Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Ron and Hermione and the rest of the merry bunch, I'm just playing with them...and be happy I can't give them horrible hair cuts like I used to give my barbies.

A/N: For Ben & Jerry's, may they never stop making Sweet Whirled.

And to She's a Star, maybe she always write stories involving Ron and killer anything.


He doesn't know he's better.

No, not better than Bill or Charlie or Fred or George or Ginny, or even Percy. He's not better than Harry, or Viktor, or Professor Dumbledore. He's better than Malfoy, but that's not much of a compliment seeing as most people are. He's better than her...

He's kinder, and braver, and a bit more opened minded, though only about some things.

He's Ron Weasley and he's better, though he doesn't know it.

He's better than chocolate.

He's better than transfiguration.

He's even better than Hogwarts, A History, and that's saying something.

But he doesn't know that. He still thinks like an eleven year old sometimes, thinking he has to best his brothers or sister, when he doesn't. Bill was Bill, and Charlie was Charlie, and Ginny's just Ginny, so all he do really, is be Ron. But he doesn't know that either. He can be a bit slow when he wants to be.

He's never tired to be better than Harry, for he's resigned himself to being the guy next the famous Harry Potter because he knows it'll matter in the end. Ron's good, Harry's great; not many notice good next to great but she does. Sometimes, good can mean more then great, though when you think about it you can't have great if you didn't have good to begin with.

He's not rich, but he's better than money. Better then trinkets or the red roses he can't afford. He's better then a dozen daisies, wrapped in brown paper given slightly wilted on a cold September morning.

He's Ronald B. Weasley and that makes him better than average grades and low self-esteem. It makes him better than the detentions he gets for cursing in class or calling certain teachers certain names that are less then proper. Ron Weasley is better than some nine to five job in a stuffy office behind a desk, or a scruffy flat somewhere in London that doesn't have proper heating.

He's better than average, better than normal, and better than plain.

He's better than just a best friend. He's a brother...and more.

But it's hard to tell him all that. It's hard to tell him that's he's better than comfort or familiarity. What would he say really, if she just walked up to him in the Great Hall and started going on about daisies and chocolate and good and great and Hogwarts, A History? He'd probably laugh, that clumsy laugh of his that seems to come from some spot inside that still resembles a child. Or his ears might go so red he'd blend into a Gryffindor banner, and mumble something like a thank you.

He's better than compliments. Or confessions, but only sometimes.

He's better than self-pity and hurt. Better than pain and happiness and winning.

He's better than the scarf he lent her when they went out for Care of Magical Creatures, better than warm brownies or cookie dough ice cream.

He's better than any old Quidditch player.

He's better than wisdom

He's better than heroics or nobility.

He's better than perfume that smells of candy canes.

He's better than Hogwarts, A History, and that's saying an awful lot.

He's better than lots of things.

He just doesn't seem to know yet.