THC
House: Slytherin
Class: Herbology
Category: Standard
Prompt: [Weather] Gentle rainstorm
Word Count: 1675
Disclaimers/TWs:
Beta's: The Slytherin Team
Summary: Ron ignores the cancelled Quidditch practice, and pays the price.
He grumbled mockingly to himself as he made his way to the empty Quidditch pitch, rolling his eyes at his best friend's words and warning: "There'll be a thunderstorm. No practice tonight." But if there was no practising, then how was he going to make the Gryffindor team? Tryouts started next week! There was no time to waste.
He shivered; a voice in the back of his head told him that it was a bad idea, and that he should listen to Harry, but his pride and stubbornness said otherwise. So, ignoring the cold, and the harsh breeze of the evening, Ron made his way to the entrance of the pitch. He was going to practise, whether there was going to be a thunderstorm or not.
There might be clouds in the sky, and no stars in sight, and perhaps, a distinct scent of rain threatening to fall at any moment, but none of that mattered to him.
What mattered was the tryouts. His abilities as a player, and whether or not he'd follow in Fred and Georges's footsteps.
He sighed and mounted his broom, a determined expression on his face as he flew his way to the goal posts. The pitch was booked for anyone to practise, but it was completely empty. It wasn't a sign for Ron to stop what he was doing, however. He wasn't going to be able to have his Keeper practise like he wanted, but he could still work on his speed and chasing abilities. So, he flew skillfully from one side of the pitch to the other.
Ron lost count after his seventh lap, and decided to work on weavering in and out of the goal posts. As he did this, he let his imagination and thoughts wonder.
He started to wonder what it would be like when Gryffindor would be cheering his name, or when he would save his first Quaffle. The feeling of pure happiness in his chest at his friends, and especially Hermione, being proud of him. It would be amazing. He just knew it.
He just had to get there.
But then doubt plagued him. Would he be good enough? What would happen if he got shy and didn't have the confidence to perform? He'd never live that down! He was sure he'd be a disappointment, whether he'd be a disappointment to his brothers, or his friends, well… He didn't know which was worse.
He hoped he wouldn't find out.
As he paused, sitting in between the goal posts, he looked up at the night sky, frowning slightly. He wasn't sure how long it had been since it started raining. He didn't even notice the first couple of drops. All he knew was there was now gentle, light rain, making the evening a little more chilly than it had been just moments before.
He ignored the rain as he completed a few laps around the pitch.
Soon, he decided to speed up, his hands gripped tightly to his damp broom, and he smiled to himself. Even if he did make a fool of himself, at least he knew he would try his best. Sure, getting on the team would be awesome, getting to spend more time with his best friend and getting to know his housemates, but… It wouldn't be the end of the world if he didn't get in. Right?
He was doing a very poor job in convincing himself of that.
Ron sighed heavily, his eyes fluttering shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was turning out to be very stressful. Maybe being alone with his thoughts was a bad idea.
The soft rain started pattering harder, but it was still only perhaps a gentle rainstorm, and the wind was stronger, he still had one hand on the broom as he flew down towards the ground, planning to pick up a Quaffle. He scratched the back of his neck, not feeling his left hand grip loosen as his speed picked up slightly.
Without warning, his left hand slipped off the broom, and Ron's heart started beating heavily, his eyes widening in panic as he tried to use his right hand to steady his broom. He wasn't quick enough, and he was heading faster to the ground than he would have liked.
He cursed inwardly, deciding to abandon his mission; he'd have to try and jump off his broom before he made contact with the ground. But he couldn't do that either; it was like his muscles were frozen into place, both mentally and literally.
Before he could do anything, he was tipped off his broom and face-planted into the muddy, wet grass of the pitch. He groaned out in pain, unable to get up. For a long time, he decided to lie on the ground pathetically and somewhat dramatically.
What he didn't expect to hear was laughter. He recognised who it was straight away, and he started to bang his head against the grass. Why couldn't he have just fallen alone, so no one would know? Why did there have to be someone there?
"That's the best thing I've seen in weeks!"
