Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no money from this. All rights, individuals, and intellectual property belong to J K Rowling and the people who've paid her for them. Like Arthur Weasley, I'm simply taking things apart, to see if they can be rebuilt slightly differently.
The Day Ronald Weasley Grew Up
Brief excerpt from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, UK Hardback edition (2000), page 294...
Harry seized one of the POTTER REALLY STINKS badges off the table and chucked it as hard as he could, across the room. It hit Ron on the forehead and bounced off.
'There you go,' Harry said. '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 strode across the room towards the stairs; he half expected Ron to stop him, he would even have liked Ron to throw a punch at him, but Ron just stood there in his too small pyjamas, and Harry, having stormed upstairs, lay awake in bed for a long time afterwards, and didn't hear him come up to bed.
Ron stood in the middle of the Common Room, eyes slowly travelling from the badge that had struck his forehead to the bottom of the staircase that Harry had careered up. Before he could get over his shock, a familiar voice broke him out of his reverie.
"Brother mine, I believe you owe me five sickles!" Ron's heart sank. There, either side of the closed portrait hole, stood Ron's twin brothers; their faces uncharacteristically grim, despite George's jovial voice.
"What are you two doing out at this time of night?" Whatever it was, it couldn't be something that Professor McGonagall would approve of. Both twins waved off his concerns as unimportant, and carried on as if he had never spoken at all.
"Do I?" Questioned Fred, "Harry didn't punch the idiot."
"Yes, you do" responded George, blithely ignoring Ron's splutters of indignation. "I was very specific. I bet that Harry would throw a punch, or something else. You said he'd go for his wand."
Fred grumbled, and dug into his trouser pockets, counting out five silver coins from the handful he retrieved, "Damn his muggle upbringing, I thought we'd got him out of that."
George accepted the coins with great ceremony, "Never mind my triumph" he said, nodding at Ron, still standing in the middle of the room.
"No." Said Fred
"More important things"
"Bigger fish to fry"
"Fish? There's more blubber in his head than you'd get in your average whale"
"Whale colony, you mean."
"Colony? I think they're schools"
"Nah. That's fish. Pods?"
"Focus Fred!" George finished the to and fro, pointing at Ron once again. Normally, Ron would have laughed at such antics from his elder brothers. Normally, the levity they'd just enjoyed wouldn't have ended with identical frowns, focussing upon his own person. Normally, Ron wouldn't have just been verbally chewed up and spat back out again by his best friend. If they were still best friends, that is. These factors did not seem coincidental.
"How much of that did you hear?" he mumbled.
"Enough" was the response, in stereo. Ron collapsed into the nearest armchair, burying his head in his hands. Fred continued alone.
"Right then, how are we going to play this?" Ron looked up to see that he had conjured a frying pan, and was brandishing it like his beloved beater's bat.
"You're itching to knock some sense into him, aren't you?" George asked, shaking his head.
"Positively desperate. I have been for at least a week. You know that." Ron, already wan, paled further, but George plucked the pan out of Fred's hands.
"No." He said firmly, cutting across Fred's objections and Ron's gratitude. "Not yet. He's got one final chance. I'm going to talk to him." Ron was reminded rather strongly of the few times he had gotten on his father's bad side. Mrs Weasley's temper was hot, and liable to burst over into yelling at any moment. Anybody who'd spent more than a day at The Burrow had seen Hurricane Molly in action. Mr Weasley's temper was rather different. It took something very serious to make him angry, especially with his own family. However, when he was, all seven of his children would have begged to be yelled at by their mother instead of facing a simple chat with Arthur. Looking into George's eyes, Ron felt like the seven year old who had sneaked off into the garden with Charlie's wand, half a lifetime ago. Very small, and very foolish.
Fred looked appalled at George's words too, although Ron couldn't tell whether it was due to a similar reminiscence, or being denied his violent exercise, "Can I belt him afterwards?"
"Of course not. What's the point in my talking some sense into his thick skull if you're just going to wallop it all out again afterwards?"
