Chapter 14 - Textbook Finish

Following his latest session with Hermione Granger, Ron wheeled himself out into the S.P.E.W. car park feeling content and at ease with the world. His best friend, Harry, walked beside him as they discussed their plans for that evening. Due to his limited movement, they concluded that there wasn't much available for them to do besides sit around at home. So he had requested they visit a local bookshop in Greenwich to pick up the reading materials suggested by the therapist before heading back to his flat.

"So bookshop, then pizza, beer, and chess back at the flat," Harry confirmed.

"It's a date," Ron chuckled as he began to reminisce.

In all the years that they had been best friends, this combination of activities had been their go-to pastime—they had dubbed it The Golden Trio. Usually, it was an opportunity to unwind after training by spending some time together to discuss critical topics such as football and women. In their youth, pizza was accompanied by soda. However, once they had turned eighteen and could legally purchase alcohol, it was swiftly substituted for beer.

Whilst he was being helped into the car by Harry, Ron considered the profound impact his first two sessions had on the state of his mental health. Whether it was a consequence of growing up with five older brothers or society's perception of men and footballers in general, he had, for years, avoided sharing his thoughts and feelings. Instead, preferring to power through and persevere until they resolved themselves or ceased to exist—like a real man.

He realised now that it was ridiculous to have ever assumed being honest would make him any less of a man. It was wrong to have thought he was manly, walking through life with a crushing weight on his shoulders—an invisible burden that only he could see. For too long, he had assumed keeping things bottled up inside would spare others and show the world he was strong and capable. When in reality, he was finding himself buckling under the swirling bombardment of his own thoughts with no hope of escape. Two eventful sessions with her had changed his perspective, and he was now eager to share more during their next session. In the meantime, he supposed Harry would make a worthy listener and decided to continue sharing.

As they drove for the next thirty minutes, his best friend listened as he rambled on about his therapist. Starting with her tardiness and hideous choice of cardigan colours, Ron detailed her various mishaps to Harry. He ranted at length about her propensity for leaving sandwiches lying around her office space and her complete disregard for tact when analysing his responses to her questions.

"Honestly, she's a nightmare," he moaned as he finished complaining about her office not being ready to accommodate his wheelchair during their first session.

He continued to drone on and on about Hermione Granger, neglecting to mention the conversations or subjects they had discussed during their sessions together. Harry nodded along, offering single word responses as Ron spoke without pausing until they reached the bookshop.

Located in the heart of Greenwich, the shopfront of the bookshop was painted a deep crimson, which stood out amongst the drab colours of the adjoining shops on either side. The high glass windows were filled with promotional materials about the latest, best-selling crime thriller, whilst the sign above in lustrous gold lettering read, "Spellbound Books."

The pair wandered through the aisles of the bookshop, Ron still ploughing on with his portrayal of Hermione, pausing only to pull the occasional book off its shelf and examine it.

"Hey, check this out," Harry called, holding out a book. "How to teach quantum physics to your dog. Do you think Pig might find it useful?"

Ron gave a snort as he peered at the book's cover and replied, "First, we need one that teaches him to stop pissing on the rug."

They continued down the rows of bookshelves, laughing and joking as they picked out covers and titles that amused them. Harry picked out stories that involved magic, mythical creatures, and one with a murderous lunatic hell-bent on destroying teenagers at a school.

"At least he has the decency to wait until the end of the school year to attack," Harry stated, reading through the blurb on the back.

Between his constant rambles about his therapist, Ron opted for book covers that depicted knights. They were often illustrated in the embrace of a damsel or maiden in need of rescue, all of whom wore the same look of reverence as they gazed up at their hero.

"So, as I was saying, I don't think she likes football or footballers all that much. Can you believe it?" Ron asked, returning the book to its shelf.

Harry let out a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose before replying, "Yes, because it's the third time you've mentioned it!" Seeming to realise his tone, he lowered his voice to add, "Her opinion on footy won't have changed in thirty minutes."

"Right," Ron acknowledged. "But who doesn't like football?" he added with a groan of disappointment.

