Chapter Six: Ron's Remembrall

Ron Weasley's week had been lousy. No, his whole life had been lousy, but this week in particular.

On Sunday, Professor McGonagall had embarrassed him by making him dance with her in front of the entire Gryffindor House. She had been giving a dance lesson in expectation of her house showing up with dignity at the upcoming Yule Ball.

"Inside every girl, a secret swan slumbers, longing to burst forth and take flight," McGonagall had said to the Gryffindors assembled together in an empty examination hall. "Inside every boy, a lordly lion prepared to prance."

Ron leaned over to Seamus and gestured to the pimply-faced girl they often used as the butt of jokes. "There's something about to burst out of Eloise Midgen but I don't think it's a swan."

Hearing his muttering, McGonagall's eyes fixed squarely on him. "Mr. Weasely, would you join me please?"

And she tugged him by the arm onto the floor. She placed Ron's hand on her waist, and her own on his shoulder. Their other hands clasped together—her skin was like Auntie Muriel's.

Then, before Ron knew what was happening, McGonagall was leading him in the steps of a formal dance.

His older brothers—sixth year twins Fred and George—had not let him live it down. Every day that week when they saw him, they started dancing with each other in an exaggerated fashion. "Ron, when are you going to pluck up the courage and ask the old bat to the Ball?"

They never gave him a break, those two. At least when his brother Percy had been around, he had been the butt of some of their jokes.

But now that Percy had graduated, Ron was the sole target of their twins' teasing. Somehow, his younger sister Ginny had been mostly spared. Fred and George had always gone easy on her, by virtue of her being a girl.

That wasn't the worst of it. This year, with the surprise Triwizard Tournament, things had gone worse for Ron than usual. His best friend Harry Potter had been selected as a Hogwarts Champion and was now the center of attention, the talk of girls across the school. Harry was even Gryffindor's Quidditch Captain now, to boot—even if the season was canceled in favor of the Tournament.

Whereas Ron was a nobody. He was nothing special, not a member of any club or society, just an average boy living in the shadow of his cooler older brothers who had won glory as Head Boys, Dragon Keepers, and Gringotts Curse Breakers.

Only Hermione had been a source of comfort, but things had gone downhill there too. He had been falling for her. And now, he had blown it.

He had been a coward. He'd waited too long to ask her to the Yule Ball. Gryffindors were supposed to be courageous, weren't they? But he had been trying to play it cool, and bring it up casually—the damned twins' advice had been to never let a girl know you liked her too much.

"Oi, Hermione. You're a girl," Ron had said that morning at study hall.

"Oh, well spotted."

"Come with one of us?" He said, pantomiming a dance.

Hermione ignored him.

"Come on, It's one thing for a bloke to show up alone. For a girl, it's just sad."

"I won't be going it alone," Hermione had snapped, "Because believe it or not, someone's asked me, and I said yes." She packed up her books and stormed away.

"Bloody hell," Ron said to Harry beside him. "She's lying right?"

Ron found out later from Seamus that Hermione was asked by none other than Viktor bloody Krum, the professional Quidditch player, and Triwizard Champion from Durmstrang. To add insult to injury, Viktor had been his favorite quidditch player!

Not only that, but Viktor was muscular and had facial hair too. How could he ever hope to compete with a guy like that?

Ron had always thought that Hermione's beauty had been something private that only he could see. To the rest of the world, Ron figured she must come off as an irritating know-it-all, her attractiveness going safely unnoticed beneath her frizzy, bookish exterior.

Apparently, he was wrong. Maybe bookish cute is everybody's type.

It was certainly Viktor Krum's type. Ron knew she would fall in love with Krum now. It was inevitable. He was famous. He was rich. He was writing her poetry.

Just when the day couldn't get any worse, McGonagall had come to collect Ron, Fred and George from the study hall, with terrible news.

Ginny had lost her memory.

The hospital wing visit had been uncomfortable, as it had been hard to watch Ginny fail to recognize them. Ron still couldn't fathom the reality of it. She had still been herself at breakfast that very morning. What idiocy had possessed her to go around playing with a memory charm?

Afterwards, the Weasleys had stepped out into the hallway. "Ronald, wait one moment," Molly said to him as the rest of the family went ahead.

"If Ginny stays at Hogwarts, it's your job to look after her."

"But Mom, she'll have McGonagall and Dumbledore."

"You're her brother. You can be there when the teachers can't."

"What about Fred and George?"

"I can't bloody trust Fred and George! You know how they are with responsibility. It's you I'm counting on, Ron."

Molly thrust a crystalline ball into his hand that contained wispy clouds of white. It was a remembrall.

"I want you to carry this at all times. Every time you forget about Ginny, it will turn green, like this." She tapped it with her wand and the clouds inside turned a shade of bright emerald green. "And write to me every day about how she's doing."

"Every day?"

"Yes, every single day. Or else I'll send you a howler!"

"Mom, that's too much. I already have reams of homework I have to write every night."

"Are your grades more important than your sister?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing!" Molly snapped. "Every day, Ronald! Every. Single. Day."

Ron groaned. "Okay, fine."

He would have said anything to make her stop. He would have given anything to make the world stop, to stop throwing things at him that he couldn't cope with.

Molly followed after the rest of the family as Dumbledore emerged from the arched hospital wing doors and met his eyes.

Ron hoped Dumbledore would notice his distress, stop and ask him what was the matter, and then he would have a good cry and let it all out. Dumbledore would put a hand on his shoulder and invite him to his office to talk it over some tea and biscuits.

Instead, Dumbledore walked briskly away without sparing a word, clearly preoccupied with loftier things.

Ron looked down at the remembrall in his hand. It was bright emerald green again. He realized it was because he had been thinking of himself, not Ginny. Not even my own thoughts are private anymore!

He angrily squeezed the remembrall so tight that his hand went pale.