He'd known the second he'd seen Charlie and heard about the dragons how wrong he'd been. Maybe he'd known before that. Ron didn't really know, hadn't really dissected the whys, the hows, the motivations, the feelings. Who cared about that rubbish, anyway?

Bill had told Ron once that he wasn't a particularly introspective lad. Ron didn't know exactly what that meant, but he knew it wasn't meant to be a compliment. But then Bill had laughed — a warm, convivial laugh designed to let Ron in on the joke — and said that most boys were the same way at Ron's age. According to Bill, he certainly had been. Bill's words hadn't been a condemnation, like it would have been if Percy had said it, but merely an observation.

Still, Ron Weasley didn't spend a whole lot of time thinking about his feelings. What would be the point? Feelings were feelings and it wasn't like they were going to change.

But watching Cedric struggle against a dragon — what was he doing with that rock, anyway? — Ron couldn't help but think about things. Why hadn't he believed Harry? Did he really think Harry had been lying or had he just been jealous like everyone accused him of?

All Ron knew was he and Harry had fought, and then he'd just kept doubling down on his stance, digging his heels in. It hadn't even mattered what he believed — Harry was on one side, Ron was on the other, and both of them were too stubborn to back down.

Ron was used to this with Hermione. She could never admit when she was wrong, could never admit that someone else might have a point of view worth considering (unless, of course, they agreed with her). When she was around, he couldn't help himself — he had to needle, to argue, to fight. He reckoned it was the same for her.

But Harry? It had never been like this with Harry.

Ron knew what they must think, Harry and Hermione. That Ron had been a prat, that he'd been insecure and jealous and selfish. It's what Ginny had said. What Fred and George had implied. Ron was certain they must think the same.

But it was them who had done something awful, them who had turned their backs on Ron.

He and Harry had one spat, and the next thing Ron knew, he'd been replaced. Neville was sitting at their table in Potions, Neville was joining them for meals, Neville was the one they were huddled up with in the library speaking in hushed tones.

Neville was standing at the top of the stairway, arms crossed, ordering Ron back to the dorms, acting like he had any right to keep Ron out of the common room. Acting like he'd been the one by Harry's side all these years.

Where was Neville when he and Harry had faced a horde of acromantulas or gone down into the Chamber of Secrets? Where was Neville when they'd had to deal with Pettigrew, Snape, and a werewolf? Where was Neville when they'd gone after the philosopher's stone? (Oh that's right, Neville had been the one trying to stop them.)

Ron had liked Neville before all this. He was a bit of a sad sack, sort of a bummer to be around, but he had fought Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle with Ron once. That counted for something.

But when he stood there, that defiant, condescending look in his eye, acting like Ron was the one on the outside? Ron wanted to deck him.

And the worst part? Harry and Hermione agreed with Neville.

"Who asked you to?"

That's what Harry had said the night he met with Sirius in the fireplace. Ron had just been coming downstairs, wondering where Harry was, wondering what he was up to, the same way he always had.

Who asked you to?

Harry didn't want Ron around — not when he had Neville there.

Neville, who mucked everything up. Neville, who grabbed onto Ron, knocking them both down the stairs, waking half of Gryffindor. It was Neville who interrupted Harry and Sirius — and yet somehow Ron was the one who was blamed.

And Hermione — Ron always knew she'd pick Harry, the same way his own siblings had. But then she'd had the nerve to ask him about Sirius, as if she thought he'd shoot his mouth off about Harry's godfather, get him chucked back into Azkaban?

It's like someone had obliviated them to forget the past few years.

And when did they tell Neville about Sirius anyway?

All Neville had to do was say "I believe you" and suddenly he was in? Ron and his broken leg had stood up to an Azkaban escapee for Harry, ready to die right along with him — would Neville do that? Scared-of-his-own shadow Neville? Ron didn't think so.

He'd been replaced, an afterthought in his own friendship. Even Hagrid had admonished him after class one day — though, to be fair, it was in that nice sort of way that Hagrid had. "Yeh and Harry have been friends for years," he'd said, "first friend Harry ever had."

Everyone seemed to forget that Harry had been the first friend Ron ever had, too. Or maybe they just didn't know — no one ever bothered to find out anything about Ron.

Sure, he'd grown up with his siblings, but they weren't friends. It wasn't like mum had invited loads of other kids over when he was a boy — not when she had so many of her own to raise already. Fred, George, and Ginny were his playmates, but siblings weren't friends.

And then he'd met Harry.

And then Harry had replaced him after one stupid fight.

And Hermione? Now that she was friends with Neville, Ron had never seen her happier.

She'd always been nagging him, haranguing him to get better grades, to not mess up in class. Now she was best friends with a walking disaster, someone who could manage to melt his cauldron in Charms, a class that didn't even require cauldrons, and where were her lectures? She tore into Ron about house elves, but Neville's family actually owned one. But that was all right with her?

Apparently, it was only ever Ron who didn't measure up in her eyes.

Still, when he'd seen her in the stands today, he managed to forget all of that. Charlie had told him about the dragons, and suddenly it was exactly like it always was, Ron and Hermione united for Harry while he was doing something dangerous.

Except it wasn't like it always was. Because when Cedric's face caught fire, it was Neville's hand Hermione reached for.

Not that Ron wanted to hold Hermione's hand, of course.

But Neville?

It's all he could think about, all he could look at the entire time Fleur and Krum were out there. The way her hand clung tightly to his chubby one, the way they seemed like a unit after just a few weeks.

Had she ever even been Ron's friend at all? Or had it always just been about Harry?

And then they brought out the Hungarian Horntail for Harry, and Neville and Hermione were completely forgotten.

He saw the look on Harry's face — recognized the determination he'd seen a thousand times before — and the next thing he knew, Harry was on his broom, and it was just like watching a quidditch match.

A very odd quidditch match with exceptionally nasty beaters, but Ron favored the Chudley Cannons; he was used to odd things on the quidditch pitch.

When the spike tore into Harry's shoulder, Ron felt that in his bones. And when Harry claimed the golden egg, Ron felt that victory too, the same way he always had.

He turned to Hermione, like always, but she was focused on Harry (also like always). Tears glistened in her eyes, but she was smiling beneath pink-tinged cheeks — he was reminded for some reason of the Daily Prophet calling her stunningly pretty — and then she was moving, practically running toward the tent, toward Harry.

"Come on!" she shouted.

Ron followed automatically, falling into old rhythms. But then clumsy, blundering Neville knocked past him, and the rhythm was gone.

She hadn't meant Ron. What did they need Ron for anymore anyway?

No one ever needed Ron.

"Aren't you coming?"

Why, Ron thought bitterly. So he could watch the three of them celebrate, watch as they drove home exactly how unnecessary he was, how unnecessary he'd always been to them?

He wasn't about to be an also-ran to Neville Longbottom.

He shook his head. He did have some dignity left.

He heard her cry of aggravation — a sound Ron was well familiar with, but which Harry and Neville never seemed to elicit from her — and then they were gone.

Ron was left surrounded by celebrating Gryffindors, completely alone.

No one noticed a thing.