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"It’s hard to argue when you won’t stop making sense, but my tongue still misbehaves and it keeps digging my own grave."
-- Snow Patrol 'Hands Open'
Ron probably shouldn’t have insulted the cat.
He knew he’d crossed the line in doing that, but he had been trying to make a point (though he couldn’t quite remember what the point was anymore; it couldn’t have been all that good to begin with), and his debating skills had regressed to those of a sixteen year old, because that’s what arguing with Hermione always did to him, and because if he had to think back to the last time he came out on the winning side of an argument with her, he’d probably have to go all the way back to their sixth year.
In his defence, though, he did happen to be married to the Ministry’s top solicitor. She had actually trained for this sort of thing, so that alone already put him at rather a large disadvantage. Were it instead a question of who between them would do a more bang-up job of catching dark wizards, the playing field would most definitely be tilted in his favour, except he couldn't think of a single scenario in which such a question would be remotely relevant, so he had resigned himself to the fact that he’d always have the odds stacked against him.
Anyway, he knew the moment that he’d carelessly thrown out that spiteful remark about Crookshanks (a remark he couldn’t even remember anymore, but that was often the case when he blurted out the first thing that came to mind in the heat of the moment) that he’d be in trouble. And sure enough, the stony silence that Hermione had lapsed into immediately afterwards gave him all the confirmation he needed.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care about house-elves. He cared very much about them, as a matter of fact—certainly more than he did before Hermione Granger ever came into his life. But he also happened to think that his wife had a tendency to overreact to something whenever the subject matter involved any magical creature that had ever had any history of being mistreated by wizards, which was most unfortunate for anyone who made a perfectly innocent remark that she found to be grossly insensitive.
And this was exactly what his mum had (unwittingly) done that morning, when she oh-so-casually suggested that they might think about getting a house-elf, with the baby coming in just nine weeks.
Ron had to admit the idea made some sense; as it was, they still hadn’t managed to finish painting the nursery and the crib still resembled a pile of firewood more than anything else, much to Hermione’s consternation—and he hadn’t even begun to wrap his mind around the added housework that awaited them once the baby was born: the endless laundry, the middle-of-the-night feedings, the dirty nappies. He was exhausted just thinking about it all.
So he was quite sure that his mum had meant well when she made the comment in passing, but this of course didn’t stop Hermione from still taking offence at it, very nearly launching into what he was sure would have been an impassioned speech, had he not managed to avert disaster by interrupting her with a hastily drawn-up lie about having to pop over to Harry and Ginny’s to pick up an old pram.
Only later did he realise what a rubbish excuse that was, seeing as how Harry and Ginny would have never given up James’ old pram, with baby number two on the way for them in a matter of weeks as well. But he was desperate and said it without stopping to think it through all the way, and besides, he’d been betting on the fact that by the time his mum had worked it all out, they would have been long gone and Hermione would have regained her cool.
It was a gamble that wasn’t his to win, apparently.
Which brought them back to this moment, with him sitting in exile in the nursery, trying to channel his ill mood into something more productive by finally putting together the crib. He was muttering curses under his breath, looking for the wayward hammer and getting ready to summon it with his wand, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Thought you might need this,” said Hermione, who was standing above him, brandishing the hammer. “You left it downstairs. In the fridge.”
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, I might’ve had it with me when I was making a sandwich earlier, and I had to get the lettuce out of the crisper...” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, thanks.”
He caught the corners of her mouth quirking upwards into a grin, but he willed himself not to react; after all, they were technically still in the middle of a row. She was probably here to pick up right where they left off, and he started to formulate all of the counter-arguments in his head, as he anticipated all of the points she was sure to make, but to his surprise, she sat down beside him on the floor and began to read the assembly instructions.
They worked in silence, side-by-side for the next quarter of an hour, until finally, she turned to him, just as he was getting ready to tighten the last screw on one of the crib’s legs.
“I don’t, you know.”
Startled (and more than a little perplexed), Ron blinked back at her. “Don't... what?”
“I don’t care more about the cat—or any other poor, helpless creature—than I do about wizards.”
And suddenly, Ron’s stupid, thoughtless words from earlier came back to him in a flash, making his ears burn. Blimey, had he actually said that to her?
“I didn’t mean-”
“And I don’t think it’s my sacred duty to defend them all against the injustices of our society.”
Ron let out a tiny groan. He really had been on a tear, apparently. Funny (or maybe not) the things that could come out of his mouth when he was in a strop. Now he was wishing Hermione still had that old time-turner of hers. He could sure use it right about now.
“Listen, I-”
“But you were right about me overreacting, and I’m sorry.”
“You have every right to be ma... w-what?”
“I said I’m sorry.”
Ron stared at her. “You’re... sorry?”
She rolled her eyes, but her mouth was still curved into a smile, and he knew she couldn’t possibly still be cross with him, even as she said, “It would be just like you to make me apologise again, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, you’ll have to forgive me, since it’s such a rare occurrence—ow!”
She’d punched him in the arm, though it was rather weak—a half-hearted attempt, no doubt, to get a grin out of him.
And it worked.
“Well, it’s hard to argue with you when you’re actually making sense.”
“Always the tone of surprise.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Don’t push your luck.”
She was smiling as she said it, though, and Ron was already starting to feel relief trickle through him. He really did hate it when they fought—though he never minded the making up afterwards.
“Ron?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for finally putting the crib together.”
“No problem.”
“And... well... maybe we could have Kreacher over every so often. You know, if Harry’s all right with it.”
Ron fought the urge to wrinkle his nose. He wasn’t about to launch into yet another disagreement so soon after they’d just patched things up.
“But I would feel better if we at least offered to pay him-”
“Absolutely not!”
And so, the new opening volley had been thrown.