AN: Finally opted to post some HP stuff that's been on my hard drive for awhile. This one may be a series of perspectives on Harry, or I may leave it like this. I have two more already written, but…we'll see.
Warnings: implied abuse, angst
Disclaimer: Alas, I thought up Harry Potter, but then JKR stole it from my brain. Honestly, it's not mine and I'm making nothing off this.
Pieces of the Puzzle: Ron Weasley
Ron may not be very observant, and have the 'emotional range of a teaspoon,' according to Hermione, but he isn't blind.
He's Harry Potter's best friend.
And while there is a lot of status that comes with that post, and a lot of shadow that Ron isn't always thrilled about standing in, there's also a lot of baggage.
Sure, there's the yearly near-death-experiences, and the drama with the press, and fights with Malfoy. But that's not the hardest part. Ron is a Gryffindor, after all, and fights for one's life are expected.
It's the emotional stuff that Ron has the hardest time with. Because he knows he's not very good at it. And he knows Harry needs help, and it's his job to help. Hermione does it better—usually—but as the best friend, he has to do something too. It's his job to notice.
He is aware of the difference in their clothing. All Harry's uniforms are standard issue, neat as any boy's ever can be, cared for, and fit properly. The rest…the sweatshirts, the trousers, the socks, Merlin, the undergarments…all are far too big, full of holes, not suitable for a dog to sleep on. Ron wears second-hand robes, but he can tell the difference.
He remembers the look of utter joy on Harry's face when he pulled that first Weasley sweater over his head. Something made just for him, in his size. Ron knows Harry always opens that present first, every year.
He also recalls the momentary surprise and confusion on Harry's face when he realized he had presents. When Ron figured out what that implied, he felt sick.
Harry doesn't talk about his home life much. It's usually half-hearted, offhand comments when the conversation requires it. Ron doesn't ask, but he thinks that if he did, Harry would pretend to misunderstand, or not to have heard. Or he would lie, and Ron doesn't want to give Harry a reason to lie to him.
He knows, though. He remembers the bars on the window and the catflap on the door. He sees how tired and thin his friend looks every summer when he comes back from Privet Drive. He listens in agony as Harry whimpers the word "Uncle" in his sleep, and when he apologizes for waking them when he screams.
He remembers the panic the first time Molly hugged Harry, and the look of stunned gratitude afterwards.
Ron is not always a good friend. He gets jealous, and angry, and flies off the handle at the slightest provocation. But Harry has never, ever given up on him, and deep down, Ron knows Harry never will. In his wiser moments, when he is levelheaded enough to reflect, he realizes that Harry will do anything to keep their friendship. He will put in any effort, make any compromise.
Because Ron is not only Harry's best friend. He is his first friend.
It is a sad, heart-wrenching thing to acknowledge. Ten years without a friend. Ten years without a kind word. Ten years without a Christmas present. Ten years without a birthday party. Ten years without new clothes. Ten years without enough food. Ten years without someone to hold him after a nightmare. Ten years without a bedtime story. Ten years without praise.
Ten years without love.
It makes Ron angry. Angry beyond shouting and seeing red. Angry enough to go cool and cold. Angry enough to think about chess and creative uses for simple hexes. He tries not to think about it too much, but he can't help it when something reminds him. It occurs to him that if he ever breaks down and does what he wants to the Dursleys, he had better invite Fred and George, and Hermione, and Remus and Ginny and many others along. But Ron wants the first shot, because it's his right as the best friend.
Until then, he'll just have to do his best to be there, to be a friend. It's all he can do.