In Pursuit of the Golden Snitch

In Pursuit of the Golden Snitch

Shadow had crept noiselessly back into the world even though its arrival was clear, for there was not a soul that did not witness the night the shadow became permanent. Before now it had always been a temporary burden, a suspicious traveler that when his stop came, would at some point get off and would rid you of your worry. This time the burden was no traveler and there was no stop in sight. It was possible that the stop would never come depending on the course of events yet to pass.

In the past there was a guiding light, but that guiding light had since vanished. Many eyes saw to its death: eyes of malice, eyes of hate, eyes of innocence, eyes of wonder, eyes of adoration, eyes of a boy who thought that the world had turned its back on him. The light, however to their unknowing, still resided in a place that was known to all. It was the least expected, or perchance, the most obvious. Perhaps that was why they had not cared to look there. Nevertheless, the light was still there, no matter how much they might think they failed at finding it.

Despite the death and ghost of said light, a boy stared almost unthinkingly up into infinite darkness. There was no light here. As time went by and judgment laced with memory endlessly circled his troubled mind, he sometimes forgot whether his eyes were open or closed and whether he was awake or dreaming, or in that rest in between. There was a miserable notion haunting him that kept him here in this philosophical sort of stupor. Part of him felt guilty for ever even thinking of it for there was another boy who lay near with far heavier burdens than he could fathom.

He turned his head and stared at more darkness. Only this time he knew that beyond that darkness, hiding in its terrible yet protecting gloom, was the person that often skimmed the surface of his thoughts. He needn't see his face for he had subconsciously studied its every aspect, even now when it had altered a great deal since the first time he laid eyes on it some six years past. Now watching (yet not watching, still), he hoped that this boy was not dreaming of dreadful memories and the dreadful tasks that lie ahead, only to be dreadfully anticipated.

For a moment he writhed as an icy cold shock surged through him, gooseflesh erupting all over his already pale skin, as realization sunk in. It was strange but it was definitely not the first time it had happened. Yet again he got the feeling that things were changing more now than ever and that things would never be the way they were before or as he had hoped them to be, try as hard as he might to keep them that way. He got this feeling often and each time it passed, the aura felt more foreboding than the last and far more real than it had previously been. With this new concept before him, he now thought of something that was different, something he had never thought of before this instance. He was running out of time. Before it had always been trickling, grain of sand by grain of sand, slowly down from one place to another, and of course being, the procrastinator that he was, there was always tomorrow and next week and the week after that and next month. Come next year the cycle would continue but now that cycle's life had to come to an end or the thing he had been putting off would never see reality.

Oftentimes he could skirt the tasks set before him with ease: a potions essay he wasn't too excited about starting, or studying (not that he did much of that when he did finally do it). There was always the night before or the morning of. This time, however, things were more uncertain than he could have imagined and anything could get in the way of tomorrow, or even tonight.

Barely thinking, Ron Weasley stood up, pushed his bed hangings aside, and walked to the far end of the room. Here there was a window, hidden in the depths of a nook in the dormitory, where a miniscule amount of moonlight trickled onto the cool stone floor beneath his feet. The light was not at all strong, for it only illuminated a small space before him, revealing only the features on his face. The rest of the room, on the other hand, was draped in the dark. Ron leaned his body full length against the window so that when he looked down it was as if he were suspended like a spirit over the sharp turrets and towers of the castle. For a brief moment he wondered what it might feel like to fall from here...

He shook his head to rid the thought and his eyes searched for another spot to fix themselves upon, and soon they came to gaze on the Quidditch Pitch. The waxing gibbous face of the moon shone supremely over the pitch, as if calling desperate attention to it. Ron squinted his eyes out of curiosity, for better to see with, but noticed nothing different about the field, nothing out of the ordinary. For a moment he swore he could have seen something with greasy, black hair move about near the outskirts of the pitch, but he knew that such a thing would be silly to appear there and at that time. Despite the lack of reason for any suspicions about the Quidditch Pitch he quickly turned round to make way to it, just in case.

Ron was still wearing his day clothes so he only added socks and trainers, and grabbed a light jumper to wear since he felt a slight chill when he was resting against the window. He hurriedly grabbed his wand, all the while remaining as silent as was physically possible. This was a terribly difficult feat, seeing that the room was consumed in shadow. At first he had been searching through the drawers near Neville's bed and only realized that it was not his own when his fingers stumbled across what seemed like a horde of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrappers (a bitter memory passed through his thoughts when he found this). When all of this was done, he lit up the end of his wand silently, lumos being the only nonverbal spell he had mastered correctly thus far, and made his way down the swirling stone staircase to the cold and abandoned common room.

