December 14th
Happy Birthday, Titti!
A tiny offering to you, my friend, on the anniversy of your introduction to this world.
Ron had always thrown words the way angry mobs throw stones, hard and fast without attention to precisely where they landed. The only goal was damage, the type didn’t matter overmuch.
“Ronald!” Hermoine tugged frantically on one shoulder as Harry firmly gripped his other arm. He couldn’t get to the other boy and so he’d been screaming at him.
“Ferret!” It was a final invective, but it missed its mark.
~~~~
Draco, on the other hand, wielded words like a surgeon with a scalpel. Ron’s face blazed redder than his hair as the cool Slytherin looked him up, then down, then back up. Pale, aristocratic fingers flicked a nonexistent speck of dust off a perfectly tailored robe. Ice-blue eyes met his, conveying far more than the word that dripped silkily from a slightly curled lip.
“Weasel.”
The careless eye-roll, the effortless spin, the disdain in every movement as he turned and walked calmly away made Ron so angry he was literally spitting after him.
“Ronald! Enough.”
~~~~
The stone against his back was cold. He didn’t know why he came here at all. Why here, of all places, to the grave of a traitor who had murdered one of his best friends. It had been a year since anyone had called him Ronald. It was doubtful that anyone ever would again.
The headstone still bore the black scorching marks from the fireballs the twins had hurled at their pompous older brother’s grave, along with words like “Putrid” and “Poisonous” and “Perverse”. Yet here Ron sat, wondering who else would fall, who else would be gone, how long before it was himself or Harry lying under cold ground and leaving a colder world.
“Did you really understand, Percy? Or were you still just looking for respect? Have you forgiven me?” Ron no longer questioned the fact that he whispered to an invisible ghost when he came here.
“The real question, is can you forgive yourself?” The voice startled him more than the hand on his hair. “You should try.”
He stood in an instant, whirling to face the man with the sad eyes that shared a knowledge he thought he’d never see in anyone else.
“Ferret?”
“Weasel.” The lips were thin now, sad, but the words still ever so precise. Ron watched, unmoving, as the proud figure walked away from him once more.
~~~~
“Do you miss him? Do you never wonder if…”
“No. I cannot. His choices were his own. I refuse to pay for the mistakes of others. I have enough to pay for with my own.”
Lips so very soft, deceptively thin arms strong beyond measure, fingers in his hair soothing in ways he knew he’d never have the skill to describe. His own red mop fanned out in a tangle against that pale skin and he sighed.
“It was years ago. A lifetime ago. We bought our own lives back. You have a right to live yours now. As do I.”
“You were never his.” Strong and fast and meant to cut away any doubt, hurled once more. “Never. You were always meant to be mine.”
Soft laughed made the muscles twitch under his cheek. Soft velvet voice, again achingly precise and encompassing his whole world in one fractured sentence. “So I am…… Weasel.”
“Ferret.”
A tiny offering to you, my friend, on the anniversy of your introduction to this world.
Ron had always thrown words the way angry mobs throw stones, hard and fast without attention to precisely where they landed. The only goal was damage, the type didn’t matter overmuch.
“Ronald!” Hermoine tugged frantically on one shoulder as Harry firmly gripped his other arm. He couldn’t get to the other boy and so he’d been screaming at him.
“Ferret!” It was a final invective, but it missed its mark.
~~~~
Draco, on the other hand, wielded words like a surgeon with a scalpel. Ron’s face blazed redder than his hair as the cool Slytherin looked him up, then down, then back up. Pale, aristocratic fingers flicked a nonexistent speck of dust off a perfectly tailored robe. Ice-blue eyes met his, conveying far more than the word that dripped silkily from a slightly curled lip.
“Weasel.”
The careless eye-roll, the effortless spin, the disdain in every movement as he turned and walked calmly away made Ron so angry he was literally spitting after him.
“Ronald! Enough.”
~~~~
The stone against his back was cold. He didn’t know why he came here at all. Why here, of all places, to the grave of a traitor who had murdered one of his best friends. It had been a year since anyone had called him Ronald. It was doubtful that anyone ever would again.
The headstone still bore the black scorching marks from the fireballs the twins had hurled at their pompous older brother’s grave, along with words like “Putrid” and “Poisonous” and “Perverse”. Yet here Ron sat, wondering who else would fall, who else would be gone, how long before it was himself or Harry lying under cold ground and leaving a colder world.
“Did you really understand, Percy? Or were you still just looking for respect? Have you forgiven me?” Ron no longer questioned the fact that he whispered to an invisible ghost when he came here.
“The real question, is can you forgive yourself?” The voice startled him more than the hand on his hair. “You should try.”
He stood in an instant, whirling to face the man with the sad eyes that shared a knowledge he thought he’d never see in anyone else.
“Ferret?”
“Weasel.” The lips were thin now, sad, but the words still ever so precise. Ron watched, unmoving, as the proud figure walked away from him once more.
~~~~
“Do you miss him? Do you never wonder if…”
“No. I cannot. His choices were his own. I refuse to pay for the mistakes of others. I have enough to pay for with my own.”
Lips so very soft, deceptively thin arms strong beyond measure, fingers in his hair soothing in ways he knew he’d never have the skill to describe. His own red mop fanned out in a tangle against that pale skin and he sighed.
“It was years ago. A lifetime ago. We bought our own lives back. You have a right to live yours now. As do I.”
“You were never his.” Strong and fast and meant to cut away any doubt, hurled once more. “Never. You were always meant to be mine.”
Soft laughed made the muscles twitch under his cheek. Soft velvet voice, again achingly precise and encompassing his whole world in one fractured sentence. “So I am…… Weasel.”
“Ferret.”