Work Text:
The argument from last night was still spinning in his head. He’d heard Harry tossing and turning until the early hours, which was particularly annoying because even when he did finally fall asleep (to the complete absence of Harry’s snores), he woke up with a start at half past six, wide awake.
He dressed, finding himself staring at the hangings of Harry’s four poster bed, wondering if he might still be awake. Not that he would bother to come out even if he was. Not that he ever thought of Ron at all.
There were very few people in the Great Hall at this time of morning, just a few teachers and some older students dotted around in clusters. There was almost nobody at the Gryffindor table at all. He sat down and reached automatically for a pastry, which he shoved, whole, into his mouth and slowly chewed, gazing into the middle distance.
His cheeks still bulging and his throat still struggling to swallow, his hand dully reached for another. He was trying to make sense of the roaring feeling that seemed to be battering his brain around his skull and kicking him repeatedly in the spleen. Trying to articulate the words even just in his own thoughts, let alone how he would ever explain it to Harry.
The moment he had swallowed the large pastry, he shoved the next one in too. This time he tasted what exactly he was eating and sighed. Fucking croissants. He hated croissants. They had a funny aftertaste.
‘Oh, you’re up early!’ Hermione had suddenly appeared opposite him, sitting down and shaking her head as she poured herself out a glass of pumpkin juice. ‘I bet you’re worried sick about Harry too, aren’t you? I was up all night, I dread to imagine what he’s feeling - did he talk to you at all?’
Ron, whose mouth was still full of croissant, simply chewed at her, wondering what on earth he was going to say.
‘You’re going to have to help me persuade him to write to Sirius, you know what he’s like, he won’t do it unless we really push him, he’ll just think he has to go it alone, but really, something like this… Is he really upset? I bet he is.’
Ron swallowed with great difficulty. ‘I dunno, Hermione… I’m sure he’ll be all right once he has that thousand galleon prize money.’
She had clearly noticed the sourness in his voice; she surveyed him in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of Professor Mcgonagall as she paused in buttering her toast.
‘I mean, does he really need any more money?’ Ron continued, the words falling out of his mouth before his brain had time to check what they were. ‘He’s already got plenty.’
‘Yes,’ said Hermione carefully, ‘he inherited it.’
‘Must be nice to have a little trust fund from birth,’ said Ron moodily. He reached for another croissant, but this time began shredding it onto his plate, the flaky pastry crumbling.
‘Not quite from birth, is it?’ said Hermione quietly. ‘More like from a year old.’ Ron said nothing, and Hermione tilted her head a little lower, trying to look him in the eye as he stared down at his plate. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘There’s nothing that tournament can give him that he doesn’t already have!’ Ron burst out. ‘Are we all supposed to pat him on the back now that he’s got himself involved in some other big-’
‘Ron, didn’t you see his face?’ Hermione interrupted. ‘When it was announced? He clearly wasn’t expecting it-’
‘Oh, don’t be naive,’ he said bitingly. ‘It’s not hard to look surprised, is it? Look-’ Ron launched into a sarcasting, scathing impersonation of Harry, looking over his shoulder and tapping at his chest in a ‘who, me?’ sort of way, looking around the steadily filling hall with wide eyed horror.
Hermione merely raised an eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’
‘All I’m saying is he didn’t look so surprised last night when he came in with a Gryffindor banner round his bloody shoulders! And you heard Violet - announcing that Dumbledore’s “letting” him compete, he was clearly asking to.’ He squeezed the remained of his croissant into a hard, doughy ball. ‘It just would have been nice if he bothered to include us in his little plan. But he never does, does he? Does in the beginning, but always races off to finish it himself. I guess he thought he should just skip us entirely this time, make sure we can’t muscle in on anything good that comes out of it.’
‘Ron…’ she said gently, gaping at him. He wished she wouldn’t. He wished she would shout at him or nag him into some common sense like normal.
‘He called me stupid, last night, you know,’ he said fiercely. ‘That’s what he thinks of me.’
‘No, it’s not,’ she said calmly.
‘Yes, it is is,’ he insisted. ‘He was so clever to trick the cup that they’ve all decided to let him have a go.’
‘I really don’t think he-’
‘Sure,’ said Ron scathingly. ‘I mean, I know I’m not the brightest of the three of us, but it seems to me they are probably easier ways to do him in than giving him a shot at glory and gold, don’t you think? If it were me twirling my moustache and thinking “how could I possibly harm The-Amazing-Boy-Who-Lived-Wonder?”, I don’t think I’d be giving him a go at something people are clamouring to do.’
She sighed heavily, but said nothing.
‘I better write to my mother later,’ Ron spat, that feeling kicking him in the spleen again. ‘Let her know that she’s got another reason to worry about him rather than me.’
‘Ron!’ exclaimed Hermione, but he was already rising and storming away. He did not want to bump into Harry on his way down to breakfast, so he found himself, for the first time in his life, willingly walking to the library. Once he got there, he found he could do nothing but sit at a desk and gaze blankly out of the window towards the Quidditch pitch, wondering if he could have ever been on the Quidditch team if he had had a better broom.
***
Over the next few days, he felt consistently as if he had missed a step. His stomach was full of that swooping feeling, and he was never sure what to do with himself. Every time he spoke to Hermione, it was the same spiel.