The fire that was in the hearth earlier that evening had long since died; there weren't even glowing embers left of it. A cool breeze swept through a slightly open window. Ron shivered as he stared at the desolate scene. The common room had definitely seemed more empty than usual as of late, since nearly everyone's parents were dragging their sons or daughters home out of shock from the events of a few nights past. He didn't blame them, but he very much missed evenings in the common room with nearly every Gryffindor present, the fire crackling rather joyously, as they all celebrated a recent Gryffindor team victory or complained and stressed over upcoming finals and exams. Now there would be other, more important matters on the minds of those who had decided to stay behind.

He had many memories in this room and he never realized how much he remembered until that one moment. As if a Muggle film were playing before his eyes, the common room transfigured to accommodate these old memories. Playing chess, deciphering mysteries, making plans to thwart another's, retelling tales of terror and attack, accusing others' feline pets, conjuring false predictions that were made on a whim that made little sense, basking in the unwanted envy of others' popularity, having arguments...

To his displeasure, a large majority of the things that swept past in recollection were things he now regretted doing, things he had grown greatly embarrassed about, things he hoped that everyone else had forgotten about by now. He looked away from the room and the memories they kept and instead looked at his still lit wand. The bluish light reminded him greatly of a certain room, another thing he would rather forget.

"Nox," he muttered.

The light extinguished. Ron hastily shoved his Willow wand into the back pocket of his jeans. Harry had once warned him of putting his wand there amid a fit of laughter, but the reason escaped him now. Speaking of which, he would very much have enjoyed seeing Harry laugh. He reckoned he wouldn't be doing much of it in the months to come. Ron also knew that there was someone else who would like that too.

He smiled a small smile to himself and went through the portrait hole. Just as the Fat Lady swung closed behind him, Ron could have sworn that he felt the sensation of being watched. He shook this from his thoughts, thinking that it was just a common feeling that people felt when they did things alone in the dark. The halls were quite dim and had a great potential for ominous echoes, but he figured there would be no one around to hear them anyway. Ron remembered the first time he saw these halls, almost damning them to hell because he knew it would take ages to find his way somewhere. Now he had thoughts of missing them, missing walking down them. He had never really paid much attention to it, but it would soon be a thing of the past.

He didn't cross paths with anything on his way to the oak front doors, to his astonishment, although it did occur to him that people were too frightened to do anything anymore and that it was most likely not safe to even go outside to pay the Quidditch Pitch a visit. He could think of someone who would reprimand him for doing so. Oftentimes he found his thoughts running in circles, always returning to the same subject no matter where he started off, and now was another great example. As he crossed the grounds towards the field, he couldn't help but yet again worry about the one thing he had been putting off.

Ron liked to tell himself that he wasn't even aware of what he was putting off until two years after the problem had popped up, so instead of delaying it for four years it was more like two. But then again, two years was an awfully long time to procrastinate. Embarrassment ate away at his insides as he thought about it. It was always a matter of uncertainty. For a while he was entirely sure about what he knew was going on within himself, even if he tried to deny it for a while. Yet he was always unsure about what was going on within someone else. He wasn't sure at all about what they felt or thought about him, or if they had someone else on their mind, someone other than him. Ron reflected on this subject quite often and the temper that was blessed in alliance with his red hair often caused bouts of jealousy (bout was an understatement in this case). It had spurred countless arguments, some petty and some brutal, and on numerous occasions, both at once.

There were things he had done about in regards to this predicament that he now realized he really should not have done. A sinking feeling suddenly formed in his chest at the thought. His legs seemed to feel heavier than a moment ago. His breathing grew heavier, too. He felt he had ruined everything.

The Quidditch field was only a few paces away. He looked up at the tall stands as he neared them, observing the large depiction of a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle all together with the backdrop of a shield, almost as if they were united. He laughed. He walked straight onto the field, right near the stairs that led up into the stands. He hadn't entered this way since his fourth year and it felt quite strange to do so. He remembered entering here, more prominently in his third year, rain pouring down hard, he held his cloak to shield the rain from himself and, as he recalled, her, too. There were more people and he remembered feeling the slight pang of jealousy as he glanced upward to the three rings where Gryffindor team would be scoring and the general sky where Harry would be following in hot pursuit of the Golden Snitch.

