Simplicity

Everyone assumes that Ron dreams in black and white; that the skittering of his eyes under their eyelids is prompted by simple things. Simple things for simple Ron, each thought as straightforward as a pawn's forward movement across the board. People believe that Ron dreams in black and white, and maybe the occasional grey, because that is Ron. Ron is a simple creature, and his life is expected to run in shades of monochrome. After all, it already does.

Ron would never be anything but normal and simple, and that is the way people like it. He will always be the hero's best friend, willing to lay down his life so that Harry can take that one last step. He will always be in love with someone out of his league, whether it be Fleur Delacour or Hermione Granger. He will try his hardest to make the Quidditch team, and will do so, though he will never shine like Harry does. Or even like his brothers have. He will never go beyond his simple origins, even if he somehow comes into money. Ron's breakfast will always be bacon and eggs, with the white slightly dribbly, like a memory of his childhood. He will never fit into his clothing, even if it is tailored just for him; he'd have no idea how to wear it.

Ron is a simple creature, and his nature is like his freckles: easily spotted, and even more easily quantified.

Ron watches Hermione, his mouth a remembered smile, and people know what he is thinking. He is loving her, obviously, but wondering if he is good enough. Smart enough. Strong enough, if only to stand up to her tongue as it whips across him. Ah, he's said something stupid again. Silly Ron. Doesn't he know that she loves him back? That all he has to do is open his mouth? But Ron is simple like that, and will never understand women. It's part of his charm.

Now Ron is watching Harry, and there is something wistful about his face, something longing in the curve of his eyes. He is loving him, obviously, but wondering if he is good enough. Brave enough. Strong enough, if only to stand up to the enemies that would plow Harry down, like grain. Silly Ron. Doesn't he know that Harry will protect them? That Harry doesn't need his heroics? But Ron is simple like that, and will never understand heroes. That, too, is part of his charm.

Ron is a charming boy in his simplicity. He is wholesome, and good, and laughs with his belly stuck out and his heart exposed. Ron isn't hope, but he's something close to it.

It's strange, then, how he makes people sad when they look at him now. Just- sad; which is a strange thing to be when looking at Ron.

But if they really were looking at Ron, they would see. . .

Ron dreams in color, and his visions at night are like handprints on paper, made splotchy with paint. His dreams are grotesque and more real than reality, looming phantoms that scurry under his eyelids and leave rose petals in their wake. Ron dreams in color, and has for a while; he would not know what to say to a person who could not, would perhaps not believe them. Color defines his dreams, and of late has even seeped into the space beyond them.

Ron remembers what it was like to be normal and simpler, though the concept of just simplicity comes to him with difficulty. Ron sees the difference between straightforwardness and simplicity, and enjoys walking a straightforward path when he can. This does not mean he is incapable of guile, or that he is ill-equipped to recognize it. Trickery goes beyond a well-placed bucket of water, and Ron is aware of that, too. Ron is aware of many things, like the curve of Hermione's thigh and the way Harry's lips pull back in that self-effacing grin. He is aware that he most likely will never be rich, and that his fists will always clench at Malfoy's sneers. He knows that he will never be a hero, never be a brain, and that doesn't matter. He knows that one does not need to glitter to shine, and that knowledge is hard won.

Ron is more than his outward markings, his habits and flaws. He is as varied and hard to define as the freckles on his back. He shrugs, and they dance along his shoulders, smudging together and apart as he moves in his skin.

Ron watches Hermione, his mouth a remembered smile, and he thinks about her. He is loving her- but it is a painful love and filled with regret. He knows that she loves him, but differently than he loves her. More intensely, more deeply: more. She loves him beyond long conversations and good-humored sniping, loves him with dark hinting eyes and carefully red cheeks. Ron knows that he could have her- that she would pry open her heart and her legs for him if he only said the words. But he loves her too much and too little for that, so instead says nothing at all.

Now Ron is watching Harry, and there is something wistful about his face, something longing in the curve of his eyes. He is loving him- but it is a painful love, and filled with hope. He knows that Harry is no hero, no more than himself, and wishes that he could take it all away. That he could wave his wand and Harry would be free of the burden to do as he wished. That Harry's smiles were beyond widened lip and shining teeth, smiling with his being and not his body. That Ron could take Harry in mouth and in hand, could know Harry and have Harry know him. But wishes are wishes, and not reality, and so Ron sits with his heart wrapped around his lips and watches Harry laugh into Cho Chang's ear. His only consolation is that Harry will protect him, doesn't need his heroics or wishes; and that is no consolation at all.

Ron is a charming boy in his pain. He is wholesome, and good, and laughs with his belly sucked in and his heart hidden away. Ron isn't hope, but he's something close to it.

**finis**