"Good point," conceded Fred, "I'll guard the stairs, shall I? Can't have wonder boy coming back down. He's got enough to deal with next week." George's response was to start levitating armchairs, one to the base of the stairs, and another in front of the fire.
Ron looked at George's face as Fred sauntered toward the stairs to the boys' dormitories, and finally found his voice,
"If it's any consolation Fred, I'm starting to think that I would prefer your method." Fred stopped as he drew level with Ron, squeezing his shoulder with a sad smirk,
"I know. That's why I'm leaving you with George." With that, he vaulted over the back of the armchair his twin had manoeuvred into place.
Ron's own chair then rose, turned and moved until it was facing George in front of the hearth.
"Silent magic?" the youngest boy asked.
George grinned. "Of course: it's positively standard for any half decent sixth year. Moreover, it's incredibly useful for younger wizards looking to... shall we say... attempt interesting spells without getting blamed for any mishaps? To be honest, we had it pretty much down pat by the time we were your age."
At this point, George shook off his memories of what were clearly pranks pulled off with this skill, and his beaming face frowned once again.
"That's not the point. We may be brilliant, but I don't know if we're good enough to pull your head out of your arse."
Ron groaned, "It's out already. I swear. I just don't know how to fix things"
George snapped back "Hippogriff shite. Your still wedged so far up there that your hair's tickling your tonsils. You've not learned a bloody thing. Give it a year or two, and you'll be jealous again. Something will set off the green eyed monster. Money, dress robes, quidditch, a girl, doesn't matter. It'll happen."
"Well," came a voice from the chair by the stairs, "at least the fact that that Veela Mademoiselle turns our Ronniekins into a jabbering fool means we don't have to worry about him being more interested in wands than cauldrons..."
"What!" Ron spluttered in indignation.
"Shut up Fred, I was on a roll there." Complained George. "My point is that you need to grow up. Fast. It's already long overdue. And you have to stop this jealousy rubbish. Morgana's tits, you know enough to not be jealous. You aren't like these bloody stupid Daily Prophet readers. You know he hasn't got it all! He's never had it all. You know what his life is like outside this place. You were there when we sprung him from those idiotic relatives. You were the one who badgered us so much we flew the car across most of southern England to do it. You saw the bars on the windows, the locks on the door, even on Hedwig's cage! Sod it all, you already knew before that summer. Even somebody as thick-headed as you had only needed a couple of months to realise that he got absolutely no letters from his so called family. After all, Mum didn't just wake up on December the first and decide to knit an extra Weasley jumper to give to the kid, just because she'd spoken to him at King's Cross, did she?"
"What?" Ron asked.
"She who must be obeyed," came the voice from the other side of the high backed armchair by the stairs. "It came in a howler. While we hooligans were raising Hell, persuading Peeves to throw dungbombs at Mrs Norris, you were making sure that Harry got at least one present for Christmas, compassionate soul that you are."
"Fred!" Yelled an exasperated George, "how in the name of Merlin's hairy scrotum am I supposed to perform a delicate cranio-anal extraction with you heckling like Snape after a Slytherin quidditch loss?"
"Fine" snapped the voice of his twin, "I'll sit on the landing outside the seventh years' dorm." With that, the armchair rose twelve inches from the floor, and slowly floated up the stairs, the only evidence that anybody was in it at all was the two fingered salute over the back of the chair as it travelled around the corner and out of sight.
"Berk" George muttered at the retreating furniture. "Where was I?"
"Christmas." responded Ron gloomily.
"Oh, yes. You know how crappy his life is outside of Hogwarts. And you have done since the start. Mum and Dad are skint, but all seven of us are better turned out than him. Even you, the lanky git in Percy's old hand-me-downs, which he probably got from Bill, still look smarter than Harry. He looks like the tailor expected two of him to fit inside his clothes at the same time. That time being a long time ago, looking at the state of some of his togs, never mind his duct tape trainers. I've seen newer, better fitting stuff on muggle scarecrows. He's not a pampered glory hound. For much of his life, he's been treated worse than the average House Elf!" By the end of this rant, George was red in the face, and on the verge of shouting.
