A/n: This is just something I had to get out. I'll get back to Tales next, I promise. This story's coming in three chapters, or more like a prologue, story, and epilogue. Call it what you will, but expect the next update tomorrow and the last one the day after that.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did Ron would be the main character and Fred wouldn't have died. :P
Summary: Ron Weasley hated to run...or so he thought. DH compatible.
A Word of Caution: Plenty of bad language in this, hence the rating. Can I help it if Ron has a dirty mouth? XP
Indomitable
By dieselwriter
My name is Ron Weasley. I am 18 years old. I hate running.
It's been a year since Voldemort's downfall, and George and I have finally gotten Wheezes back up and running. Fred'd be proud, I bet, if he could see George right now. Christmas was hard, but since then George's nearly been back to his old self. I've also been noticing Angelina's been showing up to the shop more often than a grown woman should show up at a joke shop.
Harry's also been around a lot, begging me to run. He says he likes to pace himself with my long legs, says it's good for his endurance training for the Auror program.
I think it's a load of bollocks. He just wants me to run so I can get in shape and sign up for the Auror program with him.
I don't honestly mind the first two miles; Harry and I hold conversations about everything from Quidditch to politics when we make our first two laps at the park. But then he gets silent as he concentrates more on his breathing and pacing, and that leads me to my own thoughts, which turn to how fucking sore my legs are and how fucking hard it is to breath.
Ah, I should mention now that I swear more often when I'm tired or when I'm hungry. Running leads to both. Ergo, running leads to me making sure I'm never around my mother before, during, or after a run.
I think Harry's getting pissed with me slowing down after the third mile. He says he could run for six miles without me slowing him down. I tell him he's the bastard who forced me out here in the first place.
He's none too pleased with that remark.
My name is Ron Weasley. I'm still 18. I truly loathe running.
Harry and I have our own apartment now, and I've enrolled in the Auror program. Bless the smarmy git, he doesn't drag me out on runs like he used to. Unfortunately he doesn't need to.
Senior Auror Williams, the Auror in charge of new recruits, took one look at me and his normally hard face split into a ridiculous grin. He'd heard of me through Kingsley through Harry or some shit like that. He saw how tall and lean I was and assumed automatically I was a runner. I seriously considered doing a runner when he told me I'd have to run 25 miles a week for training.
So now I'm forced to run with Harry. Five miles, five days a week. We still talk for the first two miles, and I've started to really bitch after the fourth mile. Harry is rightfully pissed and has given up running with me altogether.
Without a running partner, I'm left with my own thoughts for five miles instead of three, and I'm utter crap.
Senior Auror Williams must have noticed during a practice session. Probably when my entire right leg cramped up and I caused my whole squad to get captured by the enemy during our training exercise.
He's assigned me to the plan I'd already committed myself to: five miles a day, five days a week. Except now I have to come into work two and a half hours early to run with his minions, the Junior Aurors.
Dammit, I hate running with those sycophantic gits.
My name is Ron Weasley. I'm 20 years old. I do running. I don't love it, I don't hate it: I just do it.
I've moved out of the apartment and Ginny's moved in with Harry. I'm not sure how to feel about it yet, but on the rare occasions Harry asks me to run with him I have to fight back my initial instinct to slam the door in his face.
I can easily do 35 miles a week now. I've been through three pairs of trainers since I began the Auror program, and with feet my size it's getting continually harder to find a decent pair of running shoes that last longer than 8 months.
I've got a new place close to the Burrow now. I might've been homesick when I made the decision to move here. I'll say it now, Harry and I really aren't much of cooks, and that's putting it nicely; we've both had our turns at nearly catching the place on fire when making something as simple as tea and toast.
Hermione's been teetering on moving in. We've been going out ever since the war ended, but I can tell she's reluctant to take such a big step forward in our relationship.
To be perfectly honest, I'm nervous too.
But back on point: Harry's quite involved with Ginny now, and that's why he doesn't show up as often to run with me. We may be compatible as best friends, but we really are crap at running in synch.
I've finally started utilizing my long legs to my advantage, and Harry can't keep up. But then Harry's been running a year longer than I have, so he can still run longer than I can. He's already done a half-marathon, and he's told me he'll sign us both up next year.
I'm not excited at the prospect, but I don't despise the idea as I would have a few years ago.
I'll just do it.
