Chapter Text
Ron hasn't seen the Great Hall this decked out since the Yule Ball.
And—also like the Yule Ball—he's having a spectacularly rubbish time.
His dress robes are a sight better than last time, but that's about all he can honestly say the Order of Merlin ceremony has going for it. The hall is covered in fancy tapestries of purple, green, and white which cover all the cosmetic flaws the hall still has after a summer of restoration. Everyone's done up in their fanciest clothes, eating fussy little finger foods that do nothing to quell the gnawing in his stomach, and—
Listen. Ron has never claimed to be the most observant person who ever lived, since that is, without question, his mother. So if even he can tell that everyone's smiles look fake and painted on, it must be painfully obvious to everyone else. There's a sort of emptiness to the proceedings that he never imagined would accompany his proudest achievement. He won't be sitting his NEWTs, won't have the chance to captain the Gryffindor quidditch team (not like he stood a chance against Ginny, anyway), and he'll never be Head Boy either. All those dreams he saw in the Mirror of Erised are already past him.
But he's the only person in the history of the Weasley family to be awarded an Order of Merlin. First Class, at that. He wants to be proud. Knows he should be. But… well, what's the point, really?
"Cheer up, Ronniekins," George says, clapping a hand on Ron's shoulder. "At least you don't have to dance."
"What?" He blinks over at George. "What are you on about?"
"Harry's got Ginny and Hermione's brought Krum—if this were the Yule Ball, you'd be stuck with dear Minnie."
All the bits of a Fred-and-George joke are there, including an insulting nickname and a reference to an embarrassing moment from Ron's past. It's textbook, really, and it should have him laughing or at the very least affectionately calling George a git. But he's too busy processing the fact that George's joking around for the first time in months do do anything but gape like an idiot for a moment.
"Nevermind, eh?" George says, squeezing Ron's shoulder. The slight frown on his face tells Ron his reaction was exactly wrong in every way. "Mum's looking for you, she said it's time to get up on the stage."
And that's it. No brotherly reminder not to fall on his face or joke about not bringing shame to the family for once. All summer Ron has been realizing over and over the life-altering permanence of Fred's death, and it knifes through him again now. Stupidly, he feels cheated of the weeks of mocking he should have gotten from the twins after the award letter came.
The lump that's already in his throat only gets bigger as he nears the stage where the other recipients are waiting. Standing just off to the side are Hermione and Krum, talking quietly. Ron's eyes catch on the way Viktor brings one of Hermione's hands up to his mouth for a kiss. In the week since Hermione left the Burrow and Viktor arrived in Hogsmeade, Ron's been no stranger to the sight of the two of them together, but this is the first real public display of affection he's seen from them.
He has to wonder if that's Hermione's doing—she's been careful to keep him and Viktor separate, never without someone (usually her) as a buffer between them… which, come of think of it, was a bit insulting. What exactly did she think he was going to do?
Well. She probably thought Ron would be prat, and he sort of hates that he's given her reason to. In her light purple dress robes, she's as pretty tonight as she was at the Yule Ball, but the sight of her didn't kick him in the teeth somehow. Not like before. Maybe it's because this time he'd had a fair bit of warning to get used to the idea of the her and Viktor together—or maybe it's because what he feels for her is finally starting to fade back into friendship.
He's been doing his best to get back there, really he has. The brief hope he'd indulged in just after the battle, when she'd stayed in England, was long gone. But every so often he still looks at her and thinks you're it for me, unable to stop himself from wishing that the timing had all been a little better—that he wasn't too afraid to admit his feelings when she was jealous of Lavender and that she hadn't already started pulling away once he'd located his courage.
But he also knows if there was one thing he could change about his past, it wouldn't be fixing them. The war and its aftermath have rearranged his priorities in ways he'd never thought possible.
A tiny but efficient Ministry witch called Nicola is doing her best to herd the award recipients into a line that matches their seat assignments on the stage. Ron knows from the rehearsal this afternoon that she wants them in mostly-alphabetical order, so he arranges himself behind McGonagall. Harry, of course, is first up despite his last name. They could hardly make the Boy Who Lived Twice go second-to-last. Just a few years ago that special treatment would have eaten at Ron in a way he'd try—and fail—to hide, but now it somehow doesn't matter at all.
Harry's got Teddy in his arms and Hermione's helping Andromeda Tonks up the steps to the dais. For a moment Ron wonders if he ought to offer his arm to McGonagall, despite all the jokes George will tell at his expense later.
Maybe he should, if it'll get George telling jokes again. And it's the polite thing to do, isn't it?
But before he can say anything or offer his arm, McGonagall eyeballs him suspiciously. "I do not require assistance, Mister Weasley. I'm not that old." The words are quiet but emphatic, and if his cheeks get a little red, well—there's only about a hundred people watching.
He gestures for her to mount the steps before him, and she gives him an approving smile as she passes. "It was a kind thought nonetheless."
He's not even sure how she knew what he was thinking, but it might be the most complimentary thing she's ever said to him.
*
The ceremony doesn't take long at all. Kingsley gives a brief speech that Ron doesn't pay any attention to, then calls them up one-by-one to get their medals presented. He doesn't fail to notice the dip in applause when Andromeda and Teddy collect Lupin's award, nor does he miss the brief, intense frown that crosses Hermione's face. And when it comes his turn to have his name called, he crosses the stage and shakes Kingsley's hand while flashbulbs nearly blind him, and despite the applause he doesn't feel happy at all.
