Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings, just the plot.
Enjoy!
Hermione reaches across the table, fingers straining for the sugar bowl. "Ron, would you please hand that to me?"
Freckled hands clumsy with eagerness are quick to comply. After he nearly knocks over his glass of pumpkin juice in haste to pass it over, his face turns sheepish, cheeks flaming as brilliantly as his hair. When Hermione takes it from him, their fingertips brush together – just a meaningless acquaintance of skin – and fire shoots through every nerve, webbing through his body like an electric shock. It feels like white-hot lightening. His arm stiffens and the bowl slips from his grasp.
"Ron!" She gasps as sugar and bits of blue ceramic crash into the center of the table. "Why did you do that?"
Harry looks on with a knowing grin, elbows Ron in the side with a raise of his brow, and then returns to eating his meal in mock-innocence. Ron glares.
"Er – It was slippery. Probably had butter on it or somethin'" he shrugs and stares at the pile unconcernedly. "Would you mind?" asks Ron. He gestures to the mess when her face remains blank.
Her brow furrows and her lips purse briefly, then relax. He watches with interest as her features physically play out her initial indignation that he's asking her to clean up after him, then her resignation, because this really isn't something worth arguing about. Wearily she draws her wand, mutters a perfect spell, and before Ron has the chance to stutter an apology the sugar is already gone.
"You missed a bit," he says, without thinking, finger lazily directed at a few chips of ceramic lying near his glass.
She narrows her eyes and recasts the spell, though this time around her voice is decidedly cooler.
"There, Ronald," she says sharply, arms crossed. "I've cleaned it all up, just as I always do,"
"Merlin, woman, was it really that difficult of a task?" Ron asks, exasperated.
"Not particularly, which is why I don't see why you couldn't have done it! You were the one that dropped the bowl in the first place!"
"It was closer to you, Hermione! Isn't it only logical that you clean it up? And here I thought you loved logic,"
"Logic? No, more like laziness. Something you are rather prone to, Ronald,"
"I'm not lazy!"
"Yes. You're indolent."
"Which means?"
She looks smug. "Lazy."
They quarrel for a few more minutes, both having forgotten their meals and surroundings, far too immersed in their senseless debate. Harry looks at Hermione's untouched apple fritter and thinks it's a shame that she will inevitably bin such a delicacy.
Silence falls after a particularly scathing statement and some of the angry tension ebbs away to discomfort.
Hermione looks annoyed and Ron looks awkward. Harry glances between the two with half formed words hanging on his lips, clearly desperate to say something but at the same time disinclined to become involved in their little tiff.
"Are you going to watch me and Harry tonight at the game, Hermione?" Ron asks after a bit, eyes downcast at his plate, fork absently shifting his food around. His cheeks are turning the slightest hue of red and it's obvious this is a peace offering, an opportunity to change the conversation and talk about something else. Because she is staring resolutely at her glass, she misses the genuine eagerness glowing in his eyes. He hopes that she'll say yes, because Ron reallydoes want Hermione there to cheer him on. (Not that he'll ever admit that, though)
She raises a single brow but replies cordially, her tone composed and bare of emotion.
"I'm afraid I have to go to the library later, so-" but he doesn't give the chance to finish.
"Well, of course you do. You practically live there," his expression hardens and the softness in his eyes turns cold, his tone biting. "Might as well move your bed in between the bookshelves and make it official, yeah?"
She glares at him, hurt and annoyed and angry and all other negative feelings she seems to constantly emit in his presence. He fights the urge to cringe at himself. (Why does he do this? Why does he hurt her?)
"This has been all very pleasant, Ron, thank you so much for reminding me why I don't usually don't bother with you and your stupid, thoughtless remarks." Each word is apt like a bullet, sharp and deadly and aimed unwavering at him. Her lips tremble but she resolutely keeps her mouth pressed into a firm line. "Goodbye."
As she walks away from the breakfast table, she pauses and looks over her shoulder. "Oh, and Ron?" She says, her tone giving no indication of what she is feeling.
"Yes?" asks Ron, hope daring to bubble up in his chest. Perhaps she's forgiven his mean remarks and will in fact go to the game?
"It's Harry and I, not Harry and me," then she turns on her heal and storms from the Great Hall.
