The Rat Was A Man

For the past two hours they had spent in the Gryffindor Common Room, sitting in absolute silence, Harry Potter had been unable to stop himself from glancing over at Ronald Weasley's back.

While Harry had positioned himself at one of the tables, absent-mindedly flicking through a copy of the Daily Prophet that had been left lying around, his red-headed friend was sat on the rug in front of the fire, legs stretched out and hands firmly planted on the carpet beside each knee.

Regardless of the crackling warmth of the flame that even those who did not sit directly in front of the fire could feel, Harry could see that Ron was shaking; not violently so, but enough for the emerald-eyed 'Chosen One' to notice.

Harry had not spoken to Ron since the young man had left the Hospital Wing that grim morning. The only exchange of words they had had so far was through Ron asking Harry to help himself up out of the board-like bed (Madam Pomfrey had warned Ron not to put too much pressure on his leg, for the bone was still mending). Other than that one instance, Ron and Harry had left each other alone in speech; however, it appeared that they were communicating by non-verbal means.

Ron's constant shaking were like silent pleas for attention and sympathy, goading Harry to look in his direction every so often, yet Harry had his own 'demons' to deal with. An escaped convict from Azkaban had suddenly become his godfather and his father's late best friend. His favourite teacher, the only one who he had honestly thought would break the curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position that would either kill or erase someone's memory, had been claimed by that very curse and had turned out to be a werewolf. Unable to control himself and discern friend from foe in his hideous 'other' form had caused the parents of certain Slytherin students to complain, thus, and regretfully, Dumbledore had been forced to sack him.

Yet, as Harry mulled over these various discoveries, he found himself in an uncomfortable position; one that told him his discoveries were not as damaging as Ron's single one. A broken leg had not rendered Ron speechless, cold, distant and very much out of character, Harry knew that. It was a much darker and more scarring happening that had caused him to shake in front of a roaring fire so.

Hermione Granger had not been able to withstand being around Ron while he was acting so distant, and so she had marched off to finish off work set by her teachers specially set for her, in the peace and quiet of the dusty Library, with only the gentle shushing of books flying into their specific place overhead to wake her from her knowledge-based reveries.

She had not left Harry to deal with Ronald out of spite, but because she knew she would merely hinder the situation at hand. In fact, Harry had noted that she was being fidgety, and had been the one to whisper in her ear and grant her a swift, painless exit.

And so Harry had sat there for the rest of the evening, watching the sky outside bruise and gradually darken to descend into nightfall, while occasionally glancing in Ron's direction.

{*}

Progressively, each and every student that had sat in the Common Room with them trickled off to bed, rubbing at their tired eyes with balled up fists. Each one bid Harry good night, worriedly peeped at Ron, and then hurriedly ascended their separate stone staircase, depending on whether they were a witch or a wizard.

Harry decided that he would stay up another couple of hours, allowing Ron more time to stare broodingly into the flickering flames.

{*}

Two hours later, and after reading the same page twice, Harry had fought long and hard to keep his hazy green eyes open for long enough. In his sleep-deprived state, he found a part of himself despised Ron for keeping him up with his unsociable attitude; as if the boy had no reason to act in that manner.

Harry's chin rose out of his hand and he, as quiet as humanly possible, folded the newspaper in half and rose from his wooden chair.

He looked for Ron, but was met with a flickering orange blur; Harry Potter nudged his pair of circular-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose with a forefinger and exhaled heavily, preparing himself for speech to the young male he had not spoken to for many hours past.

"I'm going to bed, Ron," Harry announced in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence and waited, half-expecting Ron to reply that he would be joining him in the boy's dormitory.

Instead, the shadow of Ronald Bilius Weasley, who would have declared it was high time for bed many hours ago, shrugged his shoulders as if they were a pair of heavy boulders putting pressure onto his tired bones. He continued to gaze at the fire, dull blue eyes stinging, moving shadows on his pale, freckled face heavily exaggerated by the flames.

"I'll go in a second," Ron mumbled, injecting false happiness into his monotonous voice that Harry imagined even Neville Longbottom would see past. Instead of hesitating, then deciding to join Ron by the fire and listen to him pour his heart out, Harry silently departed without uttering another word to his friend.

{*}

Ron listened intently to each foot hitting the stone step, and relived those horrific moments that had caused wounds on him that felt as fresh as if they had been inflicted on him a mere minute ago.