A stranger passing the Weasley Burrow could guess that its occupants were sleeping peacefully by the house's contented swaying. The night was quiet and black and heavy, perfect for sleeping, but only five of the six residents were sleeping. In his small upstairs bedroom, Ron was lying awake and unmoving on his bed.
He turned his head against the pillow, blinking against the utter darkness. In a week he'd be back at Hogwarts, listening to the warm breathing of his roommates as they slept, and probably experiencing the same insomnia he had now, that he had had all summer.
He'd been blaming his lack of sleep on everyone else-- Fred and George, who were slowly packing their possessions to move out; Ginny, who sometimes woke screaming, Pigwidgeon, flapping in his cage. But the truth was that Ron's sleeping problems were not external-- he simply couldn't stop the thoughts in his head long enough to fall asleep.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up," Ron thought crazily, pacing his room. He stared at a picture taken at the end of last school term-- He, Harry, and Hermione stood at the King's Station platform after the train pulled away. The three figures were smiling and waving happily, although looking slightly sleepy. (Ron felt a little guilt for waking them up so early) Ron tried to recapture that feeling… all those feelings, before the long, hot summer had dried them up.
He tried to remember his friendship with Harry, or his frustrations with Hermione, or the feeling of relief he got when he arrived home safe, still looking forward to another year at Hogwarts. But without a memory modification, he didn't think he could forget the other things that occupied his mind.
His OWLS had come mid-summer-- he'd gotten the grades he had expected, but the relief he felt was clouded by Hermione's huge successes (and E in every subject) and by Harry's above-average performance. His mother had been delighted by Harry's scores, and even mentioned them to friends when asked how her family was getting along. Ron was beginning to resent Harry. He felt guilty-- it wasn't as if Harry tried to outdo him… he just did.
The sun was beginning to come up, and Ron slipped back in bed, waiting for his mother to knock on the door and wake him, because today was the day they were picking up Harry from his uncle's house.
*** TWO ***
"Oh Harry, dear, we've got to get some food in you!" Mrs. Weasley cooed, throwing her heavy arms around Harry's thin frame. Ron watched Harry blush and smile politely. Harry had gotten taller, his body was lean and his face was a little rougher.
Ron knew he couldn't avoid Harry, so he thought that talking to him as soon as possible was the best way to avoid awkwardness. "Hey, mate," Ron grinned, "How was your summer?"
Harry shrugged. "No worse than usual; Dudley left me alone quite a lot."
"Great…" Sometimes Ron wondered what he and Harry would have in common, if not for slacking off in school and dealing with power-hungry killer wizards. Probably nothing, he thought, because he'd have more talented friends if he weren't friends with me.
"Hermione invited me over, too," Harry said. Ron felt a strange surge of hatred. "I think I'll have more fun at your house though-- she said she was going to read her new textbooks all week."
Hermione hadn't written to Ron all summer, and Ron hadn't written to her. He'd written a hundred letters in his head. 'Dear Hermione, how is your summer? I hope you're having fun, and I really miss you.' 'Dear Hermione, met any evil wizards? Because that's all we really have in common, isn't it? Love, Ron.' 'Dear Hermione, it's ok that you haven't written to me all summer. I guess you're too busy to write letters...'
Dinner was hell-- admittedly, it probably wasn't entirely comfortable for Harry either -- because the conversation was dominated by Mrs. Weasley's inquiries as to Harry's health, her sudden exclamations about how much they had all missed him, and how proud they were of him. Ron poked at his peas apathetically whie Harry tried to sidestep the questions that seemed too personal.
What Harry really wanted to talk about was Quidditch, having been away from Quidditch news all summer. Ron dug out his collection of newspaper clippings about the Chudley Cannons, who were leading the league, and Harry pored over them, using his finger to underline descriptions of the Seeker's maneuvers.
"You're so lucky you can get the Daily Prophet every day-- you could get really good reading about how these games are played."
Ron didn't comment. He DID study the Keeper's moves, but it didn't make much of a difference.
"Wanna get some practice in before it gets dark?"
He shook his head, trying to avoid Harry's eyes. "I don't feel very well-- cabbage soup never agrees with me much -- I think I'll go to bed early. I'm sure Fred and George will play with you."
Harry stared, looking as if he wasn't going to accept this explanation. "All right… well… 'night then…" And he disappeared down the steep staircase.