He is silent. He reaches out to touch her, though he knows he cannot. Shouts when he won't be heard. Begs to deaf ears. Lingers, though he no longer belongs here…
A prefect's badge, waxed to a shine, is pinned firmly to Ron's chest and the added pressure to his lapel feels both alien and absolutely wonderful. It is not often that he feels this confident, but now that he is at last the only one in the spotlight, the only one with congratulations in order, he suddenly feels as if he could scale a mountain. Mrs. Weasley smiles and pulls him to heart. "We are so proud of you, Ron," she whispers, tears of happiness making her eyes shine.
Hermione hugs him too and says, "Great job, Ron, you certainly deserve it," and he feels lightheaded. Even Ginny spares him a grin and a thumbs-up.
Ron feels as though he's walking on clouds. He turns to the staircase and takes the steps two at a time. Harry was asleep when the letter arrived and now he can't wait to tell him. He pauses in front of Harry's door, fist poised to knock, when he hears voices from the other side of the door.
"He got a badge?" Harry.
Chuckling. "We're about as shocked as you, mate. Who woulda' thought little Ronnykins would be named a prefect?" The twins.
"I just don't get it," Harry snorts in disbelief, his tone is mocking. "I mean, it's Ron, for Merlin's sake!"
There is a beat of silence before Fred deadpans, "Maybe Dumbledore lost a bet,"
Laughter.
Ron's fist falls to his side. The once beautiful gold badge feels cheap and ugly.
He rips it off. Hides it.
Pride and confidence will stay buried at the bottom of a drawer, for now.
He sees familiar anger and hurt churn in his own clouded eyes. It's strange; like looking in a mirror and not quite recognizing the person staring back. He watches himself build walls, clench his fists and turn away from the world. He sees bitterness. Feels currents of it himself.
And yet he leans against the wood, inches from his past self and as close as he can get to his best friend and brothers, wishing a door was all that still separated them…
It is fall and the trio is bundled up from hat to boot. Snowflakes fall leisurely from the sky, turning Hogwarts into a sparkling, white landscape.
"Fancy a quick game of Quidditch?" Harry asks Ron, not bothering to include Hermione because he knows she will much rather watch. "I can round up a few Gryffindors, maybe a couple of Ravenclaws, and we'll make teams, yeah?"
Ron nods. A solid year of being on the Quidditch team has given him the confidence to play without hesitation. "Let's go,"
Brooms in hand, teams assembled, he stands sandwiched between Terry and Seamus.
"Ron, can you grab the beaters' bats from the shed?"
"Sure thing," he calls and heads over.
He jimmies the lock on the old shed because he doesn't have the key, though it isn't as if he really needs it. The lock itself is so old that after only two rough blows, it falls off and the shed's door creaks open. Ron steps into the inky darkness and begins his search.
Quaffles…gear…nets…aha bats! Now to just take these back to Har-
He freezes when he hears laughter behind him. "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, sneers. Their collective bodies block the doorway and scatter the stream of light from outside, once again plunging the room into darkness.
Blue eyes narrow. "Get outta' here, ferret." Malfoy just snickers and steps closer, his expensive shoes making a loud, echoing tap-tap sound as he approaches.
Tap. Tap. Smirk. He stops when he is within a few feet of Ron, his two minion standing behind him awaiting instruction. "What kind of broom is that, weasel? A Cleansweep?" his laughter is cruel and sounds all the more malicious as it bounces off the walls in an echo. "Wouldn't surprise me. You know, they really shouldn't let penniless blood traitors like yourself on the field. Taints it don't you think?" His housemates grunt in agreement. Ron sees red.
At the sight of Ron's trembling form, Malfoy grins. "Aw, look at that, boys, it appears I've angered the weasel," he smirks, "What are you going to do about it, Weasley? Call on Granger to tell me off? Or perhaps ask Potter to hex me?"
Ron's fist clench tight, shaking and flexing in fury.
"You and I both know you are nothing without them. You're just another worthless, red-headed Weasley –"
And with that remark, Ron swings. The first punch hits its target flawlessly, thanks to the element of surprise. The others, however, do not.
Pain, fists, blood.
Goyle holds him down while Crabbe and Malfoy beat him to a pulp.
White stars explode behind his tightly shut eyes. Bones bend in ways unnatural, blood dribbles, words are spat and he thinks he hears his jaw crack.
It seems like hours though it is probably mere minutes. They leave him bloody and half conscious on the floor of the shed. "Piss-poor, stupid, and weak?" Malfoy gives him one last kick. There goes a rib. "You really are worthless, Weasley."
Door slams.
Blackness.
