Author's Note: After all the gut-wrenching angst running rampant in No Greater Love, I thought it was time for a little old-fashioned ROMANTIC angst.
The decision to post this story (and the one to follow) comes as a result of the much-delayed release date announced for Order of the Phoenix. Both of these stories are Fifth Year fics, and I realized that OotP will effectively render all such fics obsolete. AU's and re-writes will flourish, but it will be difficult to "envision" Fifth Year AFTER it has been presented in all its glory in the REAL HP universe. So, although I have other stories that have been sitting on the shelf for a year or more, the deck has been shuffled so I can "burn off" these two adventures before J.K. "muddies" the "Fifth Year waters" for evermore.. But they will at least APPEAR viable if read BEFORE the bombshell which is Order of the Phoenix has impacted upon the Ground Zero of our imaginations.
This first story is a continuation of Confessions. I realized that my re-invented Ron gave up an awful lot in that story. He deserves a little something in return, don't you think? I'm sure J.K. will NEVER give him the treatment he will receive HERE. But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? And it's ALSO why this story has got to see the light of day NOW.
And although this IS a "Ron story," there will be a healthy dose of Harry/Hermione fluff for all of their loyal shippers (of which I am unashamedly one).
By the way, you HAVE all read Confessions, right? This story will make a LOT more sense if you've read that one first. If you haven't, go do that now. I'll wait.
And for those of you who are already up to speed, feel free to scroll down now. But for Merlin's sake, hurry! Bloomsbury and Scholastic are inking the presses even as I speak!
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and trappings herein belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not employing them for profit, merely entertainment (with final judgment on THAT to be determined by the readers).
***
"HEADS UP, RON!" George shouted from somewhere below and to Ron's right.
"Wh -- " Ron began before his eyes nearly jumped out of his head. "AHHHHH!"
Jerking frantically on the handle of his broomstick, Ron was only just able to avoid the Bludger hit directly at him by George. The cannon-like shot missed him so closely that the friction of its passing singed his left ear like a belch of dragon fire.
"That should've been 'head down', actually," Fred observed as he glided down to meet his twin, both of whom were now shouldering their Beater's clubs. "NICE DODGE, RON!" he shouted as Ron swung around and charged his brothers with fire in his eyes.
"THAT BLUDGER NEARLY TOOK MY HEAD OFF!" Ron shouted, his face nearly as red as his flaming hair.
"But it didn't, did it?" George grinned, nodding at Fred for support. "Your reflexes are really improving, Ron."
"Yeah," Fred agreed. "That shot would have put you in hospital only a month ago."
"I'm going to put you in hospital if you ever do that again!" Ron spat.
The twins were not in the least perturbed by this threat.
"When you find yourself in a real game," George said, "with the other team's Beaters really trying to knock your head off, you'll thank us. Right, Fred?" He looked to Fred, who nodded emphatically.
"Like I'll ever get in a real game," Ron grunted. "Being reserve Seeker behind Harry is like being a third wing on a hippogriff."
"So try out for another position," Fred said, not for the first time. "The team will need two new Beaters next year when George and I graduate."
"I don't want to be a Beater," Ron said, again not for the first time.
"Then go out for Chaser," George said. "Katie will be leaving, too."
"Maybe," Ron said without enthusiasm.
It was common knowledge that Ron had wanted to be the new Gryffindor Keeper following the departure of Oliver Wood. But the reserve Keeper had been promoted to starter, and in the ensuing tryouts for the reserve position, Ron had come in second to a Third Year -- and a girl at that!
That left only one position to be filled: Reserve Seeker. In truth, it was an open position because, ever since Harry had been named Seeker, it was deemed a completely useless position. Granted that Gryffindor had lost the Quidditch cup at the end of Harry's first year when he landed in hospital (nearly dying in his first encounter with Lord Voldemort), there being no back-up to play in his stead, that was considered a fluke not likely to be repeated. Nearly everyone dismissed the very notion that any team that boasted Harry Potter as Seeker would ever have need of a reserve.
Thus it was that Ron, wanting desperately to be on the team in any capacity, had grudgingly accepted the position. But he did not delude himself. Like everyone else, he believed that so long as Harry was Gryffindor's Seeker, he, Ron, would never be more than a useless joke. Unneeded and serving no purpose. Second best.
