"I'm having a nightmare," Ron sputtered. "That's the only explanation."
He pinched his own arm and a curious, small fear clutched at his heart. His head felt too heavy for his neck and so he rested it on the table ledge. "Any moment now I'm going to wake up . . ."
Hermione had stood up and was brushing the toast crumbs off her front. She looked at him for a moment and then sighed. "You think you're so funny, always pulling tricks on me."
Ron didn't bother to lift his head. "I'm not the one playing tricks. Something really bizarre is going on."
Hermione's face twisted up into a tiny bit of concern. This wasn't the same boy who had teased her for the past three years. He seemed kinder, and sadder. It was very bewildering.
"Maybe you should go see Dumbledore?" she offered, hesitantly.
Ron sat up suddenly. "I know! I'll see Hagrid, maybe he'll have an idea."
Hermione stepped back. "You're going to go to Azkaban?"
Ron gaped at her and swallowed hard. "Hagrid's in Azkaban?"
Hermione's eyes were downcast and sorrowful. "Of course."
The silence born from those words seemed to run down the entire table, squelching any noisy excitement about the forthcoming Triwizard Tournament. Hermione hovered, unsure of whether she should stay or leave.
"It's not Sunday, is it?" Ron mumbled.
"Um, no," Hermione replied.
"I'm . . . Hogwarts Champion in the Tournament, aren't I?" he whispered.
"Along with Cedric Diggory, yes. Most of the school is vouching for him, I'm afraid. Even most of Gryffindor . . ."
"And you?" Ron almost couldn't bear the answer he anticipated and shut his eyes firmly so he wouldn't have to look at her.
She said nothing. When he finally cracked his eyes open she had fled and a flimsy looking Support RON WEASLEY badge was resting on his empty plate.
Ron muddled through his morning classes in a haze, finding himself back in the Great Hall far too promptly. He prodded at his food unenthusiastically, trying to make lunch stretch out into the next decade. And then Professor McGonagall rushed over to him.
"Weasley, the champions have to come down into the grounds now . . . you have to get ready for your first task."
Ron stood up silently and followed her. A measly few "Good Lucks" and a many "Don't get killed" flittered after him.
"Now don't panic," she said as Ron felt a panicky aching build up inside his chest, "just keep a cool head . . . we've got wizards on hand to control the situation if it gets of out hand . . . the main thing is just do your best, and nobody will think any worse of you . . . are you all right?"
"No. I don't think so," Ron groaned as they approached the edge of the Forest where a giant tent had been pitched.
--
Ron wasn't a champion.. He was lucky to be alive. He grimaced up at the hospital wing's ceiling as his failures replayed through his mind, bigger and bleaker in the revisiting. He was an incompetent idiot, and now he had a dead Hungarian Horntail on his conscience and an arm to regrow.
Madam Pomfrey came in, followed by Hermione and Dumbledore. Ron's face burned with shame and he looked away.
"It's all right, Weasley. Everyone thinks you did the best you could under the circumstances," said Hermione.
"If that's what everyone thinks why hasn't my family even been up to see me? Where's my mum? Are they that ashamed of me?"
Hermione blinked, confused. Madam Pomfrey's eyes widened with surprise and Dumbledore's brow furrowed with worry. Finally Madam Pomfrey plucked something silver off a tray and gently forced it into Ron's remaining hand. It was a mirror. Ron looked to them for some sort of explanation. They couldn't seem to speak, but their eyes said something he didn't want to hear.
Shakily he raised the mirror to his face. There, under a bit of fringe, was the envied scar; a lightning bolt across his forehead and through his heart. The mirror shattered to the floor.
Ron felt like he couldn't breathe. His mouth and nose were working but the air just wasn't coming through. He laughed - a perverted sound - and buried his face into his knees. Ron would cry but the tears refused to come. Instead he just laughed and laughed, strangled and desperate noises scratching the air like nails on a chalkboard.
Unsure fingers curled their way into his hand in a courageous act of comforting. There was Hermione, crying because he could not.