Long ago, when Ron was still small, around six or perhaps seven years old, his mum and dad had tried to teach him life lessons, but they never really stuck. All except for one. It was when he had really grown an interest in Quidditch, having just inherited a Shooting Star that year, with a speed only rivaled by butterflies. What with Bill, Charlie, and Percy at Hogwarts, closer to their coming of age than their parents would have hoped, and nine-year-old Fred and George with disaster following close in their wake, they liked to think that there was still time to make a positive sort of imprint on their youngest son. Many times had they struggled with telling Ron these stories through tales, until the idea finally struck.

He had just been rejected by Fred and George to play Quidditch with them and he sat glumly at the kitchen table, holding a red, angry face in two hands. The twins had just marched out of the house to go to the apple orchard (after Arthur had a few words with them). Ron had not put up a fight to the twins nor did he ignore their refusal and play with them anyway, as any of the other boys might've done. His surrender wasn't a good sign to his character as far as Arthur was concerned.

"Why don't you go out and play with the boys," Arthur said reassuringly as he pointed his wand at a kettle on the stove when it began to whistle, "I'm telling you it's alright."

"I don't want to anymore," Ron told his father.

"Giving up that easy, are you?"

Ron said nothing in response.

With a light flick of his wand, the kettle poured hot water into two cups that had already been set out: a cup of tea for each of them. Arthur sat down next to his son at the table, put his face at the same level as Ron's and looked him in the eye.

"Ron," he started, "there are plenty of things in life that are difficult. Being accepted by Fred and George for example -but they're twins, so that's sort of different- but anyway, Ron, you don't give up no matter what. It's a bit like Quidditch, you see. The seeker has the most difficult job of all, doesn't he?"

Ron nodded.

"But he doesn't give up, right? It may take a very long time to find the snitch or even spot it. Months, even. Does the seeker give up? Never! So if there's something that you really want, like the Golden Snitch, you just have to try your best to catch it." He made a swift hand movement as if he had caught the walnut sized ball in his hand.

At the time, the story didn't really mean anything; it only convinced Ron never to aspire to be a seeker. It was only in the past few years that he had remembered his father's advice and realized how much it paralleled things that had been going on in his life. Ron reckoned there might as well be no hope to win his match now. He had lost sight of his Snitch and he wasn't sure if he could even get it within reach again.

So many things had happened to him now that it was hard to concentrate on any one thing. He wondered what it would be like to have a normal sort of life, the boring kind. He shook his head. It would never work. It wasn't like he could change everything that had happened up until that point, as if he had decided that it wasn't what he had expected it to be because it was never his choice.

Choice was another potentially challenging factor. Many things that affected his life were not chosen by him but were the works or doings of others. Ron had no control over that. Who did? So what was he to do when the feelings and choices of others were the cause of his unhappiness? When they didn't work out to his favor?

Ron had been circling the field, but now he stopped. His hands were deep in his pockets and he was looking down, but something made him look up, wide-eyed. There was a sound. At first he couldn't quite make out what it was. He didn't see anything. Then he heard it again.

There was the distant sound of foot-steps, fast ones, the jogging kind. Ron could hear them, light they were, and they were drawing closer. For a moment he panicked, realizing that it could be someone dangerous, a Death Eater perhaps. Then he realized that if it were a Death Eater, or someone dangerous, they would have made sure that their steps were not perceivable, all the better for sneaking.

The sounds grew ever closer. Ron knew that whoever it happened to be was just outside the Quidditch Pitch. He stood motionless, staring at the entrance to the stands, which were not too far away from him, ears perked and eyes squinting to see who it was.

The person's steps grew slower. They had stopped jogging; they walked now. Amid the shadows of the tall stands, a dark figure appeared in the entrance. Ron didn't move. They slowly moved into the light to reveal themselves. It was the Golden Snitch.

"Ron!"

"Hermione..."

She began to jog again to get over to him.

"I saw you in the common room before," Hermione gasped between breaths, "I- I couldn't sleep."

"Sorry about that," he said, as if it were his fault.

"No, it's quite all right. I'm not tired. I mean, there's just so much-"

"I know," Ron said, at a loss for words.

There was an awkward silence afterwards which was broken by a slight discomfited smile of Hermione's, acknowledging the uneasiness of the quiet. Ron nodded his head towards the pitch, as if inviting her into his philosophical reverie, and the two of them began walking around the field together. Ron felt a strange feeling come over him as they began to walk. The moon beams shone directly over them, giving Hermione and the pitch a ghostly feel. He looked down at her as she walked beside him. Hermione looked at the ground ahead, letting some bushy hair into her eyes, which were sparkling white-blue from the moonlight from what Ron could see.

