Too Fond of One Another

Ron tried to nonchalantly chew on the end of his quill, but ended up mangling the delicate feather in his disgruntlement. He looked at the grayish parchment, two words written there in navy blue ink.

Dear Dean

It was no good. The salutation sounded much too approving.

The summer holidays were well under way, but Ron felt that they would be over none too soon. July had been blown out like a candle by a biting wind that ushered in a leaden August sky, the weather peppered with overcast skies and unpleasant rain. Harry never felt in a right state to speak to him, even in letters. Anything that Ron did get out of him sounded either bitter or strangely apathetic. Not that Ron could blame him, of course. Who could blame Harry for anything that he did? But with his best friend in his own world and Hermione holidaying around Easter Island, Ron's choices of amusement were rather limited. He was basically left to complete his homework(which was still languishing), cower to his mother(who's temper seemed shorter lately), and get along with the twins and Ginny.

Ginny. Ron instinctively shuddered as he remembered his sister's sudden attachment to Dean Thomas, the two of them growing, as his mother put it, too fond of one another. From the moment it was mentioned he decided, for reasons best known to himself, to play the part of the outraged brother. His first thought of such a role was to pace around the house brandishing a revolver, threatening to shoot Dean down like a dog if he ever set foot near the house. He had read of the sort of thing in a Muggle book once. However, he did not own any firearms, as much as Dad would have loved it, and he couldn't see Dean coming down to the Burrow all the way from Warwickshire just to call on Ginny. He did the best he could, though.

Fred and George were no help whatsoever; Fred would alternately tell Ginny to disguise herself as a peasant and fly into Dean's arms while George would tell her to stop behaving like Camille. Their suggestion that the happy couple be sent to Hogsmeade for a month to "get it out of their systems" was met by roars and clucks of disapproval from the entire family, and it was their mother who quashed it on the grounds of immorality. Mum herself uttered gentle, soothing platitudes, and their father, who loved a good dramatic situation as well as anyone, spent his time weeping in sympathy with Ginny and teaching the garden gnomes to recognize and charge at a magical illusion of Dean.

The family was unanimous in its disapproval of Dean as a prospective relation by marriage, and so felt that something had to be done. Probably for their own amusement than consideration for the situation, they had left Ron to write a letter to Dean expressing that Ginny was not interested and to kindly tell him to keep his arse on his side of England if he knew what was good for him. When Ginny got wind of this letter(or perhaps the fact that it was Ron who was writing it), she became wildly indignant and acted in a most rebellious fashion, playing her part magnificently. The entire family seemed to enjoy themselves very much.

Ron stared at the parchment again.

Dear Dean

The words stared back at him. As he worked up his bile again and prepared to bite the quill into the parchment, he managed to ruin the moment with a sneeze. Wiping his streaming eyes, Ron gave a sigh. This letter made him feel as if he was floundering with all hands. He never professed to being a writer, but wouldn't his indignation at his sister's taste in men inspire enough out of him? He looked out the window and saw that a sharp, stinging drizzle was pouring from a gray opaque sheet of clouds. He felt ridiculous; if one could produce deathless prose in an atmosphere of gloom and eucalyptus, he could certainly manage to write an outraged letter.

Dear Dean,

He had tried, he really had. All of his attempts had sounded like grammar exercises, contrived, silly, and stupid. Maybe it was the fact that there was really nothing wrong with Dean, when one really thought about it. Ron had managed to coexist with him for five years at Hogwarts, talking about Quidditch, soccer, Igby Goes Down, and how to wangle their way out of Potions homework. Maybe it was the fact that Ginny didn't even seem to like the poor boy, merely playing her part for the attention and to complete the whole face. All Ron knew was that he should be outraged, Ginny should not be consorting with the likes of him, Dean had an unhealthy fascination with Igby Goes Down, and he had to finish this letter.

He paused, blotting the parchment with a stray drop of ink.

Dear Dean,

How are the holidays, mate? The weather's horrible over here, so visitors have been rather few and far between. We are managing fine, though, so no obligations or anything. I have barely started my homework, but this is not out of the ordinary. Tell me how far you've gotten on the Potions essay-I still can't figure out how a fireproofing spell would be useful when applied to a rat. Lost mine years ago, so no way to test it.

Ginny talks of you much. In case you have any ideas of coming to see her uninvited, we have set up wards around the house and you may be beaten down with your own Igby Goes Down scarf while trampled by a horde of gnomes. Should you manage to get inside the house, you have the rest of the family to deal with. Don't say I didn't try to warn you. My owl can be quite violent if provoked.

Enjoy the rest of your holidays!

Ron

He stared at what he wrote. Pathetic, really. He dug his fingers into his hair and gently knocked his head on the desk. What kind of an outraged brother was he, anyway?

He sent the letter with Pig anyway, addressing it in a black edged envelope. At least it would add an air of verisimilitude to the whole affair before Dean was boggled by his embarrassment of a threat.