"I know." Was Ron's only reply before George pressed on again.
"Never mind that though. That's just a symptom of the problem. Harry's still famous. Why?"
"You know why. Because he survived. You-know-who was defeated."
"Keep going Ron. Why does that make him so special?"
"Because nobody survives that curse. Moody said so. It's unblockable, unstoppable, unbeatable."
"Nobody survives? Nobody? Except Harry, everybody dies?" George asked.
"Everybody." Ron agreed.
"Including?"
"Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon." George gestured for Ron to continue, and the youngest Weasley male suddenly felt very ill, and very stupid, "Harry's Mum and Dad." Ron whispered.
"Precisely. I know Dad's as batty as a biting teapot, and Mum's enough to drive all of us up the wall, but think about it: swapping them for fame, a scar, and people whispering behind your back? No chance. Even worse, every time he looks in the mirror, that bloody scar reminds him. The very reason he's famous is because his parents were murdered. Would you take that, even for a second?" Ron shook his head, and George continued.
"It's something we forget. We take it for granted. Oh, yeah, Harry's an orphan, everybody knows that. How often do we stop to think what that really means for the kid, though? Every day of his bloody life, the poor sod must think about it." George shook his head, but pressed on. "We take the fact that we're not orphans for granted too. He doesn't. He's jealous of even the rows we get to have with each other. How much do you think he'd love to be able to get a howler from his own Mum? Sure beats hearing her through a dementor." Both boys gave an involuntary shiver at the though of those literally soul destroying monstrosities. George recovered first.
"That mirror." Ron looked at him nonplussed. "You know, the one that gave him the stone in your first year." Ron nodded. "What did it show him?"
"Him, with his family. His Mum and Dad, and Grandparents and all sorts of Great Uncles and Aunties and such: he managed to find a few of them in the album Hagrid gave him."
"Precisely. That's the only way he'll ever see them. The Dark Tosser didn't even have the decency to wait until he had a little brother or sister, so at least there'd be two of them against the Dulleys."
"Dursleys" Ron corrected, almost automatically.
"Irrelevant. All he's got is himself, with his Mum's eyes and his Dad's hair. Oh, and James' cloak. That, and cash. Lots of it, admittedly, but what sort of consolation is that?"
Ron's thoughts veered towards the Marauders' Map, but one other keepsake hardly invalidated George's argument. Plus, it was only due to chance, plus George and his twin, that Harry had the map anyway. "None whatsoever." He said, feeling thoroughly ashamed.
"Right, we'll move on then." Stated George in a matter of fact way.
"There's more?" Ron exclaimed. As George adopted a face like thunder, again borrowed from the eldest male Weasley, Ron quailed, and nodded his assent.
"What was his old school like? Before Hogwarts?" Ron didn't understand what George was after, but answered anyway,
"Awful. He doesn't say much, but it was really bad. Anybody who made friends with him got beaten up by that fat cousin of his."
George raised his eyebrow, "so what you're saying is that, excepting his half giant sized eleventh birthday surprise, you were his very first friend?" Ron's face, lighting up at the oft reminisced story of Harry's letter, fell at the implications of George's statement, as well as his use of the past tense.
"Think about it," George continued. "Dean, Hermione, even Seamus, all of them understand muggle stuff more than you. They know more about his upbringing than you ever will. You still don't understand football!"
"Like you do? It's hardly going to be complicated with just one ball." Ron countered.
"Oh Ron," George gave a hollow laugh, "you don't know the half of it. I got some pointers last year from Dean, because I wanted to impress this Ravenclaw in the year above. It took a while, but I get understand it now. Except that crazy onside thingy, but Dean reckons half the Muggles don't know how that one works..."
"Did it work?" Ron asked, "with the Ravenclaw?" George smirked,
"Well, hiding from Filch in a broom closet with her is a bit more interesting than it is with Fred. That's all I'm saying. Now, stop changing the subject."
Ron shook his head, "you've lost it, mate. Harry's never mentioned football."