*
When Ron climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, he found Harry and Hermione sitting side-by-side on the hearth in front of the massive stone fireplace, both of them staring blankly into the low-burning flames. Hermione's head lay on Harry's shoulder as she nestled against him, held securely by his arm encircling her waist. They appeared to be completely lost in both the fire and each other. Ron stopped dead, remembering a time not so long ago when it had been himself and Hermione sitting exactly like that. Taking a moment to padlock his heart and tuck away the key, he painted what he hoped was a convincing smile on his face and walked toward the fireplace.
"Public display of affection!" Ron said bitingly in his best impression of Percy the Prefect. "Five points from Gryffindor!"
Harry and Hermione snapped out of their mutual trance and turned to find Ron grinning down on them from his not inconsiderable height, made all the more impressive by their seated positions. The smile Harry flashed up at Ron was bright with amusement, but Hermione's smile seemed strained somehow, leaving Ron with the impression that she was concealing some emotional tempest behind the thinnest of veneers. Others might be fooled, but not Ron. He knew more than a bit about cheery facades, having become a past master of them himself in recent months.
"Good practice, Ron?" Harry said hopefully.
"Great," Ron said brightly. "Better watch your backside, mate. Gryffindor might be gettin' a new Seeker any day now."
"Sooner than you think, mate," Harry said, his smile retreating a fraction. Hermione's, by contrast, intensified, though the result was that it appeared even less convincing than before.
It took at least half a minute for the full impact of Harry's words to penetrate Ron's brain. No, he must have misheard.
Harry rose from his seated position in a single fluid motion, demonstrating the grace which made him the outstanding Seeker he was. He helped Hermione to her feet, and their eyes met with a sort of restrained intensity. Smiling gently as if to say, "It'll be alright," Harry bent and kissed Hermione lightly on the lips. With their faces only an inch apart, Hermione nodded once and, smiling wordlessly at Ron, glided away toward the stairs leading to the girls' dormitories.
"Let's go upstairs," Harry said, nodding toward the boys' staircase. "I have something to tell you."
*
In their Fifth Year dormitory, Harry sat on his bed while Ron, too anxious to sit, paced back and forth between Harry's bed and his own. His legs being so long, this required barely two strides each way.
"Dumbledore's mental!" Ron repeated, as if stating this twice before in the preceding five minutes had not been sufficient condemnation. "He can't expect you to go off and fight You-Know-Who! You barely escaped the last time! Blimey, Harry, every time you reach across the dining table for a pitcher of pumpkin juice or something, and I see that ruddy scar on your arm, it gives me a right chill to think how close you came to snuffing it last year. And now they expect you to -- "
"I am not going off to fight Voldemort," Harry said, repeating himself even as Ron. As ever, Ron jumped at the sound of Voldemort's name, reacting as if he had just discovered an enormous spider crawling up his arm. "It's a reconnaissance mission, nothing more."
"But why you?" Ron persisted. "Are they running short of Aurors that they have to nick Fifth Year students out of school and chuck them onto the front lines?"
"There are no 'front lines'," Harry said. "That's what this is about, in fact. And no Auror can do this job. Only I can."
"Really?" Ron said skeptically. "Just what've you got that Mad-Eye and his lot don't?"
"You said it," Harry smiled. "My scar. Not this one -- " he pointed to the scar on his arm to which Ron had just made reference, from which wound Wormtail had drawn the blood which had helped bring Voldemort back to full strength last year, " -- but this one." Harry was now pointing at the famous lightning scar on his forehead, and he could not help but chuckle as Ron's eyes fell for the first time on this famous souvenir of Harry's first meeting with Voldemort. While strangers still tended to goggle at Harry's scar when they saw him, his long-time friends, such as Ron and Hermione, had come to pay it no more heed than they did his glasses or his messy hair.
"What's your scar got to do with anything?" Ron said shortly. Then his eyes widened. Seeing the understanding on Ron's face, Harry nodded.
"You know my scar always hurts when Voldemort is nearby. But there's more to it than that. You see, we realized that it's not just Voldemort. It also applies, though in a more limited way, to any Death Eater."
