Playing The Fool

"I don't think you should be sulking all the time."

"I'm not sulking. I'm sitting quietly with a frown on my face. There's a difference."

"Are you sure?"

Ron Weasley shot a very cross look across the table; Harry Potter recoiled very slightly, shrugging in what he hoped was a peaceful gesture that wouldn't get some shards of lettuce thrown at him.

"It's been six months," Harry said gently, avoiding the other boy's eyes and concentrating on the burger in front of him.

"I know how long it's been," Ron retorted, raking a hand through his messy hair.

"There's no need to bite MY head off. If you wanna yell at someone, yell at her."

"I'd love to," Ron replied, his voice shaking with anger. "But I have no idea where she is."

Harry blinked. "You what?"

"I don't know where the bloody hell she is!" Ron repeated, his voice no longer shaking; he sounded terribly angry, but he looked more hurt than pissed off.

"I'm sorry," Harry replied calmly, setting his burger down and leaning his elbows against the cold wood of the table before him. His green eyes were sympathetic behind his glasses, and Ron couldn't help but look up at him and feel the anger evaporating from him.

"It's not your fault." Ron sighed dejectedly and threw his napkin into his empty plate. "What the hell did I do wrong?"

Harry's eyes widened. "What did you do wrong? She left you without a word and you're blaming yourself?"

"Who else am I supposed to blame, mate. It's obviously my fault."

"I don't think so." Harry shook his head, feeling a pounding headache coming on that had nothing to do with his scar.

One of Ron's eyebrows quirked up in suspicion. "Have you talked to her?"

Instead of pretending he hadn't and changing the subject, Harry decided to go with the truthful route which would, admittedly, cause Ron more hurt than good, but it seemed the only thing to do given the situation.

"Yeah. This morning." He glanced around the Leaky Cauldron just to make sure there weren't any reporters around who might be trying to overhear, then he looked back at a shattered looking Ron. It was then that Harry realized how pale his friend was, and how the paleness brought out his freckles that much better; his hair was disheveled, but not in the 'I've just had it carefully, skillfully disheveled at the salon' Draco Malfoy way. It was more 'I haven't combed it for days and maybe I haven't washed it, either.'

Harry felt a warmth towards Ron that he hadn't felt since the last time Ron had claimed his loyalty; with that, he felt a strong hatred towards Hermione for causing his best friend the trouble in the first place.

"Well, what did she say?" Harry could tell Ron was trying to sound normal and nonchalant, but he failed miserably; his eager expression gave him away.

"She's sorry she hurt you," Harry said, swallowing the desire to curse her out instead of relaying her message of apology.

Ron snorted derisively. "Yeah, well."

"She hopes you don't hate her."

Ron looked up from where he'd been shredding his napkin in his lap. "Hate her?" He laughed hollowly. "There was a time when I was positive I'd never be able to hate her, Harry."

Harry knew what was coming, but felt compelled to ask just the same. "And now?"

"Now I'm wondering why I thought that in the first place." He sighed and threw his napkin shreds down. "I don't hate her. I hate what she did. I mean, maybe it'd be better if I'd had some closure, you know? But she just LEFT! I don't even know why, and it's killing me."

It was then that Harry realized there was nothing he could say, or do, to help; he could offer his understanding, his condolences, and his support, but ultimately it would all fall on deaf ears. The hurt Ron was feeling was not something Harry had ever really felt himself, and he had no idea what to do.

"Was there someone else?" Ron's voice was strange, as if he was being strangled by an invisible force; his eyes were oddly bright and glittery, something Harry knew had to be tears threatening to flow down his reddening cheeks.

"I don't know," Harry answered quietly. "I don't think so."

"Why'd she go, then? I thought we were---" his sentence trailed off, and he shook his head. "She didn't love me."

Harry swallowed, his stomach doing angry flip flops as he tried to figure out how to answer that one; it was something he'd have to take delicately, because if he said the wrong thing, Ron was apt to throw his chair across the room and stalk out.

"No…" Ron looked up expectantly, and Harry felt terrifically ill. "She loved you, Ron. Just…maybe not like you loved her."

Much to Harry's dismay, (and relief) Ron did not get up and kill the messenger (namely, Harry). Instead, he nodded solemnly and shoved trembling fingers through his hair, probably for lack of a better exercise to lessen his nervous energy.

"I suppose---" his voice was choked and he downed some of his drink before attempting to continue. "I suppose if I'd paid her more attention, I would have realized that." He paused, wiping his eyes hurriedly. "And then I wouldn't have been the fool."

"You're not a fool, Ron. You didn't know…you couldn't have known."

Ron shook his head, laughing hoarsely. "I loved her, Harry. She had to know that…" he looked up, tears brimming once again in his eyes. "She knew that, right?"

Harry nodded silently, avoiding his eyes again; this blatant display of emotion was making him very nervous, but only because he wasn't used to it.

After minutes upon minutes of silence, Ron's voice cut through the cheerful chatter around them. "Thanks."

Harry nodded briskly. "You're welcome."

Ron put on a jovial façade, wiping at his eyes once more and exhaling deeply. "So, you reckon we should go have a look at the new brooms?"

Without waiting for an answer, Ron pushed back from the table and strode towards the back exit, where the door would open to the entrance to Diagon Alley; Harry hastened to follow him, wondering the entire time if he would ever have to bear the turmoil of unrequited love. And if he did have to go through it, he wondered if he'd be able to live to tell the tale.