‘Harry’s really upset, Ron, he has no idea how his name got into that goblet. I know he misses you, and I think you miss him too - why don’t you just talk to him? You’ll see, he’s not looking forward to any of it at all, he definitely doesn’t want to do it - he’s not being allowed to do it, he’s being forced to do it.’
But Harry did not look like he missed him at all. He barely looked at Ron, and his expression was composed and cold whenever Ron looked over. Even when they sat in their usual seats next to one another in History of Magic, a lesson usually spent by them trying to draw dicks on each others work, Harry stared stoically down at his parchment, occasionally jotting down a date or battle name, steadfastly refusing to even look in Ron’s direction.
‘He could always talk to me,’ Ron snarled at her. ‘Maybe say good morning or hello once in a while.’
‘Have you said any of that to him?’ she shot back.
Of course he hadn’t, but he didn’t see why he should. He had had the last word - the quaffle was on Harry’s side of the pitch now. If Harry had bothered to think about what Ron had told him, if he had really considered it, he could have come over and explained how he got over the age line and why he didn’t tell him. Ron had nothing more to add - he’d said his piece. He’d laid it all out in the open. It was Harry who was refusing to talk, not him.
They’d had double potions on Friday afternoon, and Lavender Brown had leaned across her desk to whisper in Ron’s ear. ‘Hey! Has he told you? How he did it?’
‘No,’ Ron whispered back, glaring over at Harry, who was firmly ignoring the Slytherins jeering at him, Hermione muttering at his side.
‘Come on, he must have done-’
‘I’m telling you, he hasn’t!’
His annoyance rose - clearly everyone else expected Harry to have shared it with him, because that’s what friends did. The only conclusion Ron could come to was that they hadn’t really been friends at all. The hurt of it prickled him so much, that the little sympathy he had had for Harry being mocked and impersonated by the Slytherins virtually vanished, even when Malfoy loudly shouted across the class, ‘don’t you need parental permission to be a champion?’
His next Divination lesson was excruciating, because Hermione wasn’t there to try and forge a conversation between them as she had done in Herbology. Ron did not want to sit in more awkward silence with Harry or share his predictions, even though he had come up with a particularly creative one involving sausages he knew would make him turn pink with silent laughter.
So he sat with Neville, who seemed confused but pleased. When Harry walked in, he walked straight to their usual table without looking around. Ron felt a savage pleasure when the lesson started and he saw Harry glance around the room, then back to the front the moment he saw Ron. He did wish someone had sat next to Harry though.
‘My dear,’ Professor Trelawney said, ten minutes in, reaching out a trembling hand to Harry. Ron saw his shoulders sink. ‘As you find yourself alone this afternoon, perhaps we may use your predictions for the demonstration? Tell me what you have forseen.’
‘Er…’ Harry looked down at his astrology chart. ‘Because of the… six planets in Aries, I am at risk of… an argument.’
Trelawney continued to look at him expectantly. Harry gave a slight shrug. ‘Anything else, my dear?’ she prompted.
‘No,’ said Harry. Ron rolled his eyes. They were both aware that the best way to shut Trelawney up was just to give her the catastrophe she wanted. Why did he have to drag out the inevitable?
‘Let me see, my dear…’ She leaned over Harry’s table, peering at his astrology chart, and then launched into her usual performance of holding back a choked sob, stumbling away a little, and grasping the back of an armchair as though to stop herself from collapsing. ‘My dear!’ she cried dramatically, ‘a Leo? With Mars rising in the anaretic degree? Your sign is one of long ascension, but I fear you will not be long for this world!’
‘Right,’ said Harry.
‘And when we compare your birth chart to the current positions, why… With Mercury in retrograde and Mars once again ascending, I fear you have stumbled upon Lilith - the Black Moon!’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Harry.
Trelawney gazed out at the class, her hands splayed as though calming them down, but her voice filled with panic. ‘This dark goddess is an invisible energy vortex! Her presence indicates that Death walks beside you.’ She returned to Harry, and spoke to him in a hushed, but carrying tone. ‘I am sorry to burden you with this knowledge.’
‘S’all right,’ said Harry.
Had they been sitting beside one another, had everything been fine, they would have exchanged smirks. Ron felt his stomach go very cold, and it had nothing to do with the impending doom Trelawney had predicted.
‘Your best chance of survival,’ said Trelawney solemnly, ‘is to pay attention to your health concerning blood and headaches. And you must learn to either be more aggressive, or keep your aggression in check.’
‘Thanks for clearing that up,’ said Harry.
Ron could hear Dean and Seamus sniggering, and just a few days prior he would have been sniggering at Harry’s sarcasm too. But right now here merely felt irritated, whether at Trelawney or Harry he wasn’t sure, but irritated that Harry’s very birth ticked all of Trelawney’s stupid boxes and let her pontificate about his destiny to die all the time.
‘It’s always him, isn’t it?’ he said sourly to Neville as the noise of the class rose.
‘Hmm?’ asked Neville, looking up from his own birth chart.
‘It’s always Harry she predicts to die. She never shakes it up.’
‘Oh, no, well, it’s a load of nonsense, isn’t it? I was born the day before Harry - there can’t be much different in our charts at all but she never says any of that stuff for me.’
‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she?’ said Ron bitterly. ‘Not when you have someone already bundled up in legend right in front of you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Neville happily, apparently oblivious to Ron’s irritation. ‘Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’
It was not that Ron wanted Trelawney to predict his death, as such. It was more that it was so endlessly frustrating to be reminded of Harry’s importance. His significance. The constant whispers of destiny and power and fate that circled around him. Trelawney might expect him to meet a swift end, but no doubt she thought it would be meaningful. Heroic, probably. Everyone expected that of him.
Nobody ever expected anything from Ron.
He sat with Neville again in Charms, because Hermione had sat next to Harry but right on the end of the aisle, so he would be forced to sit on the other side of Harry if he wanted to be anywhere near her.
This was typical, Ron though viciously as he practiced his summoning charm. It was Harry, always, that she gave the benefit of the doubt to. Harry rarely argued back when she went off on one, and she probably preferred that, having someone to boss around, even though Ron could tell he was never really listening. But it meant that now she was all sympathetic ears to his puppy dog eyes and moping. Ron had to admit, with another icy grip around his stomach, Harry did look rather miserable.
Even so, it was Harry that Hermione chose to eat lunch with, Harry she chose to sit beside in lessons, Harry she seemed to side with. He pointed this out to her, while Harry had been in the shower, and she had simply sighed.
‘Oh, Ron, if I don’t, who else has he got? You can’t expect him to just be on his own all the time, he really needs some support.’
‘He’s got loads of people!’ Ron said furiously. ‘The whole of Gryffindor is excited for him, they all think he’s the best thing since floo powder! Have you forgotten that party they threw for him already?’
‘I told you, he didn’t want that,’ she said patiently.
‘They still threw it! He can go and eat lunch with them if he needs to.’
‘They’re not friends,’ she emphasised. ‘They’re not you and me… You’re going to have to talk to him at some point.’
‘I already have talked to him! It’s him that won’t talk to me! Tell him that, why don’t you?’
She gave a small growl of frustration and buried her face in her hands. ‘You two are impossible!’
Their next potions lesson found them thrown back into comradeship for a brief moment. They lined up against the wall waiting for Snape, Ron half listening to Seamus loudly talking about Sally-Anne Perks’s arse. He’d spotted Harry and Hermione walking down the corridor towards them, talking quietly as they always seemed to do, when the Slytherins also noticed them.
He watched as Harry’s face went bright red, even in the dim light of the dungeons, his lips pressing firmly together as POTTER STINKS shone green around them, the jeers and laughter echoing. Ron saw Harry’s shoulders tense, his elbows drawing inwards, as though he were shrinking. Beside him, Seamus swore quietly, and Dean said, ‘arseholes,’ in a disbelieving sort of voice.
‘Oh, very funny,’ said Hermione, her face blazing with disgust. ‘Really witty.’
Ron wasn’t sure what happened next, but he heard the word ‘mudblood’, and suddenly Harry had drawn out his wand faster than Ron thought was possible, pointing it aggressively at Malfoy, breathing heavily.
People scrambled to get out of the way, and Ron couldn’t blame them - most playground fights were good fun to watch but Harry looked scary, especially once Malfoy took out his own wand too.
‘Harry!’ said Hermione, holding her hand out by Harry’s chest in a warning way.
Harry ignored her - Malfoy was saying something quietly to him, and after a building tension the pair of them were roaring curses at one another. The curses ricocheted off one another, and Ron’s heart dropped.
‘Hermione!’ he cried, racing towards her as she clutched her face, whimpering.
‘Oh no,’ she was squeaking, her eyes shining. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no…’
‘Let me see,’ Ron said quietly. ‘It’s all right…’
He pulled her hand away, and tried to keep his face reassuringly calm. Her front teeth were growing rapidly, and it seemed to be causing her some pain as they forced their way out of her gums, lengthening past her lips and her chin. With trembling hands she felt them, and let out a terrified whimper.
‘It’s OK,’ Ron said, ‘we’ll-’
The arrival of Snape sent the Slytherins into a frenzy as they eagerly tried to get their story in first, until Snape asked Malfoy to explain.
‘Potter attacked me, sir-’ Malfoy sneered.
‘We attacked each other at the same time!’ Harry yelled, his outraged voice bouncing off the stone walls.
‘-And he hit Goyle - look-’
Snape sent Goyle to the hospital wing immediately, but Ron, concerned that Hermione’s teeth were now brushing along her collar bone, spoke up. ‘Malfoy got Hermione! Look!’
He tugged Hermione’s hands away from her teeth, though by this point there was little gain to be made in trying to hide them. Snape turned his head slowly to look at Hermione. He stared for a moment, his black eyes glinting maliciously. ‘I see no difference,’ he said, cruelly.
Hermione let out a choked sob, turned on her heel and ran.
Ron was filled with an incandescent rage. ‘You sadistic arsehole!’ he yelled. ‘You’re a fucking bullying bastard-’
Harry was yelling too, Ron was fairly sure he heard the word ‘wanker’, but their obscenities were mingling together, confused by the echo of the corridor. Even so, it was clear enough that Snape was able to curl his lips and give them detention, as well as taking fifty points.
Ron was shaking with anger as he entered the classroom, his blood pounding in his ears as he thought of Hermione’s terrified cries. He nearly joined Harry at his table, temporarily forgetting everything, ready to turn to him and whisper more vicious insults about Snape.
