This is a Ron-centred part of chapter 13 I have decided not to write in "Harry Potter and the Lost Prophecy". The chapter would have been to long, but I liked too much this piece to put it away. It fits nicely with the rest of the story.
It's not mandatory for you to have read my story to read this, although it can give you the general tone of it. It takes place in the summer after year 5. It's a humor/romance OS, portrait style, that takes a dip into drama with a big brother appearance at the end.
A copious amount of "bloody hells" are coming your way.
The Problem with Ron Weasley
The gnome went flying into the air and the teenage boy that had made him airborne watched it disappear with resentment. He had worked his way to the middle of the row, trying to free the garden from the gnomes that were feasting on the ripe vegetables.
He was also trying to shut his brains up.
He could not do it. The voice in his head was annoying and it frighteningly sounded like Fred and George's.
You're a prat, mate. A patented prat.
It seemed to him that every single time he was around her, he found himself doing or saying something that strained a little more the (very) flexible boundary that separated quirky from dimwitted. Every resolution he took turned into a disastrous situation.
The problem with Ron Weasley was that he could not help it.
He had noticed with growing resentment that a lot of it happened when Harry was there. In fact, an alarming number of people – whom happened to be his relatives – happened to be present when he embarrassed himself. They were now looking at him with a permanent smirk etched in their faces and he was frustrated beyond belief.
Ron swore between his teeth as he pulled out what he thought was a weed.
He always had witnesses to his clumsiness. He was ready to swear over "Quidditch Monthly" that Fred and George had eyes that provoked it to happen; sometimes he would feel the gaze of his brothers on his back and oops, that plate would go flying from his hands. His mother would hopelessly look at him like he was scourging again the cupboard. Ginny winking at him at dinnertime would trigger him to drop food or embarrassingly miss his mouth while he was bringing up a forkful.
And the awful teasing would start again. Ron had tons of very good examples to describe how everything was going downhill this summer.
There was the time when Bill had whispered a joke in his ear – a bloody out of bound joke – about how he acted around Hermione. They were all three on the platform the other side of the pound. Hermione was kneeling to retrieve some kind of disgusting leaf on the surface of the water for Neville Longbottom. She was wearing Ginny's white skirt and it showed off her tanned calves.
Ron had found himself hypnotized. He could not take away his eyes from the stark contrast between the skirt and the skin of her calves.
White skirt
Tanned calf
White
Tanned
Emerging from his reverie, Ron had stared at Bill with murderous intentions when he had understood the not-so-subtle allusion.
Ron's anger had merged with embarrassment when he saw the I-Know –What-You're-Going-Through-Mate -I-Went-Through-That-Phase-Myself-and-Look-at-me-Now look in his big brother's face. For a reason that he could not figure out – maybe an ill-adjusted plank - Ron had tripped on his own feet, inadvertently pushing Hermione head first into the pound.
In the lavish garden of Mrs Weasley, Ron stiffly straightened up under the wave of the wince-inducing memory. He scratched his cheek with brooding despair as he remembered what he had done.
When he had heard her shrieks from the shock of entering unwillingly the water, a weird chivalrous impulse had overpowered his brains and had commanded him to dive in to go retrieve her. He had forgotten that there was something like three feet of water that side of the pound. It was shallow and there was also copious amount of seaweed. Ron had finally risen up in the water, completely humiliated. He had seaweed dangling from his hair and he had spitted water and sand. Hermione was already getting helped by Bill to climb back on the platform. Ron had seen her sodden hair flat on her head, her clothes soaked up. The white skirt was stained with sand and seaweed. It was clinging to her thighs.
Bloody hell
He had done it again.
Bill had seemed to be on the verge of exploding into roaring laughter as he had conjured a towel with a lazy flick of his wand. Ron had heard Bill ask with badly concealed mirth, "Good Merlin, Hermione! Are you all right?" Ron had slowly walked back to the platform with water up to his upper thighs, feeling his bloody face becoming bloody red. He had hoisted himself up the platform and water had formed puddles to his feet. He had tried to shake the water out of his hair.Hermione was wringing the lower hem of her skirt and she had given him The Look. He had predicted what was coming his way. He was right.
Professor Trelawney would have been so proud.
«HONESTLY, RON!»
Even if the sun was blistering in the garden, Ron shuddered as he remembered the other Incident. Another gnome went flying into the air.
Two weeks following their dive in the pond, Hermione was acting weird during the Quidditch game that went on for Harry's birthday. Ron had felt all day the tension rising between them. She had wanted to compete with him; he was certainly not going to back out from that, wasn't he? When she arrived in from of him with the Quaffle, he had smirked with mischief.
C'mon
Throw that Quaffle, Hermione.
And don't fall off your broom.
He he he
Something caught his eyes, he was not sure what it was: he thought that he was distracted by the wind that swept Hermione's hair. The Quaffle passed behind him. She had a triumphant look on her face.
Bloody hell
Looking down on the ground, Ron had seen Harry's mouth agape and that darn smirk on Ginny. When Hermione had presented herself again in front of him, he snorted.
No, not this time.
But something else happened, he could not remember.Okay, he could remember.
Ron threw another gnome with a powerful swing, this time the red on his face not being a result of the sun.
Their eyes had locked. He had felt faint. Must have been the bloody heat. The Quaffle had passed him again.
He had felt frustration tingling every bone he had in his body. What was she doing, anyway? Was she thinking she could play Quidditch against him and beat him – no, trash him? Ron had refused that idea. She was good at school, he was a good Quidditch player: that is how it worked. Harry was out of the competition. He was a great Quidditch player and a great wizard. Ron felt that Harry was not in their league.
