Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, the song, or a life. I do own the plot, so kindly don't steal it!

The Boxer – a song fic

I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told.

Ron Weasley. Who is he? Oh yeah – the kid next to Harry Potter. Hermione Granger – you know, the smart girl-'s boyfriend. The sidekick. The poor kid. The scruffy tall guy. But who's Ron Weasley? Who is he actually? Nobody knows.

I have squandered my resistance,
For a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises.

I'm promised fame. I'm promised a name. They all tell me I have a personality – that I'm my own man. Well then why doesn't anybody know who I am? Mumbles are all I get – mumbles of thanks, mumbles of promises, mumbles of love. But they're all mumbles. Mumbles are instead of real words – they are things spoken softly, unheard almost, in hopes that they'll be forgotten. In hopes that they won't be required to be kept.

All lies and jest.

Well, of course. That's the real world, isn't it? Lies. Lies of the 'bad guys' loosing. Lies of inexistent money. Lies of love. Lies of everything. People say its hope, not a lie. Well then, why is it never true? I'll tell you. Because hope sparks reality. Lying is just a broken promise. Lying is just false words. Lying is what the world holds itself upon.


Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.

I want to hear speak of Ron Weasley. I do. I hear from my family, my friends. I don't hear the reporters calling me Ron Westly or Sean Weasley. I don't see the magazines mentioning brilliant Hermione Granger and brave Harry Potter, but disregarding wimpy, poor, stupid Ron Weasley.

That's a lie, actually. I hear and see it all quite clearly, but I ignore it. It got to me only when I heard Harry and Ginny, softly murmuring about what to do about the article which wrote that Dean did some heroism that I did. I dreaded their sympathy, so chose to leave their open arms and stay in my own bubble, far away from their hurt eyes.

When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy,

I left home after school. I went to look for myself. That's what they said. That's what they used as an excuse. But I knew where I was. I was looking for a place where they didn't know me as the guy next to . I was looking for a place to make myself something. It wasn't as easy as it seemed.


In the company of strangers,
In the quiet of a railway station, runnin' scared.

I traveled by myself, sometimes. I sometimes traveled with large groups, or with only a few other people, too. They didn't ask about me, nor I of them. We were in the same boat – we kept to ourselves, afraid of hearing something that was too close to our own story for our liking.

I was scared though. I'll admit it. I had no idea where to start, or how to know when to end, or what it would look like. Would I create a completely different life for myself and never see my friends? Would I end up back home, wiser, older, more of a person? I was scared of what could, was, or wouldn't happen.


Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters,
Where the ragged people go.
Lookin' for the places, only they would know.

I lived on the streets. Sometimes I could find a home to sleep in for my story. I was a ragged man. No longer a boy. It seemed that I had changed. I wanted to tell them my story, but I found I didn't know it. I wasn't a boy who followed his best friend to the lair of a dark lord and back. I wasn't the boy who made up morbid predictions to keep my teacher happy. I was a lonely man, who, as far as my hosts and I knew, had no-one.


Lie-la-lie ...

Asking only workman's wages I come lookin' for a job,
But I get no offers,

When I felt that I might be somewhere I could call home, I tried to work. But nobody hired me. Perhaps my shady past, or my unsure future. I asked barely anything; just enough for some food, but nobody gave me anything. It was as if I was a rat on their floor, and they wanted me out. So out I went, and I would continue searching. It was like my life – when I was unwanted, I wouldn't put up a fight. I would leave, as Harry told me Fleur had once said, 'like zat' – it just took an angry bang on the table for me to get out.


Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue.
I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome,
I took some comfort there.
Oooh la, la, la ...

I did try to stay true to Hermione. I loved her. I still do. But when I met someone, anyone, willing to comfort me (in any way – I'm just a simple man. I'm not picky), I didn't turn her down. But as we would make love, I would pretend it was my beautiful Hermione lying in the bed, instead of some slut whose name I didn't even know. And I took comfort, knowing that Hermione was there. Because although she was not lying next to me, she was in my mind, haunting me day and night.


