That's What You Want, Isn't It?

"There you go," Harry said.  "Something for you to wear on Tuesday.  You might even have a scar now, if you're lucky ... That's what you want, isn't it?"

Harry strode by me, slowly after he said that; so slowly it was as if he wanted to show me he wasn't scared.  I think he half expected me to throw a punch, and I almost did.  It was only with clenched fists and a tooth digging into my lower lip, drawing blood, I managed to stand still.
 
That's what you want, isn't it?  Harry's words ricocheted around my brain, sinking into every possible crevice.  When he said that, oddly enough, my vision blurred and my thoughts began to slow down.  I knew, then and there, that I would never forget he said that to me.  Sure, I say I did, but I'd never forget it. 

I heard the fourth year Boys dormitory close, or, more accurately, slam, and I finally moved from where I had rooted myself on the beige common room carpet.  I slowly shuffled towards one of the scarlet armchairs in front of the fire; glad for once everyone else was already asleep, and able to have the room to myself.
 
Harry was being a prat, plain and simple, I thought.  Of course, Harry was often a prat, what, with "let's enter the Chamber of Secrets, and face the monster of Slytherin all by ourselves," "let's go after Sirius Black, when we still think he's a convicted murderer" or "Why don't I sneak into Hogesmead to meet you and Hermione, even though I'd be smashing about a million school rules in the process?"
 
Of course, then, not only were Harry and I on speaking terms, but those were fun things to do. Sure, it probably wasn't in our best judgement, and if Percy knew he'd probably have a heart attack, but the were fun. And Harry never acted this horrible or prat-like.  It was usually just a condensesed version of prat-ness.
 
I mean, he put his name in the Goblet!  He could have at least told me about it.  What did he think I'd do, tell McGonagall?  I wouldn't do that; I'm not Hermione, and we're not even dealing with a Firebolt here.  It would have been nice to enter, something that Harry and I would be able to laugh about in the future: how we got around Dumbledore and his age line and entered the Triwizard Tournament, even if we weren't chosen as School Champions.  (Of course, we both couldn't be, but that's really beside the point.) A shot at the fame, glory, and the possible gold that went along with being School Champion.  Obviously, Harry doesn't need that.  He's famous Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived!  He doesn't need any more fame (especially after that Rita Skeeter article,) or gold. I never told Harry, but Percy set about trying to calculate the interest his vault at Gringotts earns based on what Ginny, Mum and I saw. It's more in a month then dad makes in a year.
 
I drew my legs up to my chest, nesting in the fetal position without realizing I was doing this. For some reason, the warmth of the enchanted fire failed to do anything to the chill I had. Maybe the house elves were not strong enough to make a true enchanted fire...
 
Turning my head slightly, I noticed a flash of white from under the "Potter Really Stinks" badges that rested on the ornately carved wooden table.  I shifted the lot of them aside--they really were heavy, no wonder the one Harry threw at me had hurt so much--and uncovered The Daily Prophet.  Not the most recent Daily Prophet, but the one in which Rita Skeeter's expose on Harry appeared. Can't get away from him, can I? I thought bitterly.
 
I quickly glanced down, already knowing what I would see: "An ugly scar, souvenir of a tragic past disfigures the otherwise charming face of Harry Potter ..."
 
I threw the paper down in disgust; it was just another symbol of Harry's star status he'd had since before he could talk.  (Or maybe he could talk, he's so good at everything right now anyway.) Reporters fawning over him, Dumbeldore's pet, hated by the Slytherins, separate from everyone else and never confused with everyone else ... exactly what I've always wanted.  My whole life I've been overshadowed by my brothers because everything worth doing they've already done.  Quidditch, OWLS, NEWTS, Head Boy, the Ministry ... you name it, and my brothers have done it. They're so different in their personalities there is nothing left for me to do to separate myself from them.  Bill, the cool one, Charlie the adventurer, straight-laced Percy, Fred and George, the jokers ... and me.  Ron.  Best friend of the magnificent Harry Potter, the sidekick who is predestined to wait in the wings. Hell, Ginny's different just because she's a girl.  All my life I've been constantly forgotten, tripped over and generally ignored; I've slugged through it because I figured life at Hogwarts would be different.  Nope.  Wrong.  I'm no more then I ever was.  I'm Harry Potter's best friend, not Ron Weasely.  I'm Hermione Granger's (the smartest Gryffindor in her year!) best friend.  I'm not known as me, but known for those around me. Just like that the house down the street Mrs. Maple used to live in. It's really a nice house, or at least as houses go, but no one wants it because the two homes bordering it are haunted.
 
As I sat in the fluffy chair, freezing cold, pondering my pathetic life, a rage that has been building up for over ten years burst inside of me.  I grabbed a wand lying on the table.  (Dennis Creevy's, I think, and switched it from my right to my left hand--my wand hand.
 
It feels odd, because, of course, it's not my wand, but then, I used Charlie's wand for the first two years of my "wizarding career," so it's not as foreign as one might think.  Tentatively at first, then gaining momentum, I steer the tip of the oak towards The Daily Prophet.

"Incendio."

The paper bursts into flames, and, after a period of no more then thirty seconds, is nothing but a pile of ashes on the floor.  I didn't clean the ashes up, but instead left them for the House-Elves. Hermione would be upset with me.


I felt slight moisture on my cheeks, and I buried my face into the soft velour of the chair, embarrassed that "The Boy Who Lived" had gotten me, fourteen year-old Ron Weaseley, to cry.

I lay their, in that chair, curled into a ball, not moving, for who knows how long.  All I knew was that I never went up to the dormitory, and the last thing I remember before shutting my lead-filled eyelids is the dancing blue-black of the flames in front of me.

Ginny woke me up the next morning, thankfully before Harry saw me.  I decided that I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt me, and how much he meant to me.  Because it was a lot.