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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Harry the Psychoanalyst

The usual battle for the bathroom had developed into a full-scale war in recent days. An unnerving household at the best of times, The Burrow was fast becoming something of a lunatic asylum, especially in the early mornings and at night, so that evening Harry moved hastily up the outside stairs from Ron's room and through the attic with a heavy feeling of foreboding. The bathroom was half way between Ginny's bedroom at the back of the house, and the twins' at the front, and since Harry and Ron were at a distinct disadvantage owing to the inoperative bedroom door, they were unfailingly the last to reach the scrum in the hall.

Harry's walk was brisk. He entertained the vague hope that his deliberate tardiness may have won him the use of the shower without constant hammering on the door and rounds of violent verbal abuse.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs after wrestling his way past the grouchy ghoul, who had berated Harry sharply for disturbing him, the sound of raised voices in the hall below reached his ears.

"Oh, for goodness' sake! You're being totally unreasonable!"

"I'm just sick to the back teeth of people trying to talk to me all the time!"

"Oh, well, excuse me for being concerned about you!"

"It's all very well to be concerned, Hermione, but you know every tiny little way to wind me up so badly I feel worse than before you started!"

"Grow up, Ron, and stop feeling so damned sorry for yourself!"

"I'm NOT feeling sorry for myself, I'm just pissed off with you nagging me incessantly!"

"If you'd take a look from my point of view maybe you'd realise that what I'm saying is only common sense!"

"Like hell it is! You don't give a DAMN how I feel, really! You accuse ME of being selfish! Take a look at yourself for once in your life, and stop giving me a hard time!"

If mortification and horror could take physical form, Harry saw it in Hermione's face just then. He was several feet away from them on the attic stairs, and the hall was only dimly lit by the light emanating from cracks in various doors along the landing, but the watery shine that arose in Hermione's eyes was plainly obvious to him, if not to Ron.

"Fine," she said, tremulously. "If that's how you want it." She turned on her heel and stalked past the stairs towards the bedroom she was sharing with Ginny. In a low voice tinged with bitterness, she muttered - "Happy birthday, Harry," as she walked by, her head held high. Ginny's bedroom door swung shut leaving Ron and Harry alone on the landing.

Ron let out a long, shuddering breath as the tension in his body subsided. He glanced up at Harry. It was a look that plainly said 'don't say anything'. Harry descended the stairs slowly, and faced Ron squarely.

"I know, I know," muttered Ron in a harsh whisper. "Ssh. Come in here." He took Harry by the arm and steered him into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind them. Harry sat down on the edge of the bath, dropping his towel and washbag onto the carpet.

"Don't you start as well," said Ron, blandly. There was no trace of malice or anger in his voice now, which encouraged Harry to reply frankly. He knew from experience that trying to reason with Ron in one of his tempestuous moods was effectively suicide.

"She means well. She's just a tad unsubtle at times."

Ron snorted, and began pacing up and down the bathroom. "Yeah, you could put it that way."

"You're not much better," said Harry, more forcefully. "You wind her up just as much."

Ron stared, his eyes flashing angrily. "I didn't think you'd take her side over mine!"

"I'm not taking her side!" objected Harry, rather too loudly. Hastily he lowered his voice. "I know she pisses you off and I know she handles things badly sometimes."

"Why do I get the feeling you're about to say 'but'?"

Harry bit back a heated retort, and took a deep breath. "But despite all that, she does care. Why do you think she came down to the treehouse the other day? I was ready to go but she stopped me. She wanted to talk to you."

"Yeah, and a fine mess we made of that."

Harry sighed. At least it was 'we' now, and not all Hermione's fault. "Can you sort this one out?"

Ron shrugged, his face creased in an infuriated glare. "If she'd just stop acting like a bossy cow I wouldn't get mad at her!"

"Say that a bit louder, Ron, I don't think she heard you from Ginny's room!" snapped Harry, rapidly losing patience.

"I don't care if she does!" retorted Ron, bitterly. "I just bloody well wish I could say it to her face!"

Harry's taut posture relaxed. He might be many things, but he wasn't blind. Neither was he stupid, so his initial response died a swift death on the tip of his tongue.

"Can you at least try not to kill each other before we even get back to school?" he suggested instead. However, it seemed that Ron was only half listening to him. He had resumed his pacing, muttering all the while.

"Am I not allowed to have bad days? Am I not allowed to be bothered by a problem? Why the hell does she have to always turn it around so everything is about her and not me?"

A loud bang on the door made them both jump, followed by an irritated voice.

"Ron? Is that you in there?" It sounded suspiciously like Bill. "Get a bloody move on, man. I'm dying out here!"

Ron stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned his back on the door, looking mutinous.

"It's me, Bill," Harry called, seeing that Ron was not going to co-operate. "I'm getting in the shower!"

Bill's muffled and violent expletive raised a slight smile at the corner of Ron's mouth. Harry wondered what Mrs Weasley would do to him if she knew he had such a colourful vocabulary. The thought was quite entertaining, actually.

Harry's eyebrows rose faintly. Such unusually hostile feelings towards the eldest Weasley were rather troubling.

Jealous. I told you so.