But then he remembered that it was Harry who had drawn his wand first, Harry that had lost his temper, Harry’s curse that had rebounded off Malfoy’s and caused it to go off course. If Malfoy’s curse had hit Harry, that would have been horrible for him, sure, but Hermione had been completely innocent - she had tried to diffuse the whole situation, which, like all situations they seemed to get themselves in, had been all about Harry. She had stood by supporting him, but it was Ron who had ran to her side and reassured her, while Harry just stood there fuming and feeling sorry for himself.
He turned on his heel and joined Seamus and Dean at their table. He glanced back at Harry out of the corner of his eye as he swung his bag onto the desk. Harry seemed to be shrinking again, and, for the first time since their argument, Ron thought that he looked rather hurt.
Snape started the lesson by alluding that he would poison Harry, and when Ron looked over, and saw Harry sitting pathetically alone at the large desk, staring coldly ahead despite his pink cheeks, he felt a great rush of guilt. He was almost considering making some excuse about there not being enough room at Seamus and Dean’s table and moving back over. He still wouldn’t talk to Harry, he decided, because he still firmly believed that Harry should be the one approaching him, but he didn’t think Harry needed to look quite so alone as Malfoy flashed POTTER STINKS at him again.
But then Colin Creevey came in.
It was so bloody typical, Ron thought, staring determindly at the ceiling so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at Harry. It was so typical that Harry would get to escape this lesson, guaranteed to be an absolute nightmare for them both, to go and do a photoshoot.
The Slytherins jeered and whistled and flashed their badges as Harry walked sullenly out.
‘Work that camera, Potter!’
‘Got your poses ready?’
‘Is it a calendar shoot?’
For all Harry’s moaning that he didn’t like attention, or fame, or people staring, there he was, walking off with his little stalkerish fan, off to do a photoshoot. And now he, Ron, would bear the brunt of Snape’s remaining fury alone.
***
The next day, there was a full article in The Daily Prophet, all about Harry. It went into excruciating, sickeningly sweet detail about his tragic backstory. They may as well have had a tearful photo of him in rags on the front page, but to Ron’s extreme irritation, Harry grinned out in a way that made it look like he was about to start laughing - all dimples and striking eyes and lightning bolt scarred. ‘Why the hell would he say any of this shit?’ Ron demanded of Hermione. ‘Pathetic-’
‘You know he didn’t,’ Hermione snapped. ‘It’s Rita Skeeter, Ron.’
‘She twists words, I know, but he clearly has given her an interview! Really shying away from the limelight, isn’t he?’
‘He’s really embarrassed about it, you should have seen him when he saw it this morning-’
‘He bloody well should be! “I’ve always felt like an outsider, it comes with being an orphan - it’s something no one else can understand” - fuck off!’
It was painful, to have all the support Ron had given him, from day one, thrown back in his face. Had he not treated Harry like a brother? Introduced him to his family and stood aside as his mother fussed over him? Had he not risked an awful lot, flying across several counties, to rescue him from his horrible relatives? Had he not patiently listened, and agreed with Hermione, on how best to help him after they found out about Sirius Black betraying his parents and being his godfather (even if that had all turned out to be false)?
To read an entire article lamenting his lonely, sad, orphan-y existence was agonisingly painful, not because it made Ron sad at all, but because it was clear that none of that had mattered to Harry in the slightest. He apparently preferred to wallow in his own tragedy. The role Ron thought he had had… simply never existed.
‘You know that’s not him saying it,’ Hermione said sharply - she seemed to be losing patience with him.
‘He says he cries about them at night - that’s certainly not what I hear from his bed at night!’ he said spitefully.
‘Rita Skeeter-’
‘Didn’t exactly fucking draw this, did she?’ he said hotly, jabbing his finger onto photo-Harry’s face. ‘That’s from the photoshoot they did - he posed for that Hermione. Posed.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said weakly. ‘It could be one of the school photos-’
‘You know he skips those, he’s never done them,’ Ron muttered. ‘Don’t cover for him, this is from the photoshoot he was pulled out of potions for.’
‘I could bash your heads together, I really could,’ said Hermione, throwing her hands into the air and stalking off. Ron finished the rest of his lunch, sourly wondering what Harry had said that had made Rita Skeeter believe that he and Hermione were dating.
Snape made them pickle rats brains for their detention that night. They were slimy and slippery, and the vinegar they had to plunge them into made the little cuts around the edges of his nails sting painfully. Served him right for chewing on his nails he supposed.
He kept noticing Harry looking over at him as they worked. Go on, Ron thought desperately. Say something then. Clear this all up. Tell me that sodding article was a load of bollocks.
But Harry said nothing, the entire time, so Ron said nothing back.
That evening, as he lay in bed, Ron listened, to see if the article had been right and Harry did cry at night. But, as always with Harry lately, all he heard was silence.
The next morning, he had a lengthy letter from his mother.
Dear Ron,
Please give Harry a hug from me. I was in tears reading that article, I think we often forget just how much he has been through. I had no idea about how much he has been struggling, he always puts on such a brave face
Ron scrunched up the letter before reading the rest. It didn’t matter. He doubted any of it was about him.
But after several days of only brusquely saying words to Harry when he really had to (‘You done in the bathroom? You’ve got an owl. Can you shut the door?’), and bouncing between loitering awkwardly with Dean and Seamus or putting up with Neville, Hermione finally found him in the library.
‘You miss him, don’t you?’ she said.
Ron swallowed. He did. Very much so. As angry as he was. As much as he thought Harry deserved taking down a peg or two. As much as his insides writhed with a mixture of guilt and indignation.