"No, he probably hasn't. He may not even like it, but it is everywhere in their world. It's their quidditch, and you couldn't even tell me how many people are on a team without checking Dean's poster first."
"So I know nothing. Great. Where's this going?" George looked frustrated, but carried on,
"Harry doesn't care. That's where this is going. He sticks with you no matter what, through thick and thin. Because you're his friend. His best mate. And he's loyal enough to make your average Hufflepuff seriously embarrassed. Or you were his best mate. Your jealousy might just manage to do what could never be achieved, no matter the fact that you've no idea what a television is, or who won the... FA Cup, or whatever it is."
Ron contemplated the prospect of a life without Harry Potter as his friend. Something that had become all too easy to imagine after the last few weeks. The notion was not an inviting one. After both boys had sat in silence for over a minute, Ron's mind finally came to rest upon the real reason he had been avoiding Harry Potter. After another minute, he couldn't avoid voicing the concern any longer. He looked his brother in the eye, looking smaller than George could ever remember.
"What if it's too late?" He whispered, almost afraid to voice his fears.
"It isn't. You've seen how he acts when he doesn't care. He ignores people. Just like he did with the Heir of Slytherin bollocks. The fact that he can be arsed to tear a strip off you proves he cares. You, no, WE, are very lucky though. If Hermione was as thick as you, then he might have decided that we could all go to Hell. Fortunately, she's got more brains than even Fred and I put together, with plenty to spare if we add you into the equation as well. She's kept him sane enough to give a toss about his friends."
"He doesn't hate me?" Ron almost sounded as though he was pleading with George.
"No. He is thoroughly pissed off though. Not just you, the whole school has helped out on that one." George looked sombre.
"But I'm his best mate. I should have been on his side!" George nodded in response.
"Yeah, you should have been. So should we. He saved Gin's life, and fought a ruddy great snake to do it too. We've played by his side for three years. We've got no excuse. At least I understand why you went nuts."
"Eh?" Ron was thoroughly bemused by this turn in the conversation.
"Come on. It's hardly been easy for you to make your mark on this place. You've been shuffling along in the shadow of two Head Boys; the best seeker England's produced in fifty years, if we ignore the one in your dorm; and the two of us, not only have we each got a handsome Doppelgänger, but there's a whole drawer in Filch's office recording our... extra curricular activities. You're just another Weasley." Ron glowered, but George waved him off. "Not to us obviously, but somebody like Sprout has seen more of us than she has greenhouses over the past few years. At least Ginny's got the whole I'm a girl thing going on. Then, just to top it off, you go and team up with the Boy Who Lived: saviour of the wizarding world; saviour of our sister; vanquisher of Voldemort; Basilisk slaying; firebolt riding; all-round good egg and now Tri Wizard Champion too! What a guy to choose for your double act. He's not exactly typical sidekick material, is he?"
Ron shook his head, "But he's none of those things. At least, he doesn't want to be, except for the flying."
"Go on..." George nodded in encouragement.
"He's just Harry." George gave a genuine, if tired smile, patting Ron on the knee.
"Little brother, I do believe that the knut has dropped."
Ron suddenly looked more animated than he had in days, as he waved his arms and started to leave his seat. "Right, I've got to do something. Got to fix things. I'll..." He tailed off, half out of his chair, looking cross-eyed at George's wand, which was pointed directly at the end of his nose.
"Not tonight . He needs his sleep. You know what he's facing on Tuesday, don't you?"
"I've heard the whispers, but come on. Dragons, really?" Ron asked, incredulously.
"Well, if it isn't, then I want to know why Charlie is sneaking around the grounds, especially as he hasn't seen fit to speak to any of us." Ron looked ready to vomit, but George ignored him.
