not caring, or heartlessly leaving men, women, girls, and boys. But, every time that she thought of love, or being in love, she was kind of... down. An aching, tired kind of sigh would fall through her chest so many times until she would yawn. Lately, though, love seemed so nice, but love was probably only her... second- no, third thought at the moment. Who the hell thinks of love when they’re in St. Mungo’s? Mungo. Who would name their kid that?

Thousands of echoes of cries at the news of her awakening shook her lightly; especially when spiny, creepy, Voldemort-like fingers reached out and stroked the top of her forehead. She squirmed a little bit and mumbled curses that never reached whatever force sends them out. Her eyes peeled open to see Ron. What a relief!

“Wh-where’s Ginny?” she inquired, her head tossing about the room.

The pressure at the bottom of her calves was lifted when she felt the bed sink under, like a struggling, goose-feather pillow in quicksand. “Ooo! I’m right here, Sweetie Boudreaux!” she cried in a nasally, high-pitched voice, shaking the bed while her body danced as she squealed. “You saved my life!”

“O,” she sighed sarcastically. “I don’t regret that now at all, especially because of your voice. I feel like such a martyr right now.”

“You should!” agreed Ginny, nodding, as usual.

“Where’s Harry?” she cried breathlessly, gazing with cobalt-grey eyes up at Ron as if she were frightened, keeping a continuous death grip on his hand.

Ron nodded his head toward the other side of the hospital room where a dark figure was muddled up into a chair; the fancy kind that fathers sat in when their children were born. Not the regular minty, worn, picnic chairs that Ron seemed to ache in.

She tossed her legs over the side of the mattress. Bare. “My bare derierre is out in the air, when I’m not aware. Marilyn Monroe,” she stated, making her way over to Harry. “Hi!”

His eyebrows rose, creating creases into his forehead. Next came his stunning emerald eyes, opened and bloodshot. Light stubble grew around his cheeks and lips, a sign of having not shaved for a few days. He squinted toward her, as if trying to make her out. By the time that he’d put on his glasses, she was right in front of him, wearing her own glasses. “Um... hello. You’re awake?”

“No, actually, this is Sweetie’s evil twin sister and I’m here to murder you.” she said in complete seriousness. He dared not move. Her face grinned, knowing that she’d really frightened him for his life. “Jesus Christ, Harry! Get the hell up and shave! Wash your face, too. It is Saturday, after-all. My bubby says that that’s the most important day to wash your face because Church is on Sunday and you want to please the Lord by being very clean. Funny thing he’s said that, considering that he’s actually an Anti-Christ...” He beamed up at her, overjoyed that she was finally awake after nearly a week of sleeping. “Did you hear Marilyn’s poem?”

He nodded and laughed, making his way to the bathrooms and shaving. (Where the hell did the razors come from? He had no idea, but he was sure to FIND them.) “Hi!” he chuckled, wandering out of the bathroom, his face washed and shaved, but stubble still ever coated him.