He missed their stupid jokes and exchanged glances, he missed playing chess, he missed commiserating over crap potions marks, he missed stifling back laughter when Trelawney predicted tragic deaths, he missed discussing Quidditch and laughing loudly in the Common Room, he even missed feeling like he could stand up for Harry when the Slytherins made crying eyes gestures at him or flashed their badges, because quite frankly he missed Harry holding him back as he tried to punch someone on the nose.
‘Yeah, a bit, I s’pose,’ he said at last.
Hermione’s shoulders sank in relief. ‘Good. Because I know he misses you too.’
‘He should say that then.’
‘He wants you to apologise for calling him a liar, and to admit he didn’t put his name in the goblet.’
‘What?’ Ron exclaimed, so loudly that Madam Pince appeared, apparently at the speed of bloody light, at the end of their row of bookshelves to glare at them. ‘Sorry,’ Ron whispered at her. ‘I just really love books.’
Once she had scowled at him and left, Ron turned back to Hermione. ‘He’s got a bloody cheek,’ Ron hissed at her. ‘I want him to apologise for calling me stupid, and ignoring everything I’ve said, and for being a fame-hungry arsehole.’
‘You know what,’ Hermione hissed back, in perhaps the loudest voice she had ever used in the sanctuary of the library, ‘I wish I could force the pair of you to swap lives, just for a day, so you can see how miserable and ridiculous you both are!’
***
He knew that once again Hermione would choose Harry over him when it came to the next Hogsmead visit, so he tagged along with his brothers and Lee Jordan, talking firmly with them about Quidditch all the way to the village.
Hermione had said that she and Harry might meet up with him in the pub, but Ron had simply scoffed and said, ‘sure you will.’ Sure enough, he sat in the Three Broomsticks with the butterbeer Lee had bought for him, fully aware that the chances of Harry coming in and apologising to him in public were slim to none.
‘So,’ said Fred lightly, ‘word on the street is you and Harry aren’t talking.’
‘Whose word, and what street?’ asked Ron grumpily.
‘Well it’s been fairly obvious,’ said George. ‘What with you both sitting on opposite sides of the Common Room and looking over at each other like heartbroken lovers.’
Ron scowled at him, but Lee was nodding. ‘Not to mention Harry’s always eating with Hermione or completely alone.’
‘It’s not my fault he never managed to make any friends outside of me and Hermione.’
‘Oof,’ said Fred.
‘Ouch,’ said George.
‘Savage,’ said Lee.
‘It’s none of your business anyway,’ said Ron. ‘He knows where to find me if he wants to come and get his knife out of my back.’
‘Did you rehearse all this?’ asked Fred.
‘Look,’ said George patiently, ‘it sort of is our business if it’s going on this long. We’re the ones who had to spend all evening comforting Ginny.’
‘What’s Ginny got to do with it?’ asked Ron, baffled.
‘She’s worried if you don’t kiss and make up soon, Harry won’t come to ours during the holidays.’
‘What, so I’m supposed to set all my principles aside so she can gaze longingly at him across the table and plan her wedding, am I?’
‘Can you calm down?’ asked Lee. ‘I bought you a drink, don’t make me regret it.’
‘Actually,’ said Fred delicately, ‘she brought up a good point. Where’s Harry going to go?’
‘Huh?’
‘In the holidays. If you two fall out forever and can’t bear to be in the same room.’
Ron shrugged. ‘I don’t know, some other friend’s house. Hermione’s. Neville’s. He can stay at Hogwarts.’
Fred and George stared coolly at him. Lee took a loud slurp on his butterbeer. ‘You know where he’d end up going back to,’ said Fred, uncharacteristically serious.
Ron’s stomach lurched. For some reason, it was not the bars on the windows he thought of, nor Harry’s shit Christmas “presents” he seemed to get from them every year, nor even the way they scowled at him when they picked him up from King’s Cross. It was, quite inexplicably, the image of Harry standing at that large table, alone, in Snape’s classroom, shrinking slightly, glancing over at Ron with a hurt expression.
‘So come on,’ prompted George. ‘What did he do that means he needs to be banished from the Burrow?’
‘I never said he needs to be banished from the Burrow!’ said Ron hotly. That flare of annoyance was back, burning away the guilt that writhed his guts. Yet again, Harry was assumed to be the poor, innocent victim, the Boy Who Could Do No Wrong, and Ron, yet again, was simply the one that had cocked it all up. They knew nothing about the situation, none of them, they had just assumed…
‘Don’t… Don’t just make up scenarios of him being alone for the rest of his life just to make me feel guilty!’ Ron said. He could feel his ears burning. ‘I’ve given him plenty of opportunities - I’ve been honest with him, I tried to talk to him, that very first night I told him what was up, he’s never said anything back! He’s the one ignoring me!’
‘You know there’s no way he could have entered that tournament, don’t you?’ said Fred. ‘Not to blow our own trumpets or anything, and no offence to Harry, but if we couldn’t do it he certainly couldn’t.’
‘You don’t know that,’ muttered Ron.
‘Er, yeah, we do,’ said George, looking oddly irritable. ‘Come on, Ron, you really think Harry managed to outsmart Dumbledore?’
No, Ron wanted to admit. No, but I’m just sick of the fact these things always happen to him anyway. They just fall into his lap and he gets to do some really cool heroic stuff and then everyone pats him on the back and tells him what a brave little champion he is.