She looked distinctly crestfallen. Ron knew there were many reasons that assisted this feeling of hers, but her sudden presence when before he was alone with his thoughts made him feel that a portion of these reasons were aided by himself. He knew that they were.

"I'm really sorry," he said quietly, watching the grass slip beneath his shoes as he walked. Although it was quite hard for the words to finally be spoken, Ron could feel the weight in his chest alter to a more comfortable state.

At first Hermione didn't say anything. She walked a bit slower and looked at him, surveying him.

"What for?"

"Oh, I don't know, everything?" Ron let his arms sway at his sides with his stride as a pang of embarrassment echoed through his insides. "I mean, I'm sorry for- for teasing you all the time, for frustrating you whenever the urge strikes me, for being belligerent when I really might actually agree with you. I'm sorry for talking about you behind your back in our first year, for accusing Crookshanks of eating my blasted rat, for being jealous of Viktor Krum, for... for-"

Hermione suddenly grabbed his arm, stopped the two of them from walking, and looked him straight in the face. His face grew red as he realized his sudden outburst.

"Ron, that was ages ago. I thought we were past all that..."

"Well, I never said I was sorry."

Hermione looked down again, as if intimidated by Ron staring back at her.

"I thought we were getting along well now? We haven't fought, we haven't had a major disagreement too recently. What I'm trying to say is, I thought you got the impression that everything was alright between us now. I still talk you, don't I?"

Ron let out a feeble laugh and then sighed. The two of them stood in silence for a moment. Ron wondered why exactly they had been getting on so well as of the last few weeks...

"You've matured, Ron," Hermione told him softly, answering his question as if his thoughts had carried to the winds, "well, a bit. It's not like we argue all the time, except for that one occasion... wait- you were jealous of Viktor? You admit it then?"

Hermione's serious expression rapidly formed a grin of maniacal proportions as she came to realize what Ron had just said.

"What ever happened to 'I thought we were past all that'?"

Ron laughed at her but Hermione punched him lightly in the arm to make him stop, which he did, but failed to keep a serious face. After a few seconds of silence, Hermione took up walking around the pitch again and Ron followed. She didn't say anything and neither did Ron. For some reason he felt comfortable. Usually when he and Hermione shared a silence, the awkwardness would eat away at him unpleasantly. Now, however, he felt perfectly fine without having to say anything as they strolled leisurely in the wake of the moon. It was dead silent, except for slight music in the distance. It was a sad song, he could tell, and it was coming from the direction of the castle.

"I feel so terrible for Harry," Hermione finally declared, in almost a whisper, "so much has happened to him, and I want so much to comfort him but he doesn't let anyone do that, does he?"

"That's sort of the thing with Harry, isn't it?" Ron interjected, "He's so heroic, yet he never lets anyone help him for once,"

Hermione gave Ron a sideways glance, and although Ron wasn't looking at her directly, he could feel that she surveyed him in a completely different way than she ever had prior to that moment. It was a gaze comparable to looks teachers often gave when an unlikely student said something exceptionally profound during a class and his suppressed potential had finally reached the surface and was realized.

"I've come to sort of understand him these days," Ron continued, as if it were an excuse, "I want to help him, ask him what it is that I can do. I know he won't tell me. He won't let me help him. It's just the way he is. He just can't seem to come off other then wanting to be alone, it's almost like he's asking for pity,"

"I know. I feel that way too. But we can't expect Harry than to do other than what he is doing. It's only psychologically valid that he wants to do this on his own. I mean, he was alone for eleven years. We can't expect him to accept offered help when it had never been presented to him from the start," Hermione reasoned.

"That's true, but honestly, where would Harry be without us? Harry would have never made it through Hogwarts alive without you, Hermione."

"Don't forget about you," Hermione said modestly, "You were there with him through tick and thin,"

Ron looked down at the ground once more, immediately thinking of all of the thoughts he had veiled concerning Harry that he was ashamed of. No matter how much he deeply cared for his best friend, Ron couldn't come to terms with the times when that voice in his head poisoned his mind with temptation, greed and jealousy and often fed him tactics for potential revenge. While Ron was strong enough to subdue these temptations, there were often times that he would give in to them and let them take hold of him and those were the times where he felt he had sunk his lowest, times where he doubted himself as a person and wondered why anyone in the world would still associate themselves with him.

