He’d been waiting for an hour. She’s never late. Something’s wrong.
“Hermione doesn’t know how to be late. She couldn’t be late if she tried. She even made sure to get to St. Mungo’s three hours before she needed to check in each time she went into labour. If she’s late, it’s not by choice, and that means something is most definitely wrong.”
“You worry too much, mate. She said she’d be here, and she’ll be here. She’s probably just dropping the kids off at Grandma and Grandpa Granger’s, you know how long that takes. You wait, she’ll come rushing up all out of breath going ‘Oh thank Merlin, the kids are finally asleep! They just wouldn’t let me go!’ or some other such excuse. It happens more times than you’d think, it’s perfectly normal.”
“Along with having the emotional range of a teaspoon, Ronald, you also have the sense of a pygmy puff,” Harry replied, exasperated. Ron just snorted. “I’m telling you, something’s wrong, and if she’s not here in another five minutes, I’m going looking for her!”
“Fine, fine, you go looking for her, and when she shows up, I’ll let her know that you went into Molly Weasley mode and went off looking for her, she’ll get a laugh out of that.”
“Does your mum know you talk about her like that behind her back?”
“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”
“That’s what I thought,” Harry said with a smirk.
Just as he was about to start searching for his other best friend, Hermione came running up to the pair. “Sorry I’m late, the kids were being extra clingy tonight, you just wouldn’t believe—why are you laughing? What’s so funny?” She looked over at Harry, who was staring between her and Ron and looking like he wanted to hex Ron, which come to think of it was an almost everyday occurrence, but what was so bloody funny?