Disclaimer: I don't own anything. No really, I don't. I would've been making a fortune out of this if I did.
A/N: This was written rather impulsively. The author can relate to the character in question. This was set in Deathly Hallows.
Poor Ron. I think I know now how he feels whenever he looks at Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and the Man-Who-Survived, the very thing he could never be: famous, rich, a talented Quidditch player, considerably intelligent, and brave.
Italics – character thoughts.
This is my first published fic. Constructive criticism is well-appreciated. Thanks. :)
To you, Ronald
Three is a crowd. What a cliché. What a stupid, damn, bloody cliché.
The forest soil was soft against his feet. The bushes ruffled as he made his way through, not wanting to look back, not wanting to see whether he was being followed. He caught his breath in a small clearing, right beside an old oak. Clutching his heart, panting, he leaned against the tree and out of frustration, slammed his left fist into its bark. The impact was unlike any other he had mustered before. If the tree was Draco Malfoy's face, his nose would've been crushed to disproportion.
He then looked at his bloodied fist, clenching and unclenching it in waves of fury. Yes, he was jealous. He was always shunted to one side, with his brothers and now, his best friend, to compete with. He hasn't got a scar to prove he defeated Lord Voldemort. No. He was stuck with red hair and freckles all over, which made him look like he got Spattergoit.
What is he next to Harry Potter? The question repeated over and over again, echoing in his head, as if it was taunting and mocking him.
He wouldn't have minded, being the loyal friend that he is, although it hurts most of the time. But he was able to put up with that sickening thought, that he looked more the part of being second fiddle, a sidekick.
If only it weren't for the fact that he was part of a trio. The Golden Trio, as others called them. The ones who were always at the center of everything: the trio consisting of himself, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger.
The problem was that he was always concerned with a certain Ms. Granger's opinion. It was what mattered most to him. He could tolerate all those fears, those insecurities, but if Hermione was to think of Ron as the same way as everyone else, he would snap.
And snap it did. And here he was, running away from two of the people he cared for the most. He wanted to get away. He wanted to cry, to yell out in grief, in pain. The Shield Charm Hermione cast between them was enough to confirm the very thing he feared would happen.
The rain was falling heavily now. He looked up to the mourning skies, and quietly asked, in a hushed voice, "Why?"
Pretending not to hear footsteps running towards him, and a sobbing Hermione calling out his name, he Disapparated.