Ron didn't want to look up. He wasn't going to– his ears turning red from embarrassment– as he heard footsteps squelch through the now muddy pitch.
"Shut up," Ron replied, his face in the palm of his hands, still not moving from his position. He hurt all over. But was he going to give Harry the satisfaction of saying that he had been right? Absolutely not! Was it the rain that made him fall off his broom? Yes. Was he going to live this down? No. Was he regretting his life decisions? Absolutely.
"I told you so. Man, I really needed that laugh," Harry said, still chuckling. "Would it kill you to just listen to instructions every once in a while?"
"Yes, it would," Ron retorted childishly, as he tried to move. He managed to get up eventually, ignoring his pain, as he rested his arms on his knees, not caring that his clothes were getting soaked through. He glanced at Harry, who had a very amused expression on his face.
"If it helps, I saw you up there. You were looking great, and I think you're going to be ready for those tryouts." Harry said softly, grinning from ear to ear. He held out his hand for Ron to take.
Which he did, reluctantly. He wouldn't admit that knowing that Harry thought he was ready did help. Well, he would, just not right now. But then, as if to add insult to injury, as Ron held onto Harry's hand, his fingers slipped, and he fell back onto his backside.
He groaned once again.
Perhaps he and Neville had swapped places for the day? Yes. That made sense. He'd have to talk to Neville and see if he had been having any good luck recently.
Hearing Harry's laughter made Ron glare at his best friend.
"Stop laughing!" He snapped, as he eventually managed to stand up by himself.
"That looks worse than it should, come on, let's go to the Hospital Wing," Harry said, wrapping an arm around Ron's shoulders, helping him walk.
Ron grumbled under his breath but let Harry take him there. He was too tired to argue.
OoO
"I thought Professor McGonagall told everyone that Quidditch practice was cancelled, young man," Madame Pomfrey tutted, as she bandaged his swollen left hand. It was a little sprained, but would heal overnight.
"See, I'm not the only one who doesn't listen!" Harry exclaimed, somewhat proudly, with a smile that graced his features as he sat down on the chair next to the hospital bed.
"I'm fine! It was fine. Harry's just overreacting!" Ron tried, moving to sit up in his bed but grimaced when he found he couldn't move. How he managed to walk to the Hospital Wing was anyone's guess.
"Sit still. You're frozen, and you need to warm up. You are not to move until tomorrow morning, am I understood?" Madam Pomfrey's words acted as a question, but she delivered them in a way that was mandatory.
Ron reluctantly nodded his head, refusing to look at his best friend, knowing there would be a smug smile on Harry's face.
"Here, take this."
She handed him a mug, and Ron eyed it suspiciously. "What is it?" He asked, curiously.
"You'll see."
He drank it, and he found it warmed him considerably. He was about to ask a question, once again, but he couldn't. Looking out of the window was the last thing he remembered doing, noticing that it was showering lightly, the raindrops bouncing off the windows of the Hospital Wing, making the place very calming for him as he closed his eyes.
Before he knew it, everything went black.
OoO
"Honestly, mate, I'm so glad it was you and not Fred and George. I'd never hear the end of it!" Ron laughed, more to himself than to Harry, as he received the all-clear to go to lessons; his hand, and body, healed.
He was sitting on the side of the Hospital Wing bed, doing up his tie, making himself presentable for the day. He didn't do anything to his bed hair, however. He decided that was a problem for another time. But at the look on his best friend's face, Ron realised he had made a terrible mistake.
"I've forgotten my, uh, homework. I'll see you at breakfast… Bye!"
It took Ron only a second for him to realise exactly where Harry was going to go. "Harry, I swear, if you–"
He didn't finish his sentence, as he chased after Harry through the corridors, neither caring whether they'd get told off for doing so, or not.
"When I catch up to you, Harry– you'll wish you never even thought about telling them!"
"It's not them I'm telling!" Harry replied, picking up his running speed, not wishing to be killed by his best friend just yet.
"Oh, crap! You better not be telling Ginny! Come back here!"
