A/N: This is Beater 2 of the Chudley Cannons checking in for ROund 9 of Season 5 of the QLFC.
Prompts: 2. (word) defeated and 10. (emotion) disappointment
Write about a known Quidditch player, and Bat: write about a bully.
Word Count before A/N: 1,562 words
Ron waited until the Potions classroom emptied. Then he slipped through the door.
He thought about waiting a few minutes more until the hallways cleared, but the idea of accidentally running into Snape was the added push he needed to leave.
It was, unfortunately, a Tuesday, which meant Ron was alone. Hermione would be walking with Harry somewhere up ahead, and Ron shuffled idly by behind his classmates, hoping that the pair wouldn't spot him making the trek to the dormitory by himself.
He gulped down the lump welling in his throat. Alone, alone. Always alone.
Hermione, of course, already knew he was by himself back there. But in her mind, so was Harry. So she made a schedule—though she'd never tell either boy about it—that would make it fair to both of them. She would split her time, stepping into that role of best friend for the time being.
But Ron knew her all too well, and it didn't take long before he caught on. Mondays and Wednesdays were his days. Hermione would would walk with him to and from classes. Tuesdays and Thursdays went to Harry.
And, Ron frowned, sometimes Fridays went to the Boy-Who-Lived if he had a bad week. And wasn't Harry always having a bad week? It was as if he couldn't go one full day without some danger lurking behind the corner. The worst part, Ron thought, was that he did it to himself. Harry looked for trouble.
A bloody daredevil who went sneaking behind Ron's back and slipped his name into the Goblet of Fire after he said he didn't want that kind of glory.
Ron sighed, a heavy weight pushing on his chest. He wasn't even mad anymore—just disappointed. Why didn't Harry tell him in the first place? It filled Ron with a sadness he couldn't quite explain.
And he couldn't very well tell Hermione about it either. She'd just say that both boys needed to grow up. Ron doubted that would solve anything.
It was the feeling of being lied to that really had Ron upset. But it was also the feeling of being left behind. Hermione wouldn't understand, and Harry was too busy giving Ron the never-ending cold shoulder to notice how little the redhead felt next to his famous friend. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to clear the air, but silence plagued Ron's every encounter with Harry since the latter's name came floating out of the Goblet. Maybe it was—
"Oi!" A figure slammed into Ron's shoulder, sending the Gryffindor flailing backwards, dropping his books as he struggled to regain balance. "Watch where you're going, Weasel."
Malfoy sneered at Ron, his thin, pale lips pressing into a malicious grin.
If Harry had been there—but he wasn't, Ron reminded himself. Harry wasn't talking to him anymore. Ron gritted his teeth and stooped to grab his books.
He knew it was coming before it even happened; Goyle slammed them out of Ron's hands again, the books hitting the floor hard, their pages fluttering and their spines bending. It made Ron's blood boil, a raging monster yearning to get out.
But Harry wasn't there.
Strength came in numbers, Ron knew. An even greater force came from friendship. Ron had neither, so he swallowed his anger as best he could and stood his ground. He would not stoop down to pick up the books again. He bit his tongue between his teeth, refusing to let out a sound either, because one too many times his words had gotten him into troubles where wands couldn't compete with punches and kicks from the hounds of Slytherin.
"Aren't you going to pick those up?" Malfoy asked Ron, his voice sickly sweet like he was trying too hard to sound sincere. Ron could still see the dark sparkle in Malfoy's grey eyes. "You couldn't possibly leave your books lying around, Weasel. You couldn't afford to replace them."
Malfoy and his cronies laughed, but Ron said nothing. Quickly, the Gryffindor pulled out his mental checklist.
Money - check.
Malfoy's berating and bullying sessions usually contained a perfect checklist of insults to get through. It was like his own set of favorite talking points.
The comments, admittedly, had gotten much worse ever since Ron and Harry stopped talking, as if Malfoy found his own strength once Ron separated from his best friend. The encounters were also becoming more and more frequent, a fact that Ron was reminded of every time he encountered Madam Pomfrey.