It was a mark of Ron's distraction that repeated mention of Voldemort in the past minute elicited no reaction from him whatsoever. "What are you on about?" he said.
"You remember our first day at school?" Harry said. "When we came into the Great Hall and saw Snape for the first time? The moment he looked at me, my scar hurt -- first time ever."
Ron's expression sharpened. "That wasn't Snape," he said impatiently. "Don't you remember? Snape was sitting next to Quirrell, who had You-Know-Who lurkin' under his ruddy turban. That was what you felt."
"That's what we all thought at first," Harry said. "But Dumbledore said my scar hurts not only when Voldemort is near, but when he's feeling, in Dumbledore's words, 'particularly murderous' toward me. And that first night in the Great Hall, that look Snape gave me was pure murder. And that, coupled with the Dark Mark we now know is on his arm, sent that jolt of pain to my scar."
"Then why doesn't your scar hurt every moment we're in Potions class?" Ron said triumphantly. "If anything, Snape hates you way more now than he ever did then."
"Because," Harry said, "with anyone other than Voldemort, it only works once. Kind of like a flashbulb -- or a bomb. After that first time, I become -- immune, I guess. Sort of like having measles. At least, that's what Dumbledore and Moody reckon."
"What?" Ron said, appalled. "You mean they don't know?"
"No," Harry admitted. "But we're going to test it out, starting next weekend."
"Test it how?" Ron said, his eyes narrowing.
"The Aurors have certain areas staked out," Harry said. "Neighborhoods and small villages where they think Death Eaters might be hiding. Trouble is, they're likely protected by Fidelius Charms. Just like it was with my parents in Godric's Hollow, the Aurors could be looking right in through the front window of a Death Eater's house and not see a thing.
"But the Fidelius only fools the five normal senses. My scar is like a sixth sense. In theory, these Death Eaters will all be plotting to do Voldemort's will -- which, after last year, is most likely centered on capturing or killing me."
Harry said this very calmly, but Ron saw a flicker in his friend's emerald eyes that revealed a very real and terrible fear which Harry was striving valiantly to suppress.
"So," Ron said, his arguments exhausted, "how you figure to work it?"
"Very simply," Harry said. "I'm just going to walk down the street."
"Eh?" Ron said. Harry smiled.
"Village by village, neighborhood by neighborhood, street by street," Harry said, "I'll just walk by each house in a target area. That's all, just walk by. And when I pass by a house with one or more Death Eaters in it -- all of whom will likely be thinking 'murderous thoughts' about me -- my scar should go off like an alarm clock. A very painful one," he added with a crooked smile. "With no snooze alarm."
"No what?" said Ron, who was familiar only with the wind-up variety of clock common to wizard houses.
"Never mind," Harry laughed. "So, it's really too simple to miss, isn't it? If any Death Eaters look out their window, they won't see anythng suspicious, like Aurors or anything like that. All they'll see is a Muggle boy and his dog going for a walk."
"DOG?" Ron exclaimed with sudden animation.
"Oh," Harry grinned with an innocence overlying deep amusement, "did I forget to mention that part?"
"Blimey," Ron said, sinking onto his bed at last as a feeling of great relief washed over him. "That's a dragon of a different color, innit? If Snuffles is with you, I don't reckon anything can go too far wrong."
"Tell that to Hermione," Harry said, his smile fading. "She seems to think that Voldemort himself is going to jump out of one of those houses and hit me with the Killing Curse."
Wincing once more at the sound of Voldemort's name, Ron said, "Can't blame her there, mate. It took her four years to get her hooks into you. Be a right joke if You-Know-Who mucked it up now, wouldn't it?"
"I'll be in disguise," Harry said in his own defense. "I'm not a total berk, y'know. Muggles may not know me, but Death Eaters are another matter. I wouldn't put it past Voldemort to have distributed photos of me to every corner of Britain, like wanted posters in the Muggle Western cinema."
"What sort of disguise?" Ron asked quickly before Harry's repeated mention of Voldemort could erode his nerves again. "Polyjuice? Want a few hairs? I've got loads. Thank goodness Hermione told me the baldness gene skips a generation. Ever tell you 'bout my granddad? Bill takes after him. Had hair longer than Dumbledore's."