"I agree, and it sounds like you're making progress, so who knows, maybe you can convince her to like it?"

"I'll do that," Ron declared before deciding to tease Harry once more. "Hermione could do with changing it up a little, and don't get me started on those cardigans."

When Harry looked as if he were about to explode, he hastily added, "I'm kidding. No more talk about my therapist, I promise."

Harry gave him a grateful look, and they continued their search until they arrived at the self-help section. Remembering the books Hermione had suggested, Ron pulled out the list from his pocket and showed it to Harry. They then set about pulling random books off their shelves to see if they were the ones they needed. As he passed a bookshelf filled with guidance books, a particular cover caught Ron's eye. He snatched it off the shelf and turned to Harry, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement.

"I'll get this for you as an early wedding present. What do you think?"

Harry leant down to read the cover of the yellow and black book, "Making a marriage work for dummies? Already got it. Ginny picked up a copy before we started the wedding planning."

"Always prepared, Ginny is. How's the wedding planning coming along? Still on track for that winter wedding?"

Harry straightened himself up and appeared to ignore the question as he replied, "Give me the list. Maybe we should ask someone to show us where those books are."

As Ron held out the list, he snatched it and walked off, peering around the bookshelves for a member of staff who could assist them. Concerned by his best friend's reaction, Ron attempted to ask him about the wedding again, but he had disappeared around the corner.

Pushing aside Harry's odd behaviour, he glanced around for someone to serve them, eventually spotting a blonde-haired assistant helping another customer nearby.

"Harry," he called. "There's someone here we can ask."

Stepping out from behind a bookshelf, Harry strode up to the blonde-haired woman and waited for her to finish. Ron watched as he stood, bouncing on the tips of his toes before the woman turned around to face him.

"Hello again," she greeted. "What brings you back this time?"

"Oh—hey, Verity," Harry replied, looking uncomfortable. "I'm here with my friend Ron, he needs a few books, and we were hoping you could help us find them?"

Verity took the note from him and gave it a quick read, her mouth opening in shock as she read through the list of books. She then turned to face Ron, who watched her face fall even further at the sight of him in a wheelchair.

"Of course, you wait here, and I'll grab them for you," she answered, and with a look of sympathy, she darted off between the aisles in search of the reading materials.

Wheeling himself over to Harry, Ron asked, "Does she know you or something?"

"No, I mean yeah, sort of," Harry replied, looking as if he had been caught out. "She served me a couple of weeks ago. Gin and I wanted some wedding planning books."

Ron eyed him with scepticism. Harry Potter was not the kind of bloke who went to bookshops for wedding planning ideas. Dissatisfied with Harry's explanation, he was about to dig further when he was interrupted by a polite cough from behind him.

"Ron Weasley?" a voice asked.

"Yes, can I help you?" he replied, turning his wheelchair to see a man and young boy, both of whom looked awestruck at the sight of him.

The young boy gave a roar of delight and bounced up and down as his father asked, "We're huge fans! Would it be alright for my boy to get a picture, please?"

Nerves started to get the better of him as he considered declining the request. Since the injury, this had been the first time he had been recognised in public, and he was now unsure of how he should handle it. He had never been one to turn down an autograph or picture opportunity for fans, especially the younger ones. He knew how excited the prospect of meeting a footballer could be for a kid, and he could never bring himself to disappoint them.

But this was different. Sat in a wheelchair, struggling to make it back to full fitness, and battling mental health issues left a bleak outlook on the request.

"No, I'm—" he started, but the crestfallen look on the face of the young boy made him change his mind. "No, I'm more than happy to take a picture with a fan."

The looks of delight on both father and son's faces were enough to quell the negative thoughts as he motioned for Harry to come and take the pictures. Harry rushed over, instructing them to smile for the camera as they grinned and posed for several photographs.

"Thank you, Mr Weasley," the young boy said as he left with his father. "I hope you get well soon!"

"Cheers, kid," Ron called back, watching them leave.

Verity returned soon after, her arms filled with a stack of books, and accompanied them to the checkout to finalise their purchase.