"You do need to get on with it, though. Tomorrow, before he starts working on the task with Hermione, Merlin, before breakfast if your belly will let you, because you need to be first. Katie has wanted to for about a fortnight now, but she's too nervous to do it alone. She's terrified he'll tell her to piss off. She's been trying to get us to do it as a team, but Angelina's too proud to admit she was wrong, and Alicia will follow her, so it's been Fred and I having blondie talk our ears off. She's going to find the courage soon though. Before the task, I reckon, with or without Alicia and Angie..." Ron started, but George carried on,
"You have to be first, understand? If Katie, Neville, or anybody else beat you to it, it'll be very difficult to get back into his good books..."
"Neville?"
"Yeah. He keeps lurking near Harry, then running off just before talking to him. He's working up to it too. So you have to beat them. And it has to be a proper apology too. Nothing half arsed. Apologise for all of the bullshit you've sent his way. The jealousy, the mistrust, the fact that you should have had his back. Everything. Even if he doesn't want to hear it, even if he says it's not important, you have to say it all. It's the only way to drill it into your head that you were so far out of line you couldn't see the damn thing. As soon as you've finished grovelling, and Fred and I will help Katie make a queue." Ron still looked worried.
"You honestly think he'll forgive me?"
"I have to. If he won't forgive you, I've got no chance. He might even forget it too, if you're lucky. I don't really know what happened at the Shrieking Shack last year, and I don't particularly care to, but whatever did happen made an impact on Harry."
"The Shack? What do you mean?"
"Well, we had a last team bonding session before Olly Wood graduated, and we may have given Harry a snifter or two of the old Firewhiskey. We were talking about all his various injuries, and how brave he was, when he said that even with a broken leg, you cared far more about keeping Hermione and him safe than you did about yourself. He clammed up at that point, said he'd talked too much already, so that's all we got."
"Huh," Ron was shocked, "I'd never really thought about it like that before. I certainly didn't at the time. I just did what needed to be done. There was nothing to think about. It wasn't important."
"It was important to him. In fact, it was really touching just hearing about it, until he belched and burnt Fred's eyebrows off." George chuckled at the memory.
"That's how that happened? I did wonder..." As Ron sought to visualise the scene, his brother took over again.
"He also, yet again, brought up the fact that you let McGonagall's giant chess set knock you for six to make sure Hermione and he could win the game back when you were firsties."
"It only knocked me out. It wasn't too bad."
"But you didn't know that, did you? Anyway, Harry reckons it almost took your head off! He really does value those things, because it's the sort of thing that he'd be willing to do for you." Ron, who had been sitting up straighter at first, suddenly sunk back into his chair with a groan.
"Harry would do it for anybody though." He sighed.
"Maybe. That hero complex is a bit crazy. However, there are an awful lot of people that he'd think twice before saving. You're not one of them. Also, he knows you."
"So?" Ron's confusion was palpable.
"He knows there are very few people you would literally lay down your life for without even thinking first. Probably only two who aren't redheads, which shows just how much you care about them, as well as proving that the hat got you right." George finished with a smirk, as Ron shuddered at the thought of being in another house.
"Merlin, I miss him. I've been sick as a crup with no tails since Halloween, even if it is self inflicted."
George afforded his little brother a smile. "Doesn't matter. It ends tomorrow morning. You are going to drag your lazy arse out of bed before he leaves the dorm, straighten things out with him – properly, mind you – and then ask him what his plan is, so you can see just how clever Hermione is when you're not distracting her with mindless bickering. If they need your limited intellect to put the finishing touches to it, then you'll be ready and waiting. By the time Katie cries all over him, probably some point on Monday, you'll be at his side, where you belong. The next mealtime, we'll do our best to make him forget about great big ugly fire breathing monsters by doing the most ridiculous public apology in history. Maybe charm Malfoy's robes pink too. Might be best if we can do it at breakfast on Tuesday actually..." George started to drift off, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he imagined the possibilities.
"What have you got planned?" Ron asked, while grinning madly at the very thought of his twin brother pulling out all the stops.