"Just an ordinary disguise," Harry said, recognizing Ron's chatter as a defensive mechanism. "Polyjuice would remove my scar, and without that I'd be about as useful as a tailless broomstick. Besides," and he made a disgusted face, "once was enough for me."
"Too right," Ron laughed. "Can you imagine Crouch drinkin' that stuff every hour, on the hour, for ten bleedin' months! Talk about mental!"
"Well," Harry said, getting down to cases, "on the subject of broomsticks -- " Ron lifted an eyebrow at mention of one of his favorite subjects, " -- the upshoot of all this is, I'll be away from school every Saturday for the foreseeable future. Which means -- "
"SATURDAY?" Ron exploded from his bed with the ferocity of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. "But the Quidditch final is on a Saturday! Gryffindor versus Slytherin! You can't miss it!"
Harry shrugged helplessly even as he turned a meaningful eye onto Ron. As Ron stared, dumbfounded, Harry's words from down in the common room burst in his brain like a deck of Exploding Snap cards. His mouth fell open.
"Me?" he squeaked. "You want me to play Seeker against Slytherin? In the biggest game of the year?"
Ron didn't wait for Harry's reply. None was needed. If Harry was gone, Ron, as the only reserve Seeker, would have to play! But -- he couldn't play!
"I'm not good enough!" Ron said weakly. "I'm only the reserve! I mean, I know Malfoy's not in your league, Harry, but he's a damn sight better than I am! I'd rather suffer the Slug-Belly Curse again than admit it, but it's true."
"Okay," Harry said. "Malfoy's better than you -- now! But you and I are going to work, and train -- we're going to -- we're going to turn you into Charlie!"
"Charlie?" Ron said blankly.
"Your brother, Charlie," Harry said. "The day McGonagall introduced me to Wood, she said Charlie was the best Seeker Gryffindor'd had for ages. Well, Charlie Weasley is gone, but Ron Weasley is here! And he's going to catch that Golden Snitch and win the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor! Right?"
Ron was still far from convinced. "It's impossible, Harry. The Slytherins all ride Nimbus 2001's. There's no way I'm beating Malfoy to the Snitch riding a Cleansweep 7."
"That sounds about right," Harry said, the ghost of a smile drifting across his face. "But who says you'll be riding a Cleansweep 7?"
It took a moment for Harry's words to register on Ron's numbed brain, which nearly made the jump from insensate to catatonic.
"You don't MEAN it! You're -- you're giving me your FIREBOLT?"
"Lending," Harry said, delighting at the look of amazement spreading across Ron's face. "I'm having it back the second you've finished your victory lap. And mind you don't let anything happen to it. If I see so much as a scratch on the handle, or a single bent twig on the tail, Fred and George will promptly find themselves sharing the dubious distinction of being the youngest Weasley brothers.
"Well?"
Ron couldn't answer. His eyes had glazed over, and he was wearing a vague smile which had only ever been seen by Harry, if he but remembered it. It was the smile Ron had worn four years ago when, accompanying Harry to a deserted classroom in the dead of night, he had stood before the Mirror of Erised. In that enchanted glass, Ron had seen himself in his final year at Hogwarts, wearing the red-and-gold robes of Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, sporting the silver Head Boy badge, and proudly holding the Quidditch Cup.
Ron sighed dreamily. With his grades, he knew he was unlikely ever to be Head Boy. And with players like Harry on the team, his chances of becoming Quidditch Captain were equally remote. But the Quidditch Cup -- the Quidditch Cup!
Well, Ron thought as the dormitory came back into focus and his smile grew quite as large as Harry's -- one out of three wasn't bad.
***
Author's Note: Most of the reliable rumors have it that Ron will replace Oliver Wood as Gryffindor's Keeper. It makes perfect sense. But where's the fun in THAT? Oh, it'll be fun for RON, I suppose. But I'm talking about MY fun! I can pull his strings MUCH better THIS way!
The curious among you are invited to return for Chapter 2 to see exactly HOW I pull those strings.
By the way, is anyone out there reading Umbra Antitheus: Shadow Devil by sbys? It's a sequel to her first story, Goodbye. Give yourself a treat. She is so talented, she makes ME look like a monkey pounding my keyboard with a banana.
