Disclaimer: I own not Harry Potter. Or Ron. Or Hogwarts.
A/N: I may have tried too hard with this one. Oh, well. Read and review.
Harry Potter was depressed. He had just defeated the evil and somewhat homicidal Voldemort, but he was a teenaged boy, and thus subjected to fairly pointless angst. Oh, why, oh, why had he agreed to let his friends fight for him? They had all DIED. ANGST.
Thinking these pointless thoughts, because thoughts were usually thunk, he ascended with all of the glory of… something glorious… up the moving staircases to the Gryffindor common room.
"Wowzers!" he exclaimed, "I didn't know Hogwarts had escalators!"
Not that kind of moving stairs, Harry.
"Oh," Harry said, disappointed. "Why did you lie to me, you slimy, scummy, ferret-y, evil, deranged meaniehead?"
Because I can.
Anyways, the sets of stairs were swinging about like medieval flails, but Harry Potter, genius of epic proportions, and athletic to boot, made it up to the portrait of the Fat Lady. He considered mocking her; I mean, what kind of loser do you have to be to listen to ickle firsties with runny noses stammer through the ridiculous password year after year? Was that some kind of punishment? Yet, he didn't, because Harry is an all-around nice guy.
"Good evening, Fat Lady," he began. "I demand that you let me inside, before I pull a Sirius and threaten you with long pointy objects like my handy-dandy machete."
The Fat Lady immediately burst into tears. "Are you calling me f-fat?"
Harry looked around, as if expecting to find that he wasn't really in Hogwarts. He was, because Hogwarts was his only home, the breath in his lungs, the fire that burned in his soul, his one true love, the spiffy twirling step in his groove.
"Er- Is that multiple choice?"
The Fat Lady tried to attack him, but found that she was a portrait. "Curse you, Buzz Lightyear!"
Luckily for Buzz –er, Harry –she swung open without further comment, even though he didn't know the password and was technically no longer a Hogwarts student. He waltzed in, complete with imaginary dance partner, and gasped at the horrifying sight inside.
His favorite armchair, which was pleasantly aged and squishy, like soft swiss cheese, was as occupied as a public women's restroom. (Except, as it was a chair, there was no line.) Its occupant looked at Harry, and the two exchanged death glares.
"How dare you sit in my armchair, Ronald! You knew I was coming up here to angst!" Harry screeched.
"This chair ain't big enough for the two of us," Ron said coldly, his voice mysteriously deep. "Well, actually, I suppose it is. I didn't know they made such big armchairs."
Harry lost it. Screaming an ancient Gryffindor battlecry, because everyone knows that Gryffindors have those, he tipped Ron out of the chair. Ron fell into the fireplace with an agonized yelp, cursing the day he had met Harry "The Chosen Dude" Potter.
"Ha! Look who has the chair now!" Harry boasted, relishing the chair's softness as Ron ran about screaming. The red-haired boy had forgotten to stop, drop, and rock and roll.
Ron wheeled around, eyes blazing. It looked painful. "I'll be back, Potter!"
And he threw himself from the Gryffindor tower in a very Steward-of-Gondor fashion.
Harry Potter was the Lord of the Armchair.