‘I just don’t think there’s any reason for anyone else to go to such lengths to enter him,’ said Ron. ‘If they want him dead it’s a funny way to go about it, isn’t it? They’ve gone out of their way to make it safer this year, that’s what they keep saying. The worst that will happen is that he embarrasses himself in front of the school, which isn’t great, but again, there are easier ways to do that.’
Lee shrugged. ‘You know what, maybe whoever did it is hoping he’ll win and get all the glory. Still not his fault though, is it?’
Ron shrugged. ‘He’s still making the most of it. Like I said, he’s the one refusing to talk to me.’
‘Maybe,’ said Fred conversationally, ‘you both just need to get over yourselves.’
‘Come on, Ron,’ said George, exasperation rolling from his mouth. ‘He’s having a shit time, all those bloody badges and Skeeter writing nonsense about him - the first task is a week away, he’s probably bricking it. Can’t you just be the bigger man?’
***
Ron waited in the dorm that evening, determined to talk to Harry. He had it all planned out. He would ask for a word, they would go off somewhere private, and he would say, ‘Look, I’ve been a bit of a prat. But you have too.’ He had rehearsed this several times, he was sure that would be his opening line, but what happened next depended entirely on Harry’s reaction.
So he sat on the edge of his bed, waiting. And waiting. Dean and Seamus came in and changed into their pyjamas and threw about a few wank jokes and went to bed. Neville came in and spent a long time trying to shave even though he didn’t need to yet, and then climbed into bed too. Ron threw a balled up pair of socks at him. ‘Oi,’ he whispered. ‘You seen Harry?’
‘He’s in bed, isn’t he?’ Neville whispered back. ‘He went early.’
Ron frowned, and looked at the closed hangings of Harry’s bed. Beyond caring if it put Harry in a bad mood, he pulled them back. Harry wasn’t there. Off on some heroic adventure, no doubt.
His brow furrowed, he got into his own bed, determined to stay awake for whenever Harry returned from whatever he was doing, the only sound he could hear the snores of the others.
At about midnight, he thought he could hear voices from the common room - he thought for an excited moment that it might be Harry and Hermione, but neither of them sounded like that. One was deep and low, probably one of the seventh years, and the other was distressed and emotional. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but whatever they were saying was coming rapidly, slightly higher pitched than Harry, for ages and ages just babbling something.
He ignored it, and felt himself slowly edging into sleep. The conversation downstairs seemed to be settling down too. More back and forth, less emotional, the murmuring noises more rhythmic.
It was not until Neville rolled over onto his front and thus stopped snoring, that Ron suddenly recognised one of the voices. Sitting bolt upright, he looked over to Harry’s empty bed, as though to check that it was, in fact, still empty.
It was Harry. It definitely was. Harry, talking to someone else - that wasn’t Hermione.
He stood, and didn’t even bother to put on his slippers, simply headed to the door and down the spiral staircase.
It was indeed Harry - stood, furious looking, in front of the fireplace, glaring at the stairs. Ron stared back at him for a moment, then flicked his eyes around the room. ‘Who were you talking to?’ he asked.
Harry seemed to explode - never before had he snarled at Ron like this. ‘What’s that got to do with you?’ he spat. ‘What are you doing down here at this time of night?’
‘I just wondered where you-’ Ron stared at Harry’s enraged face. What was the point? He was clearly determined to ignore whatever he said, as usual. He shrugged. ‘Nothing. I’m going back to bed.’
‘Just thought you’d come nosing around, did you?’ Harry shouted.
Ron scowled at him, shaking his head slightly. What the fuck was wrong with him? What gave him the right to lash out like this? He had been fully prepared to apologise to him tonight. ‘Sorry about that. Should’ve realised you didn’t want to be disturbed. I’ll leave you to practice for your next interview in peace,’ he added savagely.
Before Ron realised what he was doing, Harry had seized something from the table and flung it, with devastating accuracy, at Ron’s head, where it bounced off with a sharp sting and left him feeling quite stunned.
‘There you go,’ said Harry harshly. ‘Something for you to wear on Tuesday. You might even have a scar now, if you’re lucky… That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
He stormed past Ron and headed up the stairs. Ron blinked. Harry had never spoken to him like that before. It was the kind of venom usually reserved for Malfoy.
He looked down at the object that had bounced off his head. POTTER REALLY STINKS flashed up at him. Feeling as though he were in a daze, he picked it up and slowly walked over to sink onto the sofa by the fire. There were glowing embers in it, despite the time.
Harry must have been using the floo.
The deep voice must have been Sirius. There was no one else it could have been. The distressed one must have been Harry.
He fumbled with the badge, turning it over and over in his hands as his insides writhed again. He took a shuddering breath. He was not quite sure how it had fallen apart to this extent. He was not quite sure how to deal with it. When he argued with his family, or Hermione, they shouted and said their bits at one another and blurted out whatever needed to be said. It was all usually over and done with there and then, or at least within a couple of days.
The exception had always been Hermione, but she’d always cried all over the place, and made it obvious she was upset, and brought things up herself or forced the conversation some other way.
Harry had apparently just given up on him. Never even tried to talk again, never bothered to show that gap. Apparently perfectly content with only hanging out with Hermione, or being alone.