One last word from the monkey: Thanks for reading.
The decision to post this story (and the one to follow) comes as a result of the much-delayed release date announced for Order of the Phoenix. Both of these stories are Fifth Year fics, and I realized that OotP will effectively render all such fics obsolete. AU's and re-writes will flourish, but it will be difficult to "envision" Fifth Year AFTER it has been presented in all its glory in the REAL HP universe. So, although I have other stories that have been sitting on the shelf for a year or more, the deck has been shuffled so I can "burn off" these two adventures before J.K. "muddies" the "Fifth Year waters" for evermore.. But they will at least APPEAR viable if read BEFORE the bombshell which is Order of the Phoenix has impacted upon the Ground Zero of our imaginations.
This first story is a continuation of Confessions. I realized that my re-invented Ron gave up an awful lot in that story. He deserves a little something in return, don't you think? I'm sure J.K. will NEVER give him the treatment he will receive HERE. But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? And it's ALSO why this story has got to see the light of day NOW.
And although this IS a "Ron story," there will be a healthy dose of Harry/Hermione fluff for all of their loyal shippers (of which I am unashamedly one).
By the way, you HAVE all read Confessions, right? This story will make a LOT more sense if you've read that one first. If you haven't, go do that now. I'll wait.
And for those of you who are already up to speed, feel free to scroll down now. But for Merlin's sake, hurry! Bloomsbury and Scholastic are inking the presses even as I speak!
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and trappings herein belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not employing them for profit, merely entertainment (with final judgment on THAT to be determined by the readers).
"HEADS UP, RON!" George shouted from somewhere below and to Ron's right.
"Wh -- " Ron began before his eyes nearly jumped out of his head. "AHHHHH!"
Jerking frantically on the handle of his broomstick, Ron was only just able to avoid the Bludger hit directly at him by George. The cannon-like shot missed him so closely that the friction of its passing singed his left ear like a belch of dragon fire.
"That should've been 'head down', actually," Fred observed as he glided down to meet his twin, both of whom were now shouldering their Beater's clubs. "NICE DODGE, RON!" he shouted as Ron swung around and charged his brothers with fire in his eyes.
"THAT BLUDGER NEARLY TOOK MY HEAD OFF!" Ron shouted, his face nearly as red as his flaming hair.
"But it didn't, did it?" George grinned, nodding at Fred for support. "Your reflexes are really improving, Ron."
"Yeah," Fred agreed. "That shot would have put you in hospital only a month ago."
"I'm going to put you in hospital if you ever do that again!" Ron spat.
The twins were not in the least perturbed by this threat.
"When you find yourself in a real game," George said, "with the other team's Beaters really trying to knock your head off, you'll thank us. Right, Fred?" He looked to Fred, who nodded emphatically.
"Like I'll ever get in a real game," Ron grunted. "Being reserve Seeker behind Harry is like being a third wing on a hippogriff."
"So try out for another position," Fred said, not for the first time. "The team will need two new Beaters next year when George and I graduate."
"I don't want to be a Beater," Ron said, again not for the first time.
"Then go out for Chaser," George said. "Katie will be leaving, too."
"Maybe," Ron said without enthusiasm.
It was common knowledge that Ron had wanted to be the new Gryffindor Keeper following the departure of Oliver Wood. But the reserve Keeper had been promoted to starter, and in the ensuing tryouts for the reserve position, Ron had come in second to a Third Year -- and a girl at that!
That left only one position to be filled: Reserve Seeker. In truth, it was an open position because, ever since Harry had been named Seeker, it was deemed a completely useless position. Granted that Gryffindor had lost the Quidditch cup at the end of Harry's first year when he landed in hospital (nearly dying in his first encounter with Lord Voldemort), there being no back-up to play in his stead, that was considered a fluke not likely to be repeated. Nearly everyone dismissed the very notion that any team that boasted Harry Potter as Seeker would ever have need of a reserve.
Thus it was that Ron, wanting desperately to be on the team in any capacity, had grudgingly accepted the position. But he did not delude himself. Like everyone else, he believed that so long as Harry was Gryffindor's Seeker, he, Ron, would never be more than a useless joke. Unneeded and serving no purpose. Second best.