And the years are rollin' by me.
They are rockin' evenly.

Snowy nights turned into warm springs, which turned into years. What more I counted with, I do not know. But when I would catch a glance of myself anywhere, I would be amazed at the man staring back with wide eyes. How many things I had seen since Hogwarts. How many time I had slept with woman pretending it was one who never knew I thought of her as more than 'one of the guys'. How much I have seen. But besides those moments, it all smoothly ran away. Time was nothing more than a lullaby to a drowsy toddler, something playing quietly and not disturbing anybody, far back in my head.

I am older than I once was, and younger than I'll be.
That's not unusual.

I'm not a teenager. I'm not the boy with a freckle that happened to look like dirt on my nose, anxiously awaiting the train that would take me to go to learn magic in a giant castle I had heard rumors of for my whole life. I wasn't the boy fighting people who, if gotten the chance, would kill me. But I wasn't the man I hoped to become – the man of wisdom. Knowledge. Strength. These had not yet come. I was somewhere in the middle, just standing back and watching life.


It isn't strange,
After changes upon changes, we are more or less the same.
After changes, we are more or less the same.

I see people like me every day. I can see the identical look on their faces, their worn yet hopeful eyes, and I wonder if they see that we are the same. Do they know my story? Do they have their own stories? I realize that, in truth, if we go through something together, no matter how different before, there will always be a carbon copy of the experience in our minds. Something to relate to, whether in the privacy of our minds or together.


Lie-la-lie ...

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone,
Going home, where the New York City winters aren't bleedin' me.
Leadin' me, to goin' home.

I want to go home. I do every night when I am lying in my bed, and the wave of nostalgia for my clashing orange room crashes over me. When I see a girl with bushy brown hair, or a woman reading a book. When I smell homemade apple pies.

The traveling has worn me down. I've been in fist fights; I've slept with more women than I can think of. I miss home. The warm hot chocolate on Christmas, my family. Playing with my cousins, gazing at Hermione without her knowing, longing for her to look up, maybe smile a bit. If I were to go home though, I would see what I've missed. And it would hurt too much.

In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade,
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down,

I am a fighter. Physically, mentally. Not only from school. I have fought for many things, about many things. I have fought without a cause. And anybody who bothers to look my way could tell. I limp a little, and though I have acquired some muscle, I have far too many scars to even be able to count. I am a marked man. Both in my mind, and on my body. It's as if I'm attracted to disaster. First, I make friends with Harry Potter, the boy who can't go a year without having some run in with a dark lord or a few of his minions, then I decide to leave a world of comfort and just start wondering with empty pockets.

Or cut him 'til he cried out in his anger and his shame,

It's not only a fear of what I've missed. I feel horrible. I feel ashamed. I've had years upon years to berate myself – I left them without a note. Without an explanation. I disappeared, and it was selfish – every bit of what I did. A pain I had never known is always with me, coming from my heart. The pain that I left such a wonderful life. Yet I can't take it back. It's like knocking down a bowl of soup. You can fix the bowl, but it won't be as stable, and the soup won't come back, ever. I could fix the family bond, spark a relationship with Hermione, but there would be nothing in common. We would have nothing together – it's been to long.

"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains.

I've wanted to die so many times. I buy the poison. I hold the knife. But I can't. It seems that not only do I leave promises and turn them to faint whispers at home to my loved ones, but to myself. I stay, for whatever reason. And I think of what I can do tomorrow. I'm still looking, but I know some day, I'll turn around. I don't know when, but someday, I'll be done searching, and turn back. And maybe I can find my old life. And maybe I'll start a new one. But for now, I'll keep on fighting, keep on living.


Lie-la-lie ...

Fin

A/N: Hi! I hope you liked this. I'm trying to write song-fics for all of my favorite songs. The lyrics are easily found on the internet. I'm not sure if these are the true lyrics, and a few of them weren't on my version of the song, but I liked them, and anyhow, all of the lyric sites put them down differently, so I guess I'll just never know! I would appreciate reviews greatly!