But he isn’t, is he? said a snide voice in his head. You remember that look in Snape’s room.
He looked down at the badge. POTTER REALLY STINKS. Harry had told him to wear it on Tuesday. He thought that he had given up on him, that he really wouldn’t root for him, that he would support Diggory instead.
He was allowed, wasn’t he, to feel bitter and frustrated about Harry’s role? That didn’t mean he wanted him to lose. He’d never said that. He’d never wished harm on him. All he wanted, all he had ever asked for, was an explanation - a reason why he hadn’t been included on this adventure like he had the others, some plausible deniability that he wasn’t really just chasing fame, some bloody reassurance that he wasn’t just some disposable sidekick.
A shuddering sort of breath escaped fro his mouth, like a backwards gasp, and he kept staring at the badge as Harry’s words rang through his head.
Of course he didn’t want a scar. Of course he didn’t want… All of that stuff.
He heard a voice in his head that was a bizarre mixture of Fred and George and Hermione. Oh, but you want all the attention and the money and the big expectations, do you? You want all of that except for the dead parents and disfigurements? The cool adventures without the nasty relatives?
He remembered what Hermione had said, about wanting to be able to make them both switch lives so they could both see how miserable and ridiculous they both were. It hadn’t really sunk in at the time, but Ron realised now that his internal reaction was a dry laugh and a ‘no thanks!’
But he knew that Harry would take his in a heartbeat. And not in the sour way that Ron sometimes envied things. His eyes had always been wide and amazed when he’d seen the Burrow, or been hugged by Mum, or been included in the twins teasing. It had been one of the first things Harry had said to him - that he wished he had older brothers.
He’d sounded really upset, talking down here. That Ron had heard his distress from the dorm was… It was all very unlike Harry. It made his insides squirm again. He thought, yet again, that image burned into his mind, of Harry’s hurt expression. The slightly parted lips and frown. The way he had slowly turned his head to look at Ron, and then cast his eyes down, and slowly turned his head back, his chin tucking in towards his chest, his lips pressed together.
Did he really think that Harry had put his name in? If he was honest with himself, no, of course not. Because he knew, deep down, that Harry would have included him. They’d have plotted it together. Both of them under the cloak.
But he just couldn’t see why anyone else would.
***
He wanted to try again to talk to Harry. He really did. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say at all anymore, because he thought the opening line he had rehearsed would probably result in Harry storming off again.
But the problem was, Harry was virtually impossible to find. As the task crept closer, Harry rose ridiculously early and returned to bed ridiculously late. Neville said he’d seen him and Hermione in the library, searching desperately through books.
Even in classes, Harry now moved automatically to tables away from Ron, still refusing to look at him or talk to him, always with Hermione. They would bolt away the second the bell rang for break times.
There had been a moment, a brief moment in Divination, when Harry had sarcastically responded to yet another one of Trelawney’s death predictions. It was funny, the kind of thing Ron would usually snort at - he tried to look over at Harry and catch his eye and give him a look that meant, ‘nice one, mate, the old bat’s insane,’ but almost as soon as he had, Harry was looking away again, fiddling with his wand under the table.
The day of the first task arrived. Harry looked… pale. Sickly. He didn’t even seem to notice that Ron sat beside him in History of Magic - he had been hoping to be able to force out the words ‘good luck today, mate,’ but they didn’t come, every time he told himself to just say it he would look at Harry and see his eyes flicking around rapidly as though watching Quidditch, even though he was just staring into the middle distance, or holding his head in his hands, or muttering charms spells under his breath.
At lunch time, he saw Professor McGonagall, who looked even more grimfaced than usual, walking over to Harry and leading him away. Ron opened his mouth to shout good luck, but yet again his voice failed him, and Harry vanished through the double doors.
Hermione hurried over to him - she looked almost tearful. ‘Oh, Ron,’ she said, ‘I feel sick with nerves.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ he said feebly.
Hermione just rubbed at her eyes, and shook her head slightly. They walked down with the other students, following the crowd towards the Dark Forest. The green POTTER STINKS badges were everywhere, and Ron felt an urge to hex every single person he saw wearing one.
‘If it doesn’t work, I don’t know what he’ll do,’ Hermione was moaning. ‘And how can they call it safer, what are they supposed to do if he gets caught in flames?’
‘What flames?’ Ron asked her.
Hermione looked furtively over her shoulder, and then said in a low voice, ‘we found out what the first task is. It’s dragons.’
Ron gave a slightly disbelieving laugh. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘It is.’
‘To do what? Fight them? You can’t take on a dragon alone. No one can.’
‘That’s what they’re expecting.’
Ron gaped at her. ‘So… What exactly is he-?’
Ahead of them, Malfoy was talking loudly. ‘Potter will be the first to snuff it - my father says early, stupid deaths come with the name. It’ll be this task, mark my words.’
‘Don’t,’ said Hermione firmly, as Ron reached for his wand. ‘Don’t, I have enough to worry about. Just ignore him.’
They reached a large arena; stands that had been conjured up in a clearing of the forest, hundreds and hundreds of wooden benches, more than you even saw at Quidditch matches, with everyone filing into them. From somewhere nearby, Ron could hear rumbling, groaning sort of cries.
‘Are you serious, Hermione?’ he asked. ‘Dragons? How did you find out?’
‘Er - Hagrid spilled the beans,’ said Hermione distractedly. She was looking around the arena nervously. ‘Last week.’