When Ron climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, he found Harry and Hermione sitting side-by-side on the hearth in front of the massive stone fireplace, both of them staring blankly into the low-burning flames. Hermione's head lay on Harry's shoulder as she nestled against him, held securely by his arm encircling her waist. They appeared to be completely lost in both the fire and each other. Ron stopped dead, remembering a time not so long ago when it had been himself and Hermione sitting exactly like that. Taking a moment to padlock his heart and tuck away the key, he painted what he hoped was a convincing smile on his face and walked toward the fireplace.
"Public display of affection!" Ron said bitingly in his best impression of Percy the Prefect. "Five points from Gryffindor!"
Harry and Hermione snapped out of their mutual trance and turned to find Ron grinning down on them from his not inconsiderable height, made all the more impressive by their seated positions. The smile Harry flashed up at Ron was bright with amusement, but Hermione's smile seemed strained somehow, leaving Ron with the impression that she was concealing some emotional tempest behind the thinnest of veneers. Others might be fooled, but not Ron. He knew more than a bit about cheery facades, having become a past master of them himself in recent months.
"Good practice, Ron?" Harry said hopefully.
"Great," Ron said brightly. "Better watch your backside, mate. Gryffindor might be gettin' a new Seeker any day now."
"Sooner than you think, mate," Harry said, his smile retreating a fraction. Hermione's, by contrast, intensified, though the result was that it appeared even less convincing than before.
It took at least half a minute for the full impact of Harry's words to penetrate Ron's brain. No, he must have misheard.
Harry rose from his seated position in a single fluid motion, demonstrating the grace which made him the outstanding Seeker he was. He helped Hermione to her feet, and their eyes met with a sort of restrained intensity. Smiling gently as if to say, "It'll be alright," Harry bent and kissed Hermione lightly on the lips. With their faces only an inch apart, Hermione nodded once and, smiling wordlessly at Ron, glided away toward the stairs leading to the girls' dormitories.
"Let's go upstairs," Harry said, nodding toward the boys' staircase. "I have something to tell you."
In their Fifth Year dormitory, Harry sat on his bed while Ron, too anxious to sit, paced back and forth between Harry's bed and his own. His legs being so long, this required barely two strides each way.
"Dumbledore's mental!" Ron repeated, as if stating this twice before in the preceding five minutes had not been sufficient condemnation. "He can't expect you to go off and fight You-Know-Who! You barely escaped the last time! Blimey, Harry, every time you reach across the dining table for a pitcher of pumpkin juice or something, and I see that ruddy scar on your arm, it gives me a right chill to think how close you came to snuffing it last year. And now they expect you to -- "
"I am not going off to fight Voldemort," Harry said, repeating himself even as Ron. As ever, Ron jumped at the sound of Voldemort's name, reacting as if he had just discovered an enormous spider crawling up his arm. "It's a reconnaissance mission, nothing more."
"But why you?" Ron persisted. "Are they running short of Aurors that they have to nick Fifth Year students out of school and chuck them onto the front lines?"
"There are no 'front lines'," Harry said. "That's what this is about, in fact. And no Auror can do this job. Only I can."
"Really?" Ron said skeptically. "Just what've you got that Mad-Eye and his lot don't?"
"You said it," Harry smiled. "My scar. Not this one -- " he pointed to the scar on his arm to which Ron had just made reference, from which wound Wormtail had drawn the blood which had helped bring Voldemort back to full strength last year, " -- but this one." Harry was now pointing at the famous lightning scar on his forehead, and he could not help but chuckle as Ron's eyes fell for the first time on this famous souvenir of Harry's first meeting with Voldemort. While strangers still tended to goggle at Harry's scar when they saw him, his long-time friends, such as Ron and Hermione, had come to pay it no more heed than they did his glasses or his messy hair.
"What's your scar got to do with anything?" Ron said shortly. Then his eyes widened. Seeing the understanding on Ron's face, Harry nodded.
"You know my scar always hurts when Voldemort is nearby. But there's more to it than that. You see, we realized that it's not just Voldemort. It also applies, though in a more limited way, to any Death Eater."
It was a mark of Ron's distraction that repeated mention of Voldemort in the past minute elicited no reaction from him whatsoever. "What are you on about?" he said.