"Thanks," he uttered, his voice cracking and dying with the gratitude.
He pinched his own arm and a curious, small fear clutched at his heart. His head felt too heavy for his neck and so he rested it on the table ledge. "Any moment now I'm going to wake up . . ."
Hermione had stood up and was brushing the toast crumbs off her front. She looked at him for a moment and then sighed. "You think you're so funny, always pulling tricks on me."
Ron didn't bother to lift his head. "I'm not the one playing tricks. Something really bizarre is going on."
Hermione's face twisted up into a tiny bit of concern. This wasn't the same boy who had teased her for the past three years. He seemed kinder, and sadder. It was very bewildering.
"Maybe you should go see Dumbledore?" she offered, hesitantly.
Ron sat up suddenly. "I know! I'll see Hagrid, maybe he'll have an idea."
Hermione stepped back. "You're going to go to Azkaban?"
Ron gaped at her and swallowed hard. "Hagrid's in Azkaban?"
Hermione's eyes were downcast and sorrowful. "Of course."
The silence born from those words seemed to run down the entire table, squelching any noisy excitement about the forthcoming Triwizard Tournament. Hermione hovered, unsure of whether she should stay or leave.
"It's not Sunday, is it?" Ron mumbled.
"Um, no," Hermione replied.
"I'm . . . Hogwarts Champion in the Tournament, aren't I?" he whispered.
"Along with Cedric Diggory, yes. Most of the school is vouching for him, I'm afraid. Even most of Gryffindor . . ."
"And you?" Ron almost couldn't bear the answer he anticipated and shut his eyes firmly so he wouldn't have to look at her.
She said nothing. When he finally cracked his eyes open she had fled and a flimsy looking Support RON WEASLEY badge was resting on his empty plate.
Ron muddled through his morning classes in a haze, finding himself back in the Great Hall far too promptly. He prodded at his food unenthusiastically, trying to make lunch stretch out into the next decade. And then Professor McGonagall rushed over to him.
"Weasley, the champions have to come down into the grounds now . . . you have to get ready for your first task."
Ron stood up silently and followed her. A measly few "Good Lucks" and a many "Don't get killed" flittered after him.
"Now don't panic," she said as Ron felt a panicky aching build up inside his chest, "just keep a cool head . . . we've got wizards on hand to control the situation if it gets of out hand . . . the main thing is just do your best, and nobody will think any worse of you . . . are you all right?"
"No. I don't think so," Ron groaned as they approached the edge of the Forest where a giant tent had been pitched.
--
Ron wasn't a champion.. He was lucky to be alive. He grimaced up at the hospital wing's ceiling as his failures replayed through his mind, bigger and bleaker in the revisiting. He was an incompetent idiot, and now he had a dead Hungarian Horntail on his conscience and an arm to regrow.
Madam Pomfrey came in, followed by Hermione and Dumbledore. Ron's face burned with shame and he looked away.
"It's all right, Weasley. Everyone thinks you did the best you could under the circumstances," said Hermione.
"If that's what everyone thinks why hasn't my family even been up to see me? Where's my mum? Are they that ashamed of me?"
Hermione blinked, confused. Madam Pomfrey's eyes widened with surprise and Dumbledore's brow furrowed with worry. Finally Madam Pomfrey plucked something silver off a tray and gently forced it into Ron's remaining hand. It was a mirror. Ron looked to them for some sort of explanation. They couldn't seem to speak, but their eyes said something he didn't want to hear.
Shakily he raised the mirror to his face. There, under a bit of fringe, was the envied scar; a lightning bolt across his forehead and through his heart. The mirror shattered to the floor.
Ron felt like he couldn't breathe. His mouth and nose were working but the air just wasn't coming through. He laughed - a perverted sound - and buried his face into his knees. Ron would cry but the tears refused to come. Instead he just laughed and laughed, strangled and desperate noises scratching the air like nails on a chalkboard.
Unsure fingers curled their way into his hand in a courageous act of comforting. There was Hermione, crying because he could not.
"Thanks," he uttered, his voice cracking and dying with the gratitude.