‘Last week? And you didn’t tell me?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Hermione snapped. ‘And you didn’t seem like you cared.’
‘Of course I care!’ said Ron, his voice slightly strangled. ‘Dragons? Bloody hell…’
The worst part was that for some reason Harry was last. Ron watched, aghast, as were quite literally set on fire as they battled their dragons, darting around the arena as they battled creatures his brother had always told him needed at least a dozen men to manage. The seats seemed to be protected with some kind of shield charm - the flames bounced off them smoothly, like turbulent water, but Ron’s heart still thudded madly when the dragons thrashed and roared and snarled, their huge, yellow teeth snapping, their scales glowing with each rumble of fire that burst forth to protect their eggs.
When Krum was finished and his dragon taken away, Ludo Bagman’s voice echoed around the arena again. ‘And finally, our nastiest dragon of the bunch - the Hungarian Hooooooorntaaaail!’
Ron watched in horror as his brother and at least fifteen other wizards herded a monstrous, black dragon into the arena. She roared, her the ground booming and trembling beneath her massive feet as she headed straight for her cluster of eggs that had already been placed in the right spot.
Ron gripped Hermione’s arm. He felt like he might be sick. ‘They’re really aggressive,’ he said.
‘I mean, yes-’ said Hermione.
‘Horntails specifically, I mean,’ said Ron. ‘He can’t… He won’t be able to…’
‘There’s a plan,’ Hermione squeaked above the roar of the crowd.
‘It better be a fucking good one!’ shouted Ron. The dragon was thrashing her tail in confusion at all the noise - the spikes tore through the earth like a plough. Ron’s heart bas beating so madly that it was surely just a buzz.
A whistle blew. ‘Our final champion of the day, here comes Mr Potter!’ called Bagman.
There were cheers. Some. But mostly all Ron could hear were deep, rumbling boos. He looked furiously at the crowd, as though he could silence them with a strong enough glare, but of course nobody was looking at him. He looked back down at the entrance to the arena, where the champions had been coming out, and saw Harry.
He looked as terrified as Ron had ever seen him, his face pale and his eyes wide, but his jaw set and fists clenched. Ron felt a mad urge to leap down from his bench and run to him. He felt Hermione sob next to him and pull on his arm, hugging it to her chest. He barely noticed, transfixed as his best friend seemed to take a breath, raise his wand, and shout something, inaudible above the din of the audience.
Nothing seemed to happen, and Ron raised his free hand over his mouth, agonised as the crowd started to jeer. But Harry didn’t look embarrassed or panicked, he was still staring at the dragon, still had a set look of determination - he suddenly turned, and grabbed something that was hurtling towards him. He mounted it, and shot into the air.
‘What a twist!’ Bagman was shouting. ‘I don’t think any of us expected that! Summoning a broom! Ingenious!’
Ron and Hermione were screaming with delight - Harry dazzled them. Ron felt a fierce rush of pride as he watched Harry swoop and dive and turn, tempting the dragon up, dodging the jets of flame, the boos had turned to cheers, people seemed far more eager for him to win now that he was the plucky underdog.
There had been one horrible moment when the dragon’s tail caught him - beside him, Hermione screamed, along with many other girls in the crowd, while the rest of them groaned. Ron felt like he was going to vomit. Hermione was gripping her face in fear, and Ron was convinced that at any moment he could watch Harry vanish in flames and fall to his fiery death.
I’m sorry, he wanted to yell. I’m really sorry, please don’t die, it was so stupid, I can’t believe it was so stupid, please don’t die…
But Harry kept flying, finally charming her like a snake, making her long neck stretch and sway until finally she was in the air and he was hurtling like a bolt of lightning to the egg. The crowd exploded in celebration - Ron was yelling and cheering with them as he watched Harry land safely, the golden egg tucked under one arm. Relief rushed through him - Harry had done it. He was alive. The dragon hadn’t clamped him in her fiery jaws, he hadn’t been roasted like a marshmallow, the last words they ever spoke to one another wouldn’t be that stupid argument at one in the morning.
‘Come on!’ cried Hermione, yanking on his arm. He followed her down through the stands and towards the champion’s tent. They ran inside to see Harry stood, looking rather restless.
‘Harry, you were brilliant!’ shrieked Hermione, rushing over to him. ‘You were amazing, you really were!’
Harry flashed her a smile, but then rose his head to look at Ron, his expression almost as nervous as when he had first walked out into the arena. Ron stared back. How stupid it all seemed now. How immature, how petty. Who the fuck would want to face a dragon alone? Nobody could have expected a fourteen-year-old to survive that…
‘Harry,’ he said, ‘whoever put your name in that Goblet - I - I reckon they’re trying to do you in!’
Harry swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was cold. ‘Caught on have you? Took you long enough.’
Ron opened his mouth uncertainly. It had been weeks. Weeks of Harry having almost nobody but Hermione. Weeks of him being relentlessly taunted with those stupid badges. And all the while he had had the threat of the task looming overhead. Ron had helped him with none of it. ‘I-’
‘It’s OK,’ said Harry, calmly. ‘Forget it.’
‘No,’ replied Ron, firmly, thoroughly ashamed. ‘I shouldn’t’ve-’
‘Forget it,’ emphasised Harry.
Ron hesitated, and then simply grinned at him. He had missed him so very much. Harry grinned back.