"You remember our first day at school?" Harry said. "When we came into the Great Hall and saw Snape for the first time? The moment he looked at me, my scar hurt -- first time ever."
Ron's expression sharpened. "That wasn't Snape," he said impatiently. "Don't you remember? Snape was sitting next to Quirrell, who had You-Know-Who lurkin' under his ruddy turban. That was what you felt."
"That's what we all thought at first," Harry said. "But Dumbledore said my scar hurts not only when Voldemort is near, but when he's feeling, in Dumbledore's words, 'particularly murderous' toward me. And that first night in the Great Hall, that look Snape gave me was pure murder. And that, coupled with the Dark Mark we now know is on his arm, sent that jolt of pain to my scar."
"Then why doesn't your scar hurt every moment we're in Potions class?" Ron said triumphantly. "If anything, Snape hates you way more now than he ever did then."
"Because," Harry said, "with anyone other than Voldemort, it only works once. Kind of like a flashbulb -- or a bomb. After that first time, I become -- immune, I guess. Sort of like having measles. At least, that's what Dumbledore and Moody reckon."
"What?" Ron said, appalled. "You mean they don't know?"
"No," Harry admitted. "But we're going to test it out, starting next weekend."
"Test it how?" Ron said, his eyes narrowing.
"The Aurors have certain areas staked out," Harry said. "Neighborhoods and small villages where they think Death Eaters might be hiding. Trouble is, they're likely protected by Fidelius Charms. Just like it was with my parents in Godric's Hollow, the Aurors could be looking right in through the front window of a Death Eater's house and not see a thing.
"But the Fidelius only fools the five normal senses. My scar is like a sixth sense. In theory, these Death Eaters will all be plotting to do Voldemort's will -- which, after last year, is most likely centered on capturing or killing me."
Harry said this very calmly, but Ron saw a flicker in his friend's emerald eyes that revealed a very real and terrible fear which Harry was striving valiantly to suppress.
"So," Ron said, his arguments exhausted, "how you figure to work it?"
"Very simply," Harry said. "I'm just going to walk down the street."
"Eh?" Ron said. Harry smiled.
"Village by village, neighborhood by neighborhood, street by street," Harry said, "I'll just walk by each house in a target area. That's all, just walk by. And when I pass by a house with one or more Death Eaters in it -- all of whom will likely be thinking 'murderous thoughts' about me -- my scar should go off like an alarm clock. A very painful one," he added with a crooked smile. "With no snooze alarm."
"No what?" said Ron, who was familiar only with the wind-up variety of clock common to wizard houses.
"Never mind," Harry laughed. "So, it's really too simple to miss, isn't it? If any Death Eaters look out their window, they won't see anythng suspicious, like Aurors or anything like that. All they'll see is a Muggle boy and his dog going for a walk."
"DOG?" Ron exclaimed with sudden animation.
"Oh," Harry grinned with an innocence overlying deep amusement, "did I forget to mention that part?"
"Blimey," Ron said, sinking onto his bed at last as a feeling of great relief washed over him. "That's a dragon of a different color, innit? If Snuffles is with you, I don't reckon anything can go too far wrong."
"Tell that to Hermione," Harry said, his smile fading. "She seems to think that Voldemort himself is going to jump out of one of those houses and hit me with the Killing Curse."
Wincing once more at the sound of Voldemort's name, Ron said, "Can't blame her there, mate. It took her four years to get her hooks into you. Be a right joke if You-Know-Who mucked it up now, wouldn't it?"
"I'll be in disguise," Harry said in his own defense. "I'm not a total berk, y'know. Muggles may not know me, but Death Eaters are another matter. I wouldn't put it past Voldemort to have distributed photos of me to every corner of Britain, like wanted posters in the Muggle Western cinema."
"What sort of disguise?" Ron asked quickly before Harry's repeated mention of Voldemort could erode his nerves again. "Polyjuice? Want a few hairs? I've got loads. Thank goodness Hermione told me the baldness gene skips a generation. Ever tell you 'bout my granddad? Bill takes after him. Had hair longer than Dumbledore's."
