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CHAPTER 2: CRY ME A RIVER

By eight o'clock that night Ron had regained the feeling in his legs and was sitting cross-legged on his bed in the guest room trying to get Pig to calm down. Since he and Harry were supposed to be in constant contact with the Order of the Phoenix, he'd had the annoying little twit foisted on him so that he could "keep in touch". Ron suspected that his mum just wanted the twittering pest out of her house. In fact, Pig was annoying him so much that he hoped Crookshanks would take a dislike to it. He certainly wouldn't get angry at the cat if it did that.

Ron looked around, already bored with his surroundings. Muggle houses weren't nearly so interesting as his dad said. If you poked something you were unfamiliar with it didn't poke you back. It didn't answer in a funny voice or blow up. None of the pictures on the walls even moved, although Ron was sure that Hermione had some wizard pictures from Hogwarts. In fact, there was nothing of the Hermione he knew in this house, no indication that within its walls there lived the maddest, smartest, barmiest (coolest) witch in the whole world. (Not that he'd thought all that much about it or anything).

Ron, being a Weaseley, couldn't stay put long when he was bored. Growing up in a large, boisterous family, the concept of privacy was totally foreign (privacy in The Burrow meant "Get the hell out of your mother's way until she's gotten it out of her system with dad.") When you were bored you just went and bothered one of your siblings until they provided some entertainment, either by cheering you up or starting a fight. He padded out through the house, determined to find Harry (where was The Boy That Falls Over whenever Cho Chang Smiles anyway?) terrified that he might run into Mr. Granger (who, Ron was convinced, hadn't smiled at him even once during dinner. Ron feared that his attempts at charm might have convinced him that he was some kind of higher functioning autistic). Downstairs he would hear the television blaring (he'd take the sounds of Fred and George blowing things up any day). He tiptoed across to Hermione's room, determined to ask her if she knew where Harry was.

Knocking lightly on her door, he called out "Hermione?" a few times but there was no answer. Maybe she was listening to that diskman thing she'd brought to The Burrow last summer, he thought. She must be in there. Where else could she be? Gingerly he opened the door and poked his head in…

And that's when he saw him. His rival. The Muggle wombat that Hermione had plastered all over her walls. Some big, tall lump of muscle who (judging by most of the posters in the room) had a severe allergy to shirt fabric. Ron stared, agog and aghast, at the sheer volume of images on her walls. He read the name on the posters with scorn. Justin Timberlake. Well, he sounded like a pillock already. This, this, tree-with-arms-and-legs seemed to be everywhere, and usually wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. Ron was out of breath: he couldn't believe his eyes. His innocent Hermione came home to look at this? This was nothing but porn for teenage girls! If he'd had pictures like that on the walls of his room his mother would've hauled him out of bed by the ear and given him a stern talking to, that was for certain! This was indecent, that's what it was and if good hair (and admittedly he had very good hair, which made it even more annoying) and muscles were all that Hermione Granger were interested in then he was just going to pack his bags and walk out the door-

You can't do that, you twat! A voice in his head yelled. Are you just going to let some muppet with an allergy to cotton and an over-developed relationship with his comb chase you away from the girl you've-you've... always wanted to get help in Arithmancy from? No! You're a Weaseley, and Weaseleys don't give up! They get beaten up and drop things and sometimes wear completely dodgy dress robes in public but they don't give up. Who are you, this heartening voice demanded, a Gryffindor or a Slytherin? The bloke who survived The Forbidden Forest, The Whomping Willow and the Department of Mysteries? Or some little cupcake who runs at the first sign of trouble?

But look at him! Ron's other inner voice wailed. I'll never look like that! If I even attempted to do that on the hood of a car I'd dislocate something. How could I ever compete with him? And he's a Muggle. He's got mystery. I've got a scar from a rat bite. And, well, I don't want her thinking of me like that. If you're a Cleansweep you don't want a girl expecting you to be a Firebolt, now do you? Ron had unknowingly, sunk down on her bed. He felt sick to his stomach, right sick. The only other experience that came close was when he'd first seen her on the arm of another wombat, one Vicky Krum. Why did everyone go haring after this thing called love if this was the only way it made you feel?

Because it's Hermione, the other voice said. And she'd be worth anything. She'd be worth… more than the Chudley Cannons winning the Premiership, and that was a fact. So sit down, shut up and practice your pout, because if it takes all night you're going to figure out exactly what this wanker Timberplank's got that makes her tick…