Dear Harry
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue?
Rating: PG
Summary: Ronald reflects on the idea of writing versus speaking, middle names, run-on sentences and collar bones in the form of a letter to Harry.
A/N: I wrote this between the hours of 3:00 am and 5:00 am when all other forms of inspiration had run out, and I got the phrase "I will never send this letter" stuck in my head. It's now a little past 5:45 am, and here I am, posting a finished one-shot. At least, I think it'sa one shot. I can see lots of ways that I could stretch this out though, so if you enjoy it, do let me know. I'll see if I can't write a little more - this ficlet turned out so differently from how I thought it was going to (it started as SB/RL angst!) that I'm not sure in what ways it would continue. But I suppose I'll find out. Anyway, please enjoy!
Dear Harry,
I will never send you this letter. I have to tell you that now, before we begin, so that it doesn't even cross your mind. Not that it would cross your mind, since you're never going to read this letter, of course. Because I'm never going to send it to you. Right.
There, now that I've got that out of the way, I can say it. Well, not say it. I am writing after all, not just, y'know, randomly talking out loud as though I were reading a letter.
So. Now that we've, or rather, now that I've affirmed the fact that you will never read this letter and I am not, in fact, speaking out loud to myself, I can write it down. 'Write what down?' you ask. Well, no, you don't ask, but…
Goddammit.
I am in love with you, Harry.
I, Ronald Billius Weasley, am in love with you, Harry James Potter.
I really hate my middle name, did you know that, Harry? I don't think you did. You probably never will know that. But it's the truth. I hate my middle name. I mean, really, Billius? What were my parents thinking? Alright, alright, look at that sentence. No, not that one, the one above, the one where I say I'm in love with you. Okay, now, really look at it. The word "Billius"… doesn't it just sort of… stick out? Really, every time I try to write something serious that involves my middle name – not that I make a habit out of it, mind you – everything is totally ruined by the fact that my middle name is Billius. Honestly.
Anyway, I'm rambling again. Back to point.
Oh, Merlin, do I even have a point? Why am I writing this letter? You'll never read it, I'm embarrassed to write it, the very fact that it's written down at all increases the chances of someone finding out about me by exponential chances, and…
You're laughing at me.
And I don't mean you're laughing because you're reading this letter and thinking "What a fool old Ronnie is!" because you're not, and you never will. You're laughing at me because just a moment ago you and Dean got in a very involved discussion of whether or not the Kestrels had a chance at the Cup this year, and when you asked me what I thought, I didn't respond because I was busy writing my very secret love letter to you. So then you and Dean stared at me for a minute, and I looked up because you'd stopped talking, and then Dean made a crack about how I was finally concentrating on something for once, and you said "Maybe he's writing a love letter!" and now you two are laughing your brains out, and… oh, Harry, if only you knew.
You might (or might not, for that matter) notice that I'm using extremely proper spelling and punctuation while writing this letter. I'm not sure why I'm doing that. Probably just because I always thought that love letters should be a little more formal than plain old "How's it going?" letters. And they should definitely be more formal than "lust letters," in which one should try to adopt a sort of messy, rushed, secretive scrawl. "Meet me in the Astronomy Tower at 9 tonight," looks so much better in a messy scrawl than it does in neat handwriting, all properly punctuated. Not that I would know. I've never written a lust letter to anyone.
Actually, that's not true. I wrote one to you once. But I didn't sign it or address it or send it, so I don't think it counts.
You and Dean have given up trying to figure out the odds of the Kestrels playing the Sparrowed Lanyels again this season, so Dean's gone down the Common Room to find Seamus and now you're saying "Well, I think I'll go to bed then, if you're going to be so boring with your journal entry there."
"It's not a journal entry."
"Well then, what is it?"
"It's a letter."
"To whom?"
"To… no one."
"No one as in 'no one,' or no one as in actually no one? Because I think if it's a letter to a 'no one' then I should know who 'no one' is."
"No, it's… it's really a letter to no one."
"Oh, well. Then it's a journal entry."
Oh, Harry. I hate lying to you. You're not no one. You'll never be a no one, though I know you wouldn't mind it. You were born for something great, Harry, and… and I'll stop talking, or rather, writing, about that, because I know it bothers you when people talk about being 'great'.
You are great though, Harry. I don't mean great as in "all-powerful lord on high" great, I just mean, like… super. You're super, Harry. You're awesome. You're wonderful. You're perfect.
Well, maybe not perfect. But close enough.
I'm not quite sure how to say, or rather, how to write this down. I mean, this next bit that I'm about to write.
Harry, you're… you're getting undressed right now. I mean, you're being all secret and private about it, because you always do that. But, nonetheless, you're taking off your clothes and getting undressed and…
Well, now you're putting on your night clothes. But just a moment ago you were wearing nothing but underwear and I'm blushing like mad right now –
"Ron, you're blushing like mad."
"Yes."
"Are you alright?"
"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I'm fine."
"Do you have a fever?"
"Possibly."
"Here, let me feel your forehead-"
"No, that's okay."
"Really, Ron, just let me check."
"No! Really! I'm fine!"
"I just want to check!"
"Don't touch me!"
"…fine. Sorry."
I'm sorry. I'm so so so sorry. I did not mean to yell at you. You look so sad now, and I'm so sorry, I did not mean to snap, it's just that you were about to touch my forehead, and your nightshirt was a little unbuttoned and I could see your collarbones and I didn't want you to touch me because I could see down your shirt and that would've made me nervous and I've really got to stop blushing or you'll make me go to Madame Pomfrey, or worse, you'll get Hermione and make her make me go to Madame Pomfrey.
Professor McGonagol says I run my sentences together and that I need to learn the proper uses of a period and a semicolon. I do, don't I? I run my sentences together. I do it when I talk too. I'm awful that way, aren't I? McGonagol also says I need to stop using the Reflexive so often, but I'm not sure what that is. I should probably ask Hermione.
"Ron?"
"Yes?"
"Do we talk often enough?"
"Huh?"
"Do we, you know, share things often enough? I mean, feelings and stories and things."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Okay. I just thought, you know, if there was anything you wanted to share…"
"I dunno. Er. I hate my middle name."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"What's your middle name again?"
"Billius."
"Oh. Right. Yeah, I suppose I'd hate having Billius as my middle name too."
"Anyone would. Besides, Harry Billius Potter sounds awful."
"True."
You're saying goodnight to me now, and pulling your drapes shut. Harry Billius Potter does sound awful. I suppose Ronald James Weasley doesn't sound particularly, you know, eloquent either. Ron Potter isn't bad though.
Your light is out now. Goodnight, Harry. I love you.
And that is that. R/R and I'll bake you a cookie! D