"Just an ordinary disguise," Harry said, recognizing Ron's chatter as a defensive mechanism. "Polyjuice would remove my scar, and without that I'd be about as useful as a tailless broomstick. Besides," and he made a disgusted face, "once was enough for me."
"Too right," Ron laughed. "Can you imagine Crouch drinkin' that stuff every hour, on the hour, for ten bleedin' months! Talk about mental!"
"Well," Harry said, getting down to cases, "on the subject of broomsticks -- " Ron lifted an eyebrow at mention of one of his favorite subjects, " -- the upshoot of all this is, I'll be away from school every Saturday for the foreseeable future. Which means -- "
"SATURDAY?" Ron exploded from his bed with the ferocity of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. "But the Quidditch final is on a Saturday! Gryffindor versus Slytherin! You can't miss it!"
Harry shrugged helplessly even as he turned a meaningful eye onto Ron. As Ron stared, dumbfounded, Harry's words from down in the common room burst in his brain like a deck of Exploding Snap cards. His mouth fell open.
"Me?" he squeaked. "You want me to play Seeker against Slytherin? In the biggest game of the year?"
Ron didn't wait for Harry's reply. None was needed. If Harry was gone, Ron, as the only reserve Seeker, would have to play! But -- he couldn't play!
"I'm not good enough!" Ron said weakly. "I'm only the reserve! I mean, I know Malfoy's not in your league, Harry, but he's a damn sight better than I am! I'd rather suffer the Slug-Belly Curse again than admit it, but it's true."
"Okay," Harry said. "Malfoy's better than you -- now! But you and I are going to work, and train -- we're going to -- we're going to turn you into Charlie!"
"Charlie?" Ron said blankly.
"Your brother, Charlie," Harry said. "The day McGonagall introduced me to Wood, she said Charlie was the best Seeker Gryffindor'd had for ages. Well, Charlie Weasley is gone, but Ron Weasley is here! And he's going to catch that Golden Snitch and win the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor! Right?"
Ron was still far from convinced. "It's impossible, Harry. The Slytherins all ride Nimbus 2001's. There's no way I'm beating Malfoy to the Snitch riding a Cleansweep 7."
"That sounds about right," Harry said, the ghost of a smile drifting across his face. "But who says you'll be riding a Cleansweep 7?"
It took a moment for Harry's words to register on Ron's numbed brain, which nearly made the jump from insensate to catatonic.
"You don't MEAN it! You're -- you're giving me your FIREBOLT?"
"Lending," Harry said, delighting at the look of amazement spreading across Ron's face. "I'm having it back the second you've finished your victory lap. And mind you don't let anything happen to it. If I see so much as a scratch on the handle, or a single bent twig on the tail, Fred and George will promptly find themselves sharing the dubious distinction of being the youngest Weasley brothers.
"Well?"
Ron couldn't answer. His eyes had glazed over, and he was wearing a vague smile which had only ever been seen by Harry, if he but remembered it. It was the smile Ron had worn four years ago when, accompanying Harry to a deserted classroom in the dead of night, he had stood before the Mirror of Erised. In that enchanted glass, Ron had seen himself in his final year at Hogwarts, wearing the red-and-gold robes of Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, sporting the silver Head Boy badge, and proudly holding the Quidditch Cup.
Ron sighed dreamily. With his grades, he knew he was unlikely ever to be Head Boy. And with players like Harry on the team, his chances of becoming Quidditch Captain were equally remote. But the Quidditch Cup -- the Quidditch Cup!
Well, Ron thought as the dormitory came back into focus and his smile grew quite as large as Harry's -- one out of three wasn't bad.
Author's Note: Most of the reliable rumors have it that Ron will replace Oliver Wood as Gryffindor's Keeper. It makes perfect sense. But where's the fun in THAT? Oh, it'll be fun for RON, I suppose. But I'm talking about MY fun! I can pull his strings MUCH better THIS way!
The curious among you are invited to return for Chapter 2 to see exactly HOW I pull those strings.
By the way, is anyone out there reading Umbra Antitheus: Shadow Devil by sbys? It's a sequel to her first story, Goodbye. Give yourself a treat. She is so talented, she makes ME look like a monkey pounding my keyboard with a banana.
One last word from the monkey: Thanks for reading.