When Ron scoots over to make room for Harry for breakfast on Boxing Day,
he doesn't much feel like talking despite Harry's attempts at conversation.
Instead, Ron picks at his toast, lost in thought about the previous night's
disaster.
What a nightmare.
The horror of the Yule Ball started immediately after the snowball fight.
Ron was doing fine, thankyouverymuch, until Harry flashed him a devilish
grin right before knocking George down with a particularly wet snowball.
That grin stuck with Ron all the way from the school grounds into the shower,
and he climbed out with a hard-on. Stupid, stupid overactive imagination.
And it had only gotten worse. When Ron saw Harry next, his best
friend was dressed in his emerald green dress robes, and Ron's mum was
right -- they did bring out the colour of Harry's eyes. Ron couldn't
believe he'd noticed something so girly, but it didn't stop him from getting
another erection. Stupid, that. His own body seemed to be mocking
him.
Next came Fleur's stunning entrance in her robes of silver-gray satin,
and then the extra embarrassment of not recognizing Hermione in her own
bizarrely grand entrance, laughing on Krum's arm. It wasn't Ron's
fault Harry was such a distraction. Still, Ron felt even more stupid
when he realized who the pretty girl in blue really was. On top of
all that, there was Padma's sneering at his own frayed robes, and Harry's
obvious discomfort at the whole Ball situation -- that was the hardest
part for Ron, who always wanted to whisk Harry away from all the attention.
The one bright spot in the otherwise dismal night had been when he and
Harry had escaped from Percy into the garden. Drat Snape and Hagrid
for ruining what could have been... what could've... Well,
what could've been what Ron wanted, whatever that was.
Even the morning after, after there's been time to think, the only thing
Ron knows is that he wanted to be alone with Harry, but he couldn't, not
with the whole school around. It just wasn't fair. And the
whole awful night Ron stewed in his shame, until he couldn't hide it anymore,
and then he snapped out in rage that Hermione could blossom into a butterfly
but he was trapped with no end in sight.
She had been an easy target.
But the next morning, over cold toast, when the three of them are barely
speaking to each other aside from strained formalities, Ron feels awful
about what he's done. But it's just that -- done -- and he can't
-- won't -- take it back. He can't tell the truth, tell Harry how
he really feels, no no no. He'll keep that swallowed down 'til the
end of time.
Hermione is getting ready to leave the breakfast table, and Ron suddenly
realizes he still has a role to play. "Do you need help with that?"
he asks in his most polite voice.
Hermione's falsely gracious smile makes Ron even more uneasy.
"No, I've got it. Thanks for asking."
Ron nods sullenly, and, as she leaves, he turns to Harry. It's
once again only the two of them, once again Ron's deepest desire and his
worst fear, rolled into one.
Harry is strangely quiet, his face closed and far away. Ron hopes
this doesn't mean he's really angry at Ron, or -- worse -- that he's figured
out how Ron feels about him. At that thought Ron almost panics.
His heart in his throat, he asks cautiously, "All right, Harry?"
"Yeah. All right." Harry's reply is toneless, emotionless,
and Ron feels another part inside himself, somewhere beyond the humiliation
of the night before, break into tiny pieces.
read the companion story