Ron took out his quill and parchment. 'Dear Hermione, Harry's here and I don't know what's wrong with me… I can't talk to him like I used to.' Another letter to burn…
He turned his head against the pillow, blinking against the utter darkness. In a week he'd be back at Hogwarts, listening to the warm breathing of his roommates as they slept, and probably experiencing the same insomnia he had now, that he had had all summer.
He'd been blaming his lack of sleep on everyone else-- Fred and George, who were slowly packing their possessions to move out; Ginny, who sometimes woke screaming, Pigwidgeon, flapping in his cage. But the truth was that Ron's sleeping problems were not external-- he simply couldn't stop the thoughts in his head long enough to fall asleep.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up," Ron thought crazily, pacing his room. He stared at a picture taken at the end of last school term-- He, Harry, and Hermione stood at the King's Station platform after the train pulled away. The three figures were smiling and waving happily, although looking slightly sleepy. (Ron felt a little guilt for waking them up so early) Ron tried to recapture that feeling… all those feelings, before the long, hot summer had dried them up.
He tried to remember his friendship with Harry, or his frustrations with Hermione, or the feeling of relief he got when he arrived home safe, still looking forward to another year at Hogwarts. But without a memory modification, he didn't think he could forget the other things that occupied his mind.
His OWLS had come mid-summer-- he'd gotten the grades he had expected, but the relief he felt was clouded by Hermione's huge successes (and E in every subject) and by Harry's above-average performance. His mother had been delighted by Harry's scores, and even mentioned them to friends when asked how her family was getting along. Ron was beginning to resent Harry. He felt guilty-- it wasn't as if Harry tried to outdo him… he just did.
The sun was beginning to come up, and Ron slipped back in bed, waiting for his mother to knock on the door and wake him, because today was the day they were picking up Harry from his uncle's house.
*** TWO ***
"Oh Harry, dear, we've got to get some food in you!" Mrs. Weasley cooed, throwing her heavy arms around Harry's thin frame. Ron watched Harry blush and smile politely. Harry had gotten taller, his body was lean and his face was a little rougher.
Ron knew he couldn't avoid Harry, so he thought that talking to him as soon as possible was the best way to avoid awkwardness. "Hey, mate," Ron grinned, "How was your summer?"
Harry shrugged. "No worse than usual; Dudley left me alone quite a lot."
"Great…" Sometimes Ron wondered what he and Harry would have in common, if not for slacking off in school and dealing with power-hungry killer wizards. Probably nothing, he thought, because he'd have more talented friends if he weren't friends with me.
"Hermione invited me over, too," Harry said. Ron felt a strange surge of hatred. "I think I'll have more fun at your house though-- she said she was going to read her new textbooks all week."
Hermione hadn't written to Ron all summer, and Ron hadn't written to her. He'd written a hundred letters in his head. 'Dear Hermione, how is your summer? I hope you're having fun, and I really miss you.' 'Dear Hermione, met any evil wizards? Because that's all we really have in common, isn't it? Love, Ron.' 'Dear Hermione, it's ok that you haven't written to me all summer. I guess you're too busy to write letters...'
Dinner was hell-- admittedly, it probably wasn't entirely comfortable for Harry either -- because the conversation was dominated by Mrs. Weasley's inquiries as to Harry's health, her sudden exclamations about how much they had all missed him, and how proud they were of him. Ron poked at his peas apathetically whie Harry tried to sidestep the questions that seemed too personal.
What Harry really wanted to talk about was Quidditch, having been away from Quidditch news all summer. Ron dug out his collection of newspaper clippings about the Chudley Cannons, who were leading the league, and Harry pored over them, using his finger to underline descriptions of the Seeker's maneuvers.
"You're so lucky you can get the Daily Prophet every day-- you could get really good reading about how these games are played."
Ron didn't comment. He DID study the Keeper's moves, but it didn't make much of a difference.
"Wanna get some practice in before it gets dark?"
He shook his head, trying to avoid Harry's eyes. "I don't feel very well-- cabbage soup never agrees with me much -- I think I'll go to bed early. I'm sure Fred and George will play with you."
Harry stared, looking as if he wasn't going to accept this explanation. "All right… well… 'night then…" And he disappeared down the steep staircase.
Ron took out his quill and parchment. 'Dear Hermione, Harry's here and I don't know what's wrong with me… I can't talk to him like I used to.' Another letter to burn…