by She's a Star
Disclaimer: My name is Joanne Rowling, and I wrote the wildly successful Harry Potter books. One of my words has been added to the dictionary, and I'm seven times richer than the Queen of England.
. . . If you believed any of that, I really do pity you.
Rather, my name is Nita, and I wrote this mushy but still oddly delightful fanfic in which Ron (who was created by aforementioned Joanne Rowling) pines after Hermione (who was also created by aforementioned Joanne Rowling) and laments over the fact that his first Quidditch (which was also created by aforementioned Joanne Rowling) match is approaching rapidly. I am known to read the dictionary for enjoyment's sake, and I'm seven times richer than . . . someone out there, I'm sure, with my two hundred or so dollars that I will no doubt spend at a frightening speed once I'm in Seattle over the next three weeks.
. . . And that was one really interesting disclaimer.
Author's Note: This takes place right before Ron's first Quidditch match, and you've probably already figured that out due to the really interesting disclaimer. I had fun with this - I haven't properly written Ron in quite awhile, so this brought me joy.
Doomed.
That's it - that's what I am.
Absolutely bloody doomed.
Why did I try out for the team in the first place? I'm no good! I couldn't guard a goalpost to save my life! My one spectacular, celebrated move was a complete accident! I can't even play properly by myself, let alone in front of the entire school.
The entire school.
That's a lot of people.
Gulp.
Including the Slytherins. I hate the bloody Slytherins. I don't even want to think about how they'll torture me after this - not that they aren't torturing me already.
What was I thinking?! What??
Maybe I was trying to impress Hermione, and I just didn't realize it. I've been doing that a lot lately. It's right scary. I mean, I find myself just staring at her without realizing it, and thinking things like 'God, she looks nice when she's concentrating' and 'Her hair's quite lovely, actually'. Who thinks things like that? I mean, it would be one thing if it were Cho Chang - then I could act like an idiot like Harry. But this . . . this is Hermione. No one would understand what the bloody hell I was going on about, because frankly, I don't think anyone else sees her like I do. They don't notice the little things about her that make her so interesting, like the way she kind of narrows her eyes when she's thinking really hard, and how she always seems to drag my name into two syllables - "Ro-on" - and usually, she's mad when she does this, but other times she's just pretending to be, and her eyes sparkle while she says it.
. . . I'm going off on another Hermione tangent. I don't have time for Hermione tangents. Not right now. Not when I'm about to destroy my whole entire life just because I was subconsciously trying to impress her. I don't know what I was bloody thinking, anyway! Hermione doesn't give a damn about Quidditch. She cares about . . . books, and homework, and O.W.L.s, and Harry, and . . . me, I guess. I hope. She's not going to suddenly collapse into my arms and sigh 'take me, I'm yours!' because I'm on the stupid house Quidditch team.
. . . Though it would be really fantastic if she did.
But she won't, anyway. She definitely won't, and I have to stop coming up with this romantic fantasy rubbish. It's downright embarrassing. I'm just glad that no one knows I think these things. If they did . . .
Uuuughh.
Fred and George would tease me within an inch of death.
They're bloody bastards like that sometimes.
Well . . . most of the time.
Then again, they'll probably murder me on the spot when I'm the sole reason that Gryffindor loses with flourish.
Oh, God. I'm going to be the new leper of Gryffindor House. Nobody's going to talk to me - everyone's going to hate me for destroying our chance at winning the Quidditch Cup! I mean, sure, it's only the first match, but the first match is important, and we have to get off on a good start! But will we? No way in hell. I can't play. I just can't. Maybe I'll stuff my face with food and make myself sick. They won't make me play if I'm sick, will they?
. . . But then Gryffindor would be short a player, and there'd be no Keeper at all, and everyone would hate me for that.
Dammit.
I'm trapped. There's no way to escape my doom.
All right. Just . . . sit up straight. Take a few deep breaths. Face this like a man, Weasley. No matter what, Harry and Hermione will still talk to you. They won't desert you.
. . . What if they do desert me? What if Hermione stops talking to me, or if she only snaps at me all the time (never mind that she seems to be doing that anyway), and glares at me, and says things like 'Honestly, Ron Weasley, I don't know why they let you on the Quidditch team. You've ruined everything for Gryffindor, you know.'
Why me?
I want to die.
Where is Hermione, anyway?
Oh, she and Harry are over there - they've gotten up already. Looks like they're whispering about something. What are they whispering about? Probably how awful I am.
. . . Wait a second.
Why is her hand on his arm?
She doesn't . . . fancy Harry, does she?
She can't fancy Harry! He likes Cho, and it's pretty bloody obvious, if you ask me! How could Hermione just go and like Harry, what with Cho? And she says I'm inconsiderate. Hmph. At least I'm not ruining potential relationships. I mean, Harry and Cho make a good couple. Why would Harry choose Hermione over Cho? Cho's pretty. Sure, she's a stupid Tornado lover, but wouldn't he choose her over Hermione?!
I wouldn't, of course.
I would never fancy a Tornado lover.
Do I look completely stupid?
Hmph.
Well, I'm definitely going over there. I'm going to interrupt their little love fest. I can't bloody believe this - they both know that I'm miserable, and that I'm going to meet my doom in a few short minutes, and still they're putting hands on each other's arms when they think I'm not looking?
Some best friends.
Oh, they've gone all quiet now that I'm over here. They were definitely talking about me. I just can't believe--
"Good luck, Ron," Hermione says, and her voice is all kind and soft (like her, really, to go all sweet when I'm trying to be mad at her), and stands up on tiptoe, and . . . kisses me. Oh my God. She's kissing me. Her lips are on my cheek. My God, I can't move. I . . . Hermione. Hermione is kissing me.
I really love her.
. . . Okay. She's gone. What? Already? That wasn't very long! It had to be like a second!
"And you, Harry--"
But at the same time, it was one bloody wonderful second.
Does this mean . . . she likes me? Because, okay, I know that she kissed Harry on the cheek last year at King's Cross, but Harry had just nearly died. He needed some moral support. Me, I'm just playing in a measly Quidditch match. Not quite on the same level as facing You-Know-Who.
God, if she likes me . . . I kind of thought she did, last year, what with her glaring at Fleur all the time and shouting 'next time there's a ball, ask me before someone else does and not as a last resort!', but this year, she's just been glaring and snapping and 'Honestly, Ron!'-ing to the point where I just want to kill myself.
But she kissed me.
Hermione Granger kissed me.
And she didn't kiss Harry, either. She just kind of touched his arm, really quickly. Maybe this arm-touching thing is a strictly platonic action. After all, she doesn't touch my arm very often.
Okay. So I fancy Hermione. I really, really, really fancy Hermione, to the point where I don't just want to snog with her in the Astronomy Tower - I want to get down on one knee and give her a ring and ask her to marry me so we can be together forever and . . .
Er.
Eh ehm.
Anyway.
Oh . . . I suppose Harry and I are walking. I hadn't really noticed. We've just gone outside; we're going down the steps . . .
Oh, damn. I've got my hand on my cheek. I probably look like a complete bloody idiot, staring dreamily into space and touching the spot where she kissed me. Harry's probably figured it out by now, that I . . . fancy her, unless he's far more daft than I ever expected.
So, we're nearing the stadium. We're going to be playing in about five minutes - the Slytherins are probably going to be laughing themselves stupid, and I'll be lucky if I don't get nervous and fall off my broom.
But Hermione Granger kissed me, and there's a tiny possibility that Hermione Granger might even fancy me.
And that makes the impending doom slightly more bearable.