My name is Ron Weasley. I'm 20 years old still, but I'm only a few weeks off of my 21st birthday. And I think I've started to like running.
Against her mother's wishes, Hermione's moved in…sort of. She'll stay a few days and then her mother will send a letter and she'll be off back to her house to sort it all out. Then when I think that I'd might as well pack her stuff and send it back to her, she'll show up at the front door at two in the morning.
The best thing about my new flat, apart from the close proximity to the Burrow, is my new neighbors: the Abbotts.
Hannah's been working at the Leaky Cauldron for the past year or two, scraping up enough money to take care of her younger brother Nick. The death of their mother sent their father into a horrible depression. He sits at the pub in town most days, drinking his sorrows away.
As such, when Hannah's working, I often volunteer to take little Nick off her hands. She'll often return the favor by inviting me over for dinner, which I accept eagerly. Apparently my poor cooking skills are already well known by the neighbors, probably because of the evacuation I caused when my attempt at dinner set off the fire alarm the second week I moved in.
Thank God for Hermione; she's no mum, but she's a hell of a lot better at making edible food than I am.
But I digress. The first few times Nick came over to my place, I hadn't the slightest clue as to what to do with him. I'm 20 and he's nine, see; both of us the youngest boy in our families. We had a lot in common but nothing to talk about.
One day, though, right before I was setting out to run, Hannah had come over with her little brother in hand, begging me to watch him. I couldn't refuse; the desperation in her eyes told me it was an emergency.
She left as soon as I'd agreed, and Nick was left staring at me in confusion.
He wanted to know if he'd interrupted me from going somewhere. I was about to explain when he'd started spieling about how he could take care of himself and he and his sister weren't a charity case that I should feel obliged to take on. They didn't need my help. He didn't need my help.
I saw so much of myself in his fierce pride that I'd immediately asked him to join me on my run.
He stared at me, wondering if there was an ulterior motive, before asking me if he could bring his bicycle.
I could only stare at him in wonder.
What the hell's a bicycle?
I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 21 years old. I like to run.
I've found another reason why I love it where I'm living: I'm in the country. I can run where I please, no one bothering me.
But I do have someone to bother me now, and I don't mind in the slightest.
Nick joins me in nearly every run now. He's easily the best running partner I've ever had, because he rides his bike beside me rather than run. He doesn't tire out as easily as Harry, so we can talk as long as I want so I have less time to delve into my thoughts.
The bicycle is a weird Muggle invention, by the way. Two wheels and a steel frame, plus two pedals to make it go and a handlebar to help steer. Nick let me try it once…he still laughs about that.
Our conversations have been way better as well. We talk about whatever he wants to talk about, really; he's quite a chatterbox now that we're friends.
He's an avid fan of the Wimbourne Wasps, and he nearly had a seizure of enthusiasm when I told him I'd met Ludo Bagman my fourth year.
Quidditch conversations usually lead to talking about Hogwarts. Being ten, Nick's been a mixture of butterflies and excitement the past few months, thinking about the magical school he'll soon attend.
I still swear like a sailor after the seventh mile. Nick finds it extremely amusing. Hermione and Hannah both find it extremely offensive, especially when Nick spews out an expletive when he gets spooked or injured unexpectedly.
Hannah doesn't invite me over to dinner much anymore. I notice, though, that Neville seems around even more than their father. Poor bastard.
Mr. Abbott, I mean, not Neville. Neville's been working at the Apothecary in Diagon Alley since the end of the war, learning all he can about the magical plants used in potion making. He's been frequenting the Leaky Cauldron after work and Hannah often comes back late, her cheeks flushed and a smile on her lips.
I've run my first half-marathon. I liked it.
I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 22 years old. I don't like running anymore.
Nick's gone to Hogwarts. I've lost my running partner.
I'm a selfish arse, but I don't care.
I hate running.
I'm Ron Weasley. I'm still 22. I like running again.
Nick's returned for Christmas holidays. It's fucking freezing, but we hit the snow nearly every day anyway. More for Hannah's sake than Nick's, we don't run more than two miles. I bought him snow tires for his mountain bike for an early Christmas present. He and Hannah pitched in to get me a new pair of trainers.
I need to find a new running partner. I like running too much to hate it again.
"We run, not because we think it is doing us good, but because we enjoy it and cannot help ourselves..."