"Oh, we'll play it by ear, lad. Whatever you might think, a lot of our finest stuff is done when we're flying by the seat of our robes, generally being chased by our wonderful Head of House and that psychotic Caretaker. Anyway, after the task, when Harry does what he always does, and produces the long lost snake-charming flute of Slytherin; or Hufflepuff's mythical shovel, to defeat the dragon, everybody else in the tower will feel awful. You'll be sitting pretty, and they'll be tripping over your stupid big feet trying to get close enough to kiss Harry's arse..." George tailed away into silence, a quizzical look on his face as he tried to work out just how that particular analogy would work in practice.
"What about Angelina?" Ron asked, waggling his eyebrows.
"What about her?"
"Don't you want to make sure she gets an apology in?"
"What? You idiot! She's Fred's bird. Why should I care? I've got my eye on somebody in yellow and black, and that lovely lady will have to learn the hard way too. This is about sorting you out."
"I think you've managed it." Ron said, with a tired, but genuine smile. "Thanks. I've said it to myself enough times over the past few days, but I needed to hear it from somebody else." George stood, pulling his brother up and into a hug.
"I know. But this is a one time only deal." Pushing Ron back to arms length, he added "if this ever happens again, all bets are off. I'll let Fred loose with that frying pan of his, and tattoo something creative on your right arse-cheek before you wake up."
Ron rolled his eyes. "What's with that frying pan, anyway? Hermione should never have introduced you pillocks to cartoons." George wagged his finger threateningly at Ron.
"If you want, I can mention anvils or pianos next time you need a kick up the backside..."
"George. If it happens again, I'll let you. Although I'm not sure I could trust you to spell creative, whether it was on my backside or not." George grinned in a way Ron thought was a combination of pride and humour.
"Oh, he's getting better at this stuff. We might stop you turning into another Percy yet," wiping a mock tear from his eye, he then smirked, "of course, we could always ask somebody to check my spelling. Hermione's good with that stuff..." He returned his brother's waggling eyebrows with interest.
"Are you mental?" Ron yelled, covering his eyes, spluttering in indignation "she's like a sister!"
"If you say so, little brother. Anyway, sod off to bed will you? You've got an early start if you're going to beat Harry in the morning, and I don't want a howler from Mum if you blame me after yawning in front of a teacher on Monday. Oh, send the ugly one back down before you go to your esteemed repose, will you?"
Ron gave a mock salute, then placed his hand on George's shoulder.
"Thanks again. Really."
"It was nothing. Although you're going to have to stop growing. I can't keep giving you advice if you're going to end up as lanky as Bill, can I?"
Ron's eyes twinkled as he turned for the stairs. "I'll do what I can. G'night, shortarse", before promptly ducking under the cushion George banished in his direction, and running for the safety of his dorm.
George smiled, sinking into his chair, as a sharp exclamation, followed by furious mutters, floated down from the landing above, where it appeared Ron had collided with Fred's armchair. Laughing, George spoke to the empty room,
"I really hope that frying pan doesn't become necessary, Ron. You really do have the heart of a lion, and you're pretty loyal, unless you let your issues cloud your judgement. Truth be told, you could do with a pinch more snake, but the main problem is you won't use the scant brains Rowena handed you..."
"Talking to yourself, Georgie boy?" Fred's voice broke through his reverie, as the armchair slowly rounded the bottom corner of the stairs, "first sign of madness, that is."
"Sod off" retorted George, as his twin floated towards his position by the fire, "no madman could come up with nosebleed nougat. That's genius, that is."
"Genius? Yes. Course it was. Probably because it was my idea!" Came the answer.
"Nah. You're wrong there Fred. You were fever fudge. Speaking of which, have you had any luck with that side effect? I can't work it out for the life of me. If we can't fix it, we could always rename it farting fudge. It might even sell more..."
~ FIN ~
A/N: That's probably all for this one. Just a few thoughts on Ron's psyche, and how he was likely feeling during the lead up to the First Task. I suppose there's a chance I might come back to this at some stage, either to pick a few scenes in later books that could change, or just to look at how the next week might pan out...
Why George, rather than Fred? Mainly, because he's the one who first offers his help at King's Cross. I've always had him pegged as slightly more thoughtful than Fred, although there's probably very little in it, if anything at all.