Ron lies there until the puddle of blood turns more sticky than wet, before dragging himself back to the castle, where he washes off the stains and mud and collapses into bed. He doesn't speak to anyone for the four days it takes for his jaw to heal.
He would still hate them, if it weren't for the fact that he cannot hate the dead…
When Harry and Ron step off of the train for a new school year, Ron can tell that things are changing. Four girls that he doesn't know flock to Harry and ruffle his hair, grin flirtatiously, and beg him to sit with them at dinner. Harry flushes and says okay.
Ron resolutely looks away, jaw clenched, when some random bloke comes up to clap Harry on the back or when a crowd of first years explode into excited whispers as they walk past.
Harry grins and straightens his shoulders, chin raised and nose tipped into the air.
Hermione catches up with them, but her eyes are fixated on some upper-year bloke with expensive robes and shiny hair. She hardly even notices when Ron asks how her summer was.
"Good, good," she mumbles, distractedly.
Things are changing, and they are changing fast. Ron shoulders his bag and tries not to notice that he is the only one of the three of them that is still wearing the same dingy robes from last year. (And the year before, because they're hand-me-downs from George)
He tries to pretend that they are the same people they've always been, even though Harry is smirking at a group of girls and Hermione is gawking at that Hufflepuff. They are each inches from him and yet he's never felt more alone.
At dinner, Ron finds himself seated with Neville and Seamus, because Harry has migrated to the upper crust of Gryffindor to eat with his admirers, and Hermione is loitering over by the Hufflepuffs, speaking shyly with that bloke.
Ron slumps down and spends the evening shifting his food around his plate, appetite gone.
He wishes he fought harder to hold onto them. Wishes he understood that though things were changing, nothing was breaking, the friendship was still there, he just had to fight for it…
The rain pours in sheets of ice water and Ron relishes the way it bites at his skin, sending tiny jolts of adrenaline all throughout his body. Here, he feels alive. Fingers gripping the handle, he nosedives to the ground, flips, twists, white-hot recklessness shooting through his veins like fire. He juggles with his own safety like it's a game, like it's a joke. He heads straight for the floor and pulls up at the last second, only just managing to avoid impact. He laughs hysterically into the storm, his skin searing under the icy rainfall.
"Mate, what are you doing out here? It's bloody pouring!" Harry has appeared, hovering nearby with his glasses askew and blurry with rainwater.
The thought of talking and explaining are repulsive at the moment, so his only response is to fly higher. "Ron! What the hell?"
The storm clouds are like thick wool and if it weren't for seeker reflexes and eyes keen on detail, Harry wouldn't have seen his best friend flying upwards, straight into the lighting-webbed sky. "Ron!" He shouts.
Now the rain hurts, tiny chips of ice biting and stinging, yet Ron continues his upward spike, faster and faster still.
"Ron, stop!"
He feels himself jerk back, a pair of hands that are not his own gripping the other end of his broom. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Harry has to shout to be heard, as his voice is nearly drowned out in the sounds of booming thunder and deafening rainfall.
"Have you gone mad?!"Harry demands.
Blue eyes scream defiance. "Let go of my broom, Harry." He is calm, voice barely above normal tones.
"We need to get to the grounds, it's too dangerous up here!" Ron shows no intention of moving, so Harry grabs him. "We need to go NOW!"
At that, Ron yells, anger spilling over like champagne. "I don't NEED to do anything, okay? I know you're pretty much royalty around here, but that doesn't mean you get to control me too! I'm so sick of you thinking you're so high and mighty. Don't tell me what to do, Harry!" Harry's eyes ripple with hurt and confusion. Ron jerks away from his grip, and everything falls to pieces.
Screaming. Shouting.
Wind, Rain, Lightning.
Two voices, fading and falling, spiraling downward.
Crash. Broken. Shattered.
Two land, one on a broom,
The other, not.
Regret, like a pounding hammer, persistent, painful, and perpetual. Memories crash down like waves and he drowns inside himself all over again.
They call it a miracle when Harry emerges with only a fractured skull, shattered bones, blood, pain, and bruises.
All of which are absolutely nothing compared to the impact his death would have had…he is the boy who lived, how can he possibly die?
Of course, sometime after Harry has been tended to, the blame game begins, and all fingers point to Ron.
He says it was an accident, that it could've happened to anyone, but suspicious eyes don't believe. He cries and paces the waiting room like everyone else, but doubt is boils in the air like poison.