"I'll get these paid for and meet you at the exit, shall I?" Harry offered.

Grateful at the opportunity to avoid queueing in the wheelchair, Ron gave a nod of thanks and wheeled himself towards the exit. As he approached the door leading back out onto the high street, he noticed a crowd gathered outside, pointing and peering into the bookshop. Curious about who the mass of people had been waiting for, he inched his wheelchair closer to the door. There was a sudden explosion of flashes and yells as the crowd whipped out several cameras and started snapping away.

"What the—"

The door to the store burst open as a gaggle of reporters and paparazzi clamoured around him, shoving and yelling as they tried to get closer to him. A cacophony of noise broke out as, all at once, they fired several questions at him.

"Ronald, are you planning on retiring following your traumatic injury?"

"Where's your girlfriend Lavender? Has she left you?"

"Reports indicate your injury has caused adverse effects on your sexual organs? Is this affecting your relationship?"

"What is the arrangement between yourself and Harry Potter? How long have you been visiting bookshops together?"

The reporters loomed over him like a pack of vultures, all asking questions he was not prepared to answer. Deciding it was safest to retreat back into the store, Ron attempted to wheel himself backwards, hoping they wouldn't follow him any further. However, his path was blocked by several cameramen and an overzealous reporter, who shoved a microphone into his face.

"Ronald, have you spoken with the manager? Is your position in the team now uncertain?" she asked. "Rumour has it, your mental health has deteriorated. Is it true you'll soon be released from your contract at Chudley United?"

Ron stammered, unable to come up with a coherent response. The cameras had left him with flash blindness, and he struggled to find his bearings as his vision became spotty. Anger and hurt pulsed through him as he listened to the vile comments and assertions made by the reporters. His heart began to pound, and the air around him felt thinner. Struggling to breathe and feeling as though the world was closing in around him, Ron sank into his wheelchair, praying they would leave him alone.

"Oi! Fuck off, you hateful sacks of shit," Harry's voice boomed over the crowd.

Ron looked up to see his best friend wading through the crowd of paparazzi, shoving them aside in an attempt to reach them. Realising who he was, many of them turned their attention to Harry, who forced his way to the handles of Ron's wheelchair and steered him out of the door. There were numerous yelps of pain as Harry seemed to push the wheelchair over the toes of several people. Out onto the busy high street and finding himself able to breathe once more, Ron let out several heaving gasps as they raced back to their car.

Undeterred by their escape, a few reporters and paparazzi gave chase on foot behind them, continuing their onslaught of questions. Harry tried with desperation to get him into the car, but as the reporters caught up to them, he gave up and grabbed Ron by the waist and hurled him into the back seat.

"I'm sorry, mate," he yelled as he shoved the wheelchair into the boot without folding it and rushed into the driver's seat before speeding off down the road to safety.

It was late into the evening, and Ron was lying on the sofa with a cold washcloth pressed to his head and a slice of pizza in hand. The drawl of the news reporter could be heard from the television as Harry sat on the floor, contemplating his next move on the chessboard laid out on the coffee table.

"I don't know why you want to see it," Harry said, moving his bishop.

"Because I want to know what mental shit they say about me," Ron fumed, flinging the washcloth from his head. "Queen to B2, and that's checkmate," he added, without looking at the chessboard.

Harry gave a feeble groan of disappointment at his loss before resetting the pieces.

"You need to ignore it. Besides, I messaged the club, and they've got the media team on it. I doubt we'll see anything on the news or on the back pages tomorrow."

Ron was about to argue back when his phone gave a loud ring. Sighing to himself, he picked it up and declined the call without checking to see who it was. Looking at the call log, he counted six other call attempts from his mother that evening before dropping the phone back onto the sofa and turning his attention to the television.

"Was that your mum?" Harry asked.

"Yeah."

"So why aren't you picking up? You know she's not going to give up, and she'll just resort to calling the—"

As if on cue, the landline phone started to ring, interrupting him.

"—landline."

This time, Ron ignored the telephone on the table beside him as it rang for several seconds before eventually cutting off. When the news reporter introduced the sports segment, Harry stood up and towered over Ron, blocking his view.

