Word Count: 400
Summary: Ron lures Hermione home with four portions.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling, and owned by J. K. Rowling and various publishers, including but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended by the posting of this fic.
Author's Note: Dedicated to Shog—he knows why.
Hermione had worked late again, so she was pleased to find Ron and dinner waiting in the kitchen when she arrived home. She was less pleased that dinner was spaghetti—it was always spaghetti wasn't it?—because she'd had pasta for lunch, but given how rarely Ron cooked, she wasn't about to complain.
"That looks delicious," she said brightly.
Ron placed the puttanesca on the table and kissed her. "It does, and it's—what do you call it? Oh, yeah—appropriately portion-controlled. I used," he paused to snicker, "a measure."
Hermione wasn't sure why Ron's use of their pasta measure should amuse him but said nothing as she began serving herself.
"Yep, a measure—'though you don't actually need it if you remember your grip."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Ron, his expression as close to innocent as Hermione had ever seen it, made a familiar hand motion, saying, "Seems I'm exactly four portions, so I measured that out and halved it."
"How do you know that you're exactly four portions?" Hermione asked, her fork stilling in its twirl over her plate.
Ron flushed and flashed an unrepentant grin.
"Ronald Weasley! How long have you been—tell me that you washed the measure!"
"But I'm clean, you know I am."
Hermione's fork clattered to her plate as she stood abruptly. "Oh, God! Ron! That's disgusting."
"'Mione, you've had me in your mouth," Ron insisted, joining her at the sink. "Don't throw that away. It was clean when I measured, I swear—and anyway, it was only my skin!"
"We. Are. Ordering. Curry," Hermione said between clenched teeth, as she scrapped her puttanesca down the drain. "And you are never cooking again!"
"But you work late. I thought you'd like the help."
Hermione turned; Ron looked completely deflated—and the puttanesca had smelt good. Her stomach rumbled.
No, I'm not eating that, she thought, pulling her husband into a hug. "You are clean, but that's just . . . that wasn't hygienic. Curry."
"Yeah, all right," Ron agreed, his voice small.
Hermione pulled back and leant up to kiss him. "I'm going to come home, really, I promise. No more late nights."
"So," Ron said, his expression turning lascivious, "you could still have four portions if you like."
Hermione laughed. "I suppose I'm up for a non-traditional dinner, too. I had a big lunch."
"Didn't you meet Harry today?"
"So, not that big . . . ."