Shut the hell up.

It took a few seconds for Harry to realise he had spoken the last phrase aloud.

"What?" snapped Ron, scowling.

"Nothing." Harry was starting to feel uncomfortably self-conscious whenever thoughts of Ginny intruded into his mind while one or more of her brothers was in the vicinity. He shifted awkwardly on the side of the bath.

"Seriously, Harry, I can't stand this!" hissed Bill from outside. "Just give me two seconds, OK?"

"Great, now what are we going to do?" muttered Ron, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry shrugged. Nothing was ever simple in this house, he reflected, not even trying to hold a civilised conversation in the bathroom at one o'clock in the morning. Deciding that he'd better get it over with, he rose fluidly to his feet and opened the door to Bill.

"Bloody hell!" was Bill's astonished exclamation. "What, you need help to hold the soap, Harry?"

"Shut up, Bill," growled Ron, threateningly. "We were talking, and we didn't want to be overheard."

"Yeah, yeah, OK," Bill muttered, absently, thrusting his way past them towards the wall. "Go talk in your room."

***

Ron's sleep that night was far from peaceful. It was almost dawn before Harry was able to shut his ears to the infuriating rustle of Ron's quilt, and his breathy sighs and grunts as he tossed and turned. Harry was willing to bet that Ginny was having just as hard a time falling asleep as he was, since Hermione was bound to have yelled and complained about Ron well into the small hours.

Oh, dear God - Ginny.

From that point on, sleep was impossible.

***

"It's not that I don't care. Of course I'm worried about him!"

Hermione was perched on a low rock just above the surface of the river, her cropped trousers pushed up above her knees so she could run her toes through the water. It was a shady patch not too far from the table which Mrs Weasley had conjured to hold the day's supplies of food, drink and other odds and ends.

Already the twins and entourage were splashing in the water, shrieking and yelling like children. From somewhere Fred had acquired a Muggle water pistol, which he had subsequently enchanted to refill itself without manual aid, and to squirt constantly at anyone who came within an eight foot radius of it.

Mr Weasley reclined in a large armchair which had sprung from the end of his wand. His head was tilted back, his ankles were crossed, his hands folded neatly in his lap on top of the scrunched newspaper, and he was snoring heavily.

Harry sighed as he leaned back, supporting his weight on his elbows. Hermione had been ominously quiet all the way upstream from The Burrow, and Harry had paid dearly for his casual enquiry of - "Are you OK, 'Mione?" - by being treated to a tirade of disjointed mutterings concerning the ineptitude of Ron.

He let her chatter on ceaselessly, knowing the entire spiel inside out from years of experience. Instead, he allowed his eyes to wander over the scene before him, from the twins and their friends in the water to Bill and Fleur strolling leisurely along the riverbank on the opposite side. He smiled slightly, and was then swiftly consumed by a cascade of discontent. Bill had known Fleur for approximately nineteen hours, and already they were flirting casually, observed by the rest of the family with mild satisfaction and amusement.

As for himself -

If anything, Ginny was further away from him than she had ever been, and they had been good friends for several years now. Maybe that's why, Harry mused, mournfully. He had only himself to blame, really. Typical, Potter. To fall for a girl just as soon as she stops liking you.

"Harry, are you even listening?"

Hermione was viewing him sternly from a sitting position.

"Yes, I am," he lied, defensively. "And I know Ron's not exactly your favourite person right now, but can you please try and sort this out without fighting even more?"

Hermione made a noise that was both wrathful and despondent. "I told you before. It takes two to make peace."

Harry snorted unsympathetically. "It also takes two to make war." He changed tack as Hermione's face softened in surprise and dejection. "As far as I can see, this began when he got angry about Percy. Then he got even more angry because you interrupted him while he was angry. So now you're angry with him for not being grateful for your sympathy and concern, and he's still angry because he knows he screwed up and he's too damned proud to admit it." Harry ran out of breath and inhaled deeply. He was quite impressed with himself.

So, apparently, was Hermione. "Gosh, Harry," she said, disconcertedly. "I thought I was the one with all the psychological know-how!"

"It's common sense," shrugged Harry, fighting back a grin. "And it's also true."

Hermione sighed, visibly mellowed. "Guess it's up to me, then." She stared at the rock for a moment, fiddling with the head of a weed that was growing in a crack.

"I reckon so," replied Harry. "If he's going to act the prat, you've got to be mature enough for both of you."

Hermione raised her head and smiled mischievously. "When did you start playing the counsellor?" Harry stared back at her, bemusedly.

Harry shrugged. He had just imagined what Ginny would say faced with a similar situation. As a matter of fact, he had found it curiously easy to guess her responses.

Oh, God. Again, the sensation of having his insides squeezed by an iron ring made him blink.

Instinctively his eyes shifted to where Ginny and Ron stood in the ankle-deep water, deep in conversation. Ginny's lips were parted in a smile, and she was obviously trying to cheer Ron up somehow. Judging by the look on his face, she was succeeding in taking his mind off Hermione for a short while.

Harry heard a barely audible sigh next to him. He didn't need to turn his head to know that Hermione was gazing wistfully in the same direction as him.