On top of that, her mother had scolded him in front of everybody and then he had hit the Bludger that brutally knocked her off her broom. He was terrified when he saw the blood on her face.
I killed her
The problem with Ron Weasley was that he could not help it and it was making him crazy. He was hitting himself each time he hurt her.
In the garden, Ron shovelled a hole for no apparent reason and he bit his tongue when he remembered the pity in Harry's face, compassionate Harry with a big brother face, right after Hermione was taken in, badly shaken but okay.
I have five brothers, git.
Don't need another one laughing at me
I need you to be on my side here
Ron had seen something lurking in Harry's eyes, something like, "I know something that you don't seem to understand."
He was used to Harry's annoyed looks. His best friend had seen so much of his tumultuous rows with Hermione. When they all started hanging out together, Harry looked a little surprise by their bickering but then he became frustrated with then. He was sometimes downright angry with Hermione and him, Ron knew it. Harry went through a "I-don't-care-about-it" period and then a "why-can't-you speak-to-her-without-shouting" period; Ron winced when he remembered the "I'm-not-speaking-to-you-if-you're-not-speaking-to-her" era. Harry had a new attitude now. He had a smug look on his bloody face whenever Ron would speak about how Hermione was irritating him. Harry had said something about him telling her that he cared for her.
Ron wanted to shout at him about how that was precisely the problem: everybody seemed to know about it and people were smirking at him because of that. Anyway, care was a wicked understatement to describe what he was going through this summer.
Harry Potter, champion of understatements
Ron clumsily destroyed a tomato seedling.
He reflected that Hermione acted differently when they were people around. When he would swear or drop something or be sarcastic in presence of other people that her, she would look at him with that very intense look she had mastered and tested on him for years now. He would silently count two seconds and then he would have gambled his Cleansweep each time: she opened her mouth to sternly say, «Honestly, Ron».
He never mouthed it, though. He was clumsy but not out of his mind. He enjoyed life.
Ron had struggled with himself for a year before admitting that he enjoyed the attention, Hermione's attention. He thought he had enough attention brought to him by his buoyant family, by the red hair that made him stand out, plus those long arms and legs that did not show any halt in growing. This made him secretly fear that he was going to turn into a bloody giant squid or something.
When Hermione and Ron had been alone this summer and walked through the woods beside the Burrow, they chatted and theorized about what would happen with the Order of the Phoenix. He sometimes went willingly overboard to hear her usual, «Honestly, Ron.»
Ron's sunburned face turned crimson as he threw a shrieking gnome with an ample swing.
He liked the way she was saying those two words, when nobody was around. Hermione did not mouth them with the same intensity: she would sigh at the same time and hide a smile behind her hand. Her eyes were falsely severe but they gave away a spark. She was not mocking him – well, not all of the time -, she was not disappointed with him: he was making her smile. It made something tap dance in his stomach.
And yesterday, the anvil knocked him out; when she emerged of that terrifying sleep the hex had inducted her in, her first word was Viktor.
He had to get out of that room, too much aware that he had been silently asking for her recovery while she layed still, her face pale and pained. He had been showing everybody how she was important to him. He had been promising himself loads of stuff.
I'll be nice with her
I'll take care of her
I'll tell her I care about her
I'll never let anybody hurt her again
When she said Viktor, he had stormed back to his room and started kicking the bed, hitting the walls, not feeling the pain in his clenched fist, in his foot, wanting to get it out from him.
It
Those bloody fears of loosing her friendship, of loosing her to somebody else, of loosing her.
It could happen someday.
Bill had shown up in his bedroom and had said with a very tired face, «Mate, stop hitting yourself. You're destroying the house while doing it. »
Ron had turned furious eyes to him and shouted, «Shut up, Bill! Get out! Leave me alone! I'll bloody hex you!» The eldest child of the Weasleys had entered the room and closed the door with a smirk, «Yeah, right. Try me.»
Bill had lost his ironic demeanour when their eyes met; he had crossed his arms and had talked again, this time with irritation, « I can't believe you're mad at her.»
As an answer, Ron had hit the wall, this time wincing a bit when the pain in his fist throbbed.
You're bloody right, I'm not mad at her.
Bill had quietly said, «You're mad at you, aren't you?» Ron had retorted back with a growl, «What kind of stupid theory is that? Sod off, Bill. Don't give me the bloody three B's. I'm not in the mood for your routine.»
In Mrs. Weasley's garden, Ron threw another gnome and he lowered his head with a bit of shame when he recalled what happened next.
Bill had looked at him with appalled eyes that somehow calmed Ron and he had whispered, « So why are you mad, mate? Hermione is going to be okay. » Ron could not answer that. It would open a floodgate of words and hurt that he could not deal with. Ron had tried to find something to say to his annoying brother but the only thing that got out of his throat was a sob. He wanted to turn around but Bill did not give him the time to do so; he took a few steps toward him and he griped his shoulder.
Ron shouted, «DON'T YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!», but it was too late; Bill had hugged him and Ron pushed himself away after a few awkward seconds.
Bill had laughed, «Merlin, Ron. Next time, I'll steal a kiss.» The idiocy of it made Ron wince and they stared at each other with a conniving smirk, a little uneasiness in their faces.
As Ron pulled out weeds, the image of Bill's face filled his mind and he heard again what he had frankly said to him, "You know what, Ron? The problem with you is you don't believe in yourself. You don't believe Hermione could like you as much as you like her. Think about that, mate."
In the garden, Ron wiped his sweating face with his sleeve and he saw Harry bolting out of the Burrow, walking towards him, with a serious face he knew well.
He's coming to patch things up
"The problem with me," he decided, "is that I care to much about what other people think."
The problem with is that I care about what she thinks about me.
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