"Guilt trip time," Harry declared.

"What? No, piss off, Harry. That—that's not fair."

Ignoring his protests, Harry said, "Your mum's calling you, and you're not picking up… Do you know what I'd give for the chance to pick up a call from my mum?"

Ron scrunched up his eyes and let out a whimper as his best friend eyed him with a look of hurt and desperation. He had done it. Harry had played the ultimate guilt trip, and it had worked like a charm because a few seconds later, Ron's mobile phone rang once more.

Snatching it up, he finally answered the call and greeted, "Hi, Mum."

"Ronnie, what took you so long to answer my calls?" asked the voice of Molly Weasley through the phone.

"Yeah, sorry. Harry and I were playing chess, and I didn't hear the phone ring."

Harry shot him an angry glare for his bald-faced lie, which he dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"Have you eaten? Do you need me to bring you anything? It's no trouble."

"Mum, why would you travel from Devon to London just to bring me some food?" he asked, rolling his eyes at the idea.

"Well, I'm worried about you. Where's Lavender? Is she cooking enough for you?"

"Lav's at work, and she cooks plenty."

Molly had just begun to ask about Lavender returning to work before he cut her off, "Listen, Mum, I've got to go. I'll speak to you soon, yeah?"

There was a prolonged silence on the other end before his mother gave a loud sniff and replied, "All right, if you say so. I love you."

"Love you too," Ron replied before hanging up the call.

"You need to talk to her more. She's worried about you, and you promised you would," Harry said with a look of disappointment.

"I know, I know. It's just been a long day. Can we forget about it all?" he asked. "And I'm sorry you had to resort to guilt-tripping me."

"Don't ever make me do it again," Harry ordered, moving out of the way to give him a clear view again.

Turning his attention back to the television, he noticed the segment had moved on to the weather. The incident at the bookshop had not made it into the news. With a sigh of relief, he snatched up another slice of pizza.

"I promise you won't have to," he said, taking a bite and making the first move on the chessboard.

The pair continued to eat, drink, and play chess until a key could be heard turning in the door as Lavender let herself into the flat. She walked over into the living room carrying a large canvas and held it up for the pair to see.

"What do you think?" she asked, looking pleased with herself.

Ron stared at the canvas, which he assumed was some sort of abstract artwork, but couldn't form any conclusive answer as to what it was. It looked gaudy, the patterns were awful, and the colour choice clashed with everything within the flat.

"Uh—"

Hoping Harry had come up with a better response, he turned to him. Harry, however, was staring at the piece of art with a look of distaste on his face.

"The fuck is that meant to be?" he asked.

"It's called Divination," Lavender replied with the air of someone trying to maintain their dignity. "The practice of seeking knowledge of the future or the unknown."

Harry gave a snort of disgust as he turned his head at various angles to view the numerous splashes of paint on the canvas.

"Looks like someone just threw paint at a canvas to me," Harry commented.

"I painted it!" Lavender snapped.

Ron couldn't help but agree with Harry but was hesitant to voice his actual opinion. Especially now that he knew she had been the one to paint it. Taking a sip of beer and weighing up his options, he decided it was best for everyone if he were to just say nothing.

"I made it for you, Ron because I know you'll be getting better in the future."

Harry gave another snort that he tried to pass off as a cough when Lavender shot him an angry glare. Starting to feel awful about the whole situation now, Ron decided to lie and move on as fast as possible.

"Thanks, Lav. I love it."

She gave a delighted cheer and rushed over to give him a hug. Over her shoulder, Harry was once again shaking his head in disappointment. As Ron took another glance at the awful piece of artwork, Lavender declared that she planned to hang the canvas above the television. Wishing he could take back his comment, he let out a groan as she rushed off to find a hammer and nail.

Perhaps being honest and open with everyone was a bridge too far? After all, he had only been to two sessions with Hermione Granger. He had a lot more to learn before he could master his own thoughts and feelings. Maybe then he could share more with his mother and Lavender? But for now, Harry and Hermione seemed like a suitable pair to start with.