Students glare at him in the hallways, teachers stare down at his with distaste. When he tries to touch Hermione's shoulder, she flinches away, her hair falling in her face to hide her downcast eyes.
At first, they want him expelled, "An attempted murder on the chosen one! That boy doesn't deserve to attend Hogwarts!"
But Dumbledore vouches for him. With a comforting hand clapped firmly onto his shoulder, he faces the crowds and says simply, "I believe Mr. Weasley."
It cools the fire, but the public only holds its silence for so long.
Whispers as sharp as knifes cut across the hallways, dance between desks, hop from mouth to ear and back again. He wishes he could press his palms to his ears and shut it out, but unfortunately the words sink too deep to ignore and they bounce around his head like a bludger.
Jealous, always was.
How could he do that to him? He was his best friend!
Wouldn't expect much better from that lunatic, anyway.
Can you believe I was actually friends him?
And the worst of it?
Harry loses bits of memory, including that night, so for all he knows, Ron did push him off his broom.
And every time he sees his best friend, propped up by starched pillows, covered in tubes and bandages and dried blood, he feels a fresh wave of guilt. He is suffocated by sorrow at the sight of mistrust and barely suppressed anger always marring Harry's face. There is no one to side with him - even Dumbledore maintains a cool distance now - and he's never felt more alone. The twins glare. Ginny cries. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's eyes carry such deep disappointment and shame that he cannot hold their gaze. And when he really thinks about it - really thinks - he asks himself if it really was an accident, but the answer becomes less and less certain each time.
His life is crumbling, piece by piece, person by person.
Subtle and quiet, yet loud as hell.
The chill of betrayal and abandonment still haven't completely left his system, even now, and he feels himself falling all over again…
When the war comes, he fights alongside them: Hermione to his left and Harry to his right, wand in hand and ready to die for his cause. Just like they all imagined. Except, something is wrong.
If you look closer, you see Harry only stands close because he has no other living allies. Hermione gravitates here simply out of duty: they have an image to keep up after all. And Ron? He stands here because delusions of the past are all he has left now. If he doesn't think too hard, he can pretend that the golden trio is still intact, that the people standing to his left and right still love him. But when he opens his eyes and really looks around, he sees only strangers with familiar names. In turn, they look at him as if they don't even know who he is anymore.
Years of friendship destroyed, demolished, done.
But still they fight: together as a trio, yet miles apart-three puzzle pieces now too broken to fit.
. . .
It all ends as it should: Harry kills Voldemort and the wizarding world is saved!
But:
Though the Dark Lord has fallen and most death eaters either die or sink back into the shadows, the carnage that the war ripped up remains. Smoking battlefields littered with bodies, blood of purity and mud alike splatter the castle walls, and Hogwarts is but a landfill of rubble and death. Missing loved ones remain unknown, presumed dead. Hope is here, yes, but it is a flickering candle flame amidst a windstorm.
The Chosen One dies, his last act a gift. People mourn, but this was expected: his purpose was to fulfill the prophecy, not to live. Hermione moves away, war and memories too loud for her to concentrate. Even books cannot drown out such things.
And Ron? He lives in the past, watching and re-watching as everything fell apart.
Harry out there, Hermione away, and Ron stuck in a pensieve.
Ron lifts his face from the cool surface of the pensieve, heart hammering, lips trembling, and tugs a hand through his unruly hair. This is sick, he knows it is. He is abundantly aware of the torture he is putting himself through right now – the torture that he puts himself through every day – and yet no matter how painful it feels, he must continue.
He can change nothing, but he has to watch his mistakes, his downfalls. He has to see himself fumble through the wrong actions, fly into a rage when a careful words would suffice, and break the hearts of the most important people he knows; he has to see himself fail.
It hurts – Merlin, does it hurt – but in a way it feels like a punishment, and a much deserved one at that.
He watches himself struggle through youth, parading through life with fiery hair and an equally flamboyant attitude, rowdy, angry, and he wishes he could rewind: go back and change. But no, he cannot.
So instead he forces himself to watch these memories again and again, learning, inspecting, longing.
And even though it half-kills him, he pushes himself back in, because the present is no longer his own. Only the past rests at his finger tips and he will not let any more of it slip away.
Hermione reaches across the table, fingers straining for the sugar bowl. "Ron, would you please hand that to me?"
A/N: Thanks for reading, darlings! Feedback would be wonderful so feel free to leave a comment :)