Because finally, finally he understands what Harry's been trying to tell him all these years. This kind of glory isn't something it feels safe to take pride in. It isn't like doing well on a test or carrying a team to victory. It's guilt for being alive when so many others are not, a strange sort of confusion over how you even managed to survive, the eventual conclusion that the thing you were being awarded for wasn't skill, but sheer dumb luck. He's been given a shiny medal and an obscene amount of money for ‘acts of outstanding bravery and distinction' when all he did was half-starve for a few months, break into a bank, and watch his brother die. What's brave about abandoning friends? What's distinguished about being helpless when the woman you love is tortured?
And why are Harry and Hermione the most insistent that he deserves this, when they're the ones who know best of anyone that he doesn't?
*
Dinner is, at least, rather tasty. He'd been dreading something fancy and impossibly small, based on the hors d'ouerves that had been passed around, but he's pleasantly surprised by what is just a slightly more upscale version of a standard Hogwarts dinner. He hadn't thought about it, but the house elves must be cooking. But the conversation around the table is strange, as though everyone is afraid to be too cheerful, yet reluctant not to celebrate. Slowly everyone seems to drift away from the table while Ron stays stubbornly there. Part of him doesn't want to get up and talk to anyone.
Part of him's just hungry.
His mother finds him as he's biting into an absolutely heavenly chocolate popover.
"Ronald, dear, you're wanted in the entrance hall. Picture time!"
He wants to groan. "They took about a hundred on stage."
"Yes, well," his mother says with a patient smile, straightening the lapels of his dress robes, "they want more. Something about a champagne toast. Be a dear and go find Hermione, please. I think she stepped out for some air."
Now he really wants to groan. "Can't Ginny go?" It comes out more petulant than he'd have liked, but his mother doesn't even blink.
"Ginny's fetching Harry, dear. Just find her, will you?"
Find her is maybe the wrong term. He knows exactly where she is. A few minutes ago he'd seen her leading Viktor behind a tapestry. The door back there leads to the smaller chamber off the Great Hall, a place that had been largely untouched by the battle and frequently used as a break area for members of the cleanup team.
He grabs another two popovers off the table before heading off in that direction. His mouth is full when he gets inside the room itself, so instead of calling for them he just follows the slightly agitated sound of Hermione's voice. They must be sitting in the little alcove in the back and hadn't heard the door open.
"…event itself can't choose a tone, whether it's solemn or a celebration," Hermione's saying. Ron stops just around the corner from where he thinks they're sitting. "I don't know what people are looking for when they look to me. I don't know how to act. Nothing seems appropriate, and I'm certain I've already done something that's going to get ripped apart in the press..."
He shouldn't eavesdrop, he knows, but he doesn't move. If he joins them, the conversation might end, and he's far too relieved to hear someone else saying what everyone's been ignoring all night to risk it.
Plus, it sounds like she's looking to Viktor for guidance, and Ron really wants to know what the grouchiest git ever to mount a broomstick has to say about charming the press.
"Ignore them," is apparently his brilliant advice. And then—"Easy to say, hard to do, I know. But the world is filled with so many kinds of people that you will always please one and upset another. So do as you think is right and ignore them all."
"And that's what you do?"
There's a half-moment of silence. "Now, yes. Not always."
"Viktor, I don't know—the press paints such an inaccurate picture of you, this surly, closed-off person. That isn't you." Ron nearly snorts at that. "I don't like the idea of being so wildly misunderstood by everyone."
There's another long pause before Viktor answers. "It can be useful, in a way. To show you who the people who truly care about you are, the ones that take the time to look past the stories and the gossip."
"And it can get me covered in bubotuber pus as well."
"Yes," Viktor concedes. "No matter how good you are at it, being famous is hard. But I have a lot of practice, so if you like, I will win the World Cup next year and become so famous everyone will forget who you are. No need to compliment me, I know it is a brilliant plan."
Hermione giggles, then falls silent. Just when Ron thinks it would be a good time to make his presence known, she sighs. "I love you. This is an awful place to say it for the first time, I know, but…"
He's already walking away when Viktor answers.
But Ron knows what he's said.
*
"Well?" His mother asks expectantly when he finds her again. Ginny's with her, and Harry too.
"Couldn't find her," he says, voice gruff.
His mother tsks. "Harry, darling, could you…?"
"Sure thing, Mrs. Weasley."
Ron waits until his mother's turned away before he catches Harry's eye, jerking his head in the direction of the door. And when Harry and Hermione return a few moments later, they both look slightly embarrassed in a way that makes Ron confident he left at the right time.
Ginny laughs and pulls Hermione to her. "Your lipstick's all gone," she says, dropping her voice—unfortunately not enough. She reaches up to fix Hermione's hair. "Have you been snogging in dark corners?"
Hermione makes a noncommittal noise as she blushes. If she carefully doesn't look at Ron, he doesn't know, because he's carefully not looking at her.
*
On the way back into the Great Hall after the photos, Ron's eyes fall on the newly-installed brass plaque commemorating those who died in the Battle of Hogwarts. All the names on it—strangers, people he knew, people he loved—only serve to underline how ridiculous this whole ceremony has felt. Why is Lupin the only one of them to have been awarded a medal? Why is Ron the only Weasley?
He understands now how empty an achievement is when you can't feel as though you've earned it.
And he knows, deep down, that being with Hermione would feel the same way.
So when he sees a particular someone sitting alone on one of the chairs that lined the dance floor, he heads in that direction. His tantrum about Viktor wasn't the only part of the Yule Ball he regretted, and here was an opportunity to do something about that. He'd be a fool to miss out.
"Fancy a dance?" he asks, holding out his hand.
Padma eyes him suspiciously. "You're about four years too late, Weasley."
"Yeah," he says, making a face. "Sorry about that. I was a rubbish date."
She rolls her eyes. "That's putting it mildly." But she puts her hand in his and lets him lead her out to the dance floor.