Of course, Hermione noticed. But he'd never tell her about any of it—even when she asked why he had been to the Hospital Wing three times in one week—because she already felt torn between the two boys. If Hermione knew Ron was getting hit every day Hermione chose to walk with Harry instead, she'd never forgive herself. And Ron knew it wasn't her fault. Not in the slightest.
So he promised to never tell.
Ron returned to the checklist. Soon it would be clothes - check, then his dad's job - check, being a bloodtraitor - check, and finally some sly, underhanded jab at Hermione's blood status.
Usually, that was where Ron would lose his composure and bark out his own slew of insults. For some reason, her honor was more important than Ron's. And the arrogance with which the slimy Slytherin said her name sometimes—Ron would not stand for it. No matter the consequence.
"Pick them up, Weasel," Malfoy demanded, crossing his arms across his scrawny chest.
How could someone so lean and spindly be so sure of themselves, Ron thought. How could Malfoy, a wimp at best, make Ron feel so powerless?
He thought about picking up the books if only to make a run for it, but no. He wouldn't. Not because Malfoy told him to.
"Pick them up," Malfoy repeated, his eyes darkening.
"You don't scare me," Ron said. It earned him a punch to the gut from Crabbe.
The redhead doubled over in pain, his eyes shut tight. He shouldn't have talked. If growing up with five older brothers had taught him anything, it was to keep his mouth shut when cornered. Speaking gave the other person validation to keep going.
Plus, if he let the verbal assault happen with little resistance, then Ron would be able to walk away unscathed. Promising himself to shut up, Ron took a deep breath and stood again, his one hand clutched to the heat emanating from the pain in his stomach.
"Goyle," Malfoy's eyes locked onto Ron's. "Why don't you help the Weasel? Get his books."
Goyle did just that, his grubby hands grabbing at the open pages. Ron grimaced. Of all the times for Malfoy to be right, this was the worst; Ron couldn't afford to replace his books.
Plus, it was the last thing he wanted to trouble his mum with. His letters home, while few and far between in the past, had become almost non-existent. She knew something was up between him and Harry. Ron couldn't possibly add bullying to the list of concerns.
So he watched as Malfoy leafed through the books still in Goyle's hands.
"What is that smell?" The blonde boy's face crinkled in disgust, making him look like a wax figure. "Did you wrangle these books from the sewers, Weasel?"
Ron sighed. Hygiene - check. At least they were moving on from money.
"Or maybe that's the scent of the Mudblood rubbing off on you," the blonde boy mumbled. He kept looking at the pages, not once at Ron.
Something clicked inside Ron's brain. Malfoy didn't say those words with the intent to harm. No, he said them like he was asking for the weather forecast. Like they were meaningless words, everyday twiddle that barely earned a listener's attention.
Which meant, Ron clenched his fists, that Malfoy said that word often enough for it to be a daily practice. A part of his normal speech.
Ron saw red. But before he could react, Malfoy spoke.
"But it's probably not Granger, is it?" Malfoy looked at Ron, shutting the book. "She hasn't been around much, has she? Maybe she does have some brains underneath that mess she calls hair."
"What do you mean?" the words were out before he could stop them. And it was all Malfoy needed.
"Well, just when I thought you couldn't be more pathetic, even the know-it-all Mudblood abandoned you for better things. I mean, it's no surprise, really. I hate the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, but even I can see you are nothing next to him."
The air must have rushed out of the corridor, because Ron felt like his lungs couldn't take in enough oxygen. Crabbe didn't have to punch him again for Ron to feel pain. Malfoy smiled.
"Come on, Crabbe. Goyle. Let's leave Weasel to his own pity party."
Ron tried to catch his breath as they walked off, his own heart sinking as he realized Goyle still held his books. But it didn't matter; Malfoy's words kept echoing around in Ron's head, tugging at him like string, he himself a puppet. What was he saying? Could it really be that Hermione fancied Harry? Did it really matter if she did?
Ron felt sick. He sighed, slung his back over his shoulder, and walked on. He thought he was alone before, but now… he just felt defeated.