He could feel a warm spot on his shoulder press against him, almost as if trying to keep these wandering musings at bay. It was Hermione's hand.

"Ron, I know." Hermione comforted, as if reading his mind, "Not everyone's perfect. Come on, Ronald. Don't tell me you can't think of a time where anyone you know made a mistake,"

Ron didn't reply, but took a deep breath. Not only did it feel like he was looking for the golden snitch in the metaphorical Quidditch game that took place in his head, he also felt as if he was the Keeper as well, blocking an attack of Quaffles being thrust in his direction, all different problems, all different people wanting a bit of the things that Ron, too, sought after, and Ron alone was meant to keep these Quaffles from scoring, while also keeping a weather eye out for the snitch. He felt as if he had let life, the opposing team, score far too many points than they deserved.

"Ron," Hermione whispered, breaking his thoughts.

Ron looked up into her eyes with a forlorn expression on his face.

"Quit feeling sorry for me, Hermione. If there's anyone worth feeling sorry for it's-"

"Oh, don't start that!" Hermione interjected. "Harry doesn't want us feeling sorry for him."

"Does that stop anyone?"

Hermione looked away for a moment and sighed. "No, no it doesn't."

Ron knew she felt sorry for him. It was clear. He just wished it would all just stop. I anyone needed a break, it was definitely Harry.

"I just," Hermione started. She began walking slowly towards the moon again, "I can't believe he's gone,"

"Neither can I," Ron replied, immediately aware of who she spoke of. Ron had the urge to comfort her, to reach out and put his arm around her, but something in his head counteracted these desires, so instead his arm jerked a bit strangely at his side, but Hermione took no notice of this.

Ron followed her slow walk, but bowed his head, almost as if it were an instinctive reaction by now. Although Hermione did not specify who 'he' was, Ron knew that it was not Harry, or any other 'he' than the one man whose now permanent absence was the foundation for the recent potency of grief in just about everyone's emotions.

"He's always been here, always. I can't imagine what it will be like without-"

Hermione stopped herself from going any further. Without warning, Hermione grabbed Ron's arm again to make him come to a stop. Slightly alarmed he looked down at her with a questioning expression.

"Ron," Hermione said with an air of inspiration, "promise me that we'll stay by Harry's side, no matter what he says, or what happens, or what we have to do."

"Hermione, you don't have to tell me this. Blimey, he's our best friend! Of course we will!"

Ron did rather like how in the past two years they had become a "we".

"Oh, I know that! Just, promise. Please, Ron? Just promise. Put your hand over your heart."

"W-What? What for?"

"God, Ron, it's just a sign of making a promise," Hermione replied exasperatedly.

"Oh, I knew that," Ron said quietly, slightly embarrassed that he hadn't thought of that when Hermione said it.

Ron knew that his loyalty to Harry would never waver, but looking at the keen look in Hermione's eyes, he knew that making it a promise would make it more solid, more real, and more tangible, something that would mean a great deal to Hermione.

"I promise." He raised his hand to his left portion of his chest and stood up straight, as if it would make some sort of difference.

Hermione smiled and placed her hand gently over his, as if accepting his promise.

Ron wondered why he and Hermione weren't always like this; perhaps he wouldn't have had to look so hard for the snitch all this time. He wondered why it took the death of a person for him to apprehend what had to be done. Partially, it was Bill and Fleur's upcoming marriage. His mother's words had visited his thoughts from time to time, reminding him that there was no knowing what would come tomorrow. He wasn't sure if Hermione would be a part of tomorrow. He wasn't sure whether a batch of cloud would block that golden ball from view.

Hermione, yet again, began to walk, only Ron could feel the rest of her fingers interlace with his own as both of their hands lowered to their sides. His ears grew red, but it would be hard to see it in that dark. Either way, Ron didn't care. Ron didn't know whether to laugh, smile, say something or just plain out kiss her right there. With this jumble of actions all looking to be brought out at once, Ron's mouth twitched a little, forming a somewhat idiotic grin on his face. After a moment of calming down a bit, he smiled properly and looked at Hermione, who smiled sincerely back at him. If only the events of the past few days hadn't happened, for Ron would have loved to her eyes smile, too.

Ron was content. He was confident. As much as this was a moment to him and Hermione, he couldn't help but think of Harry, who now had two best friends who wouldn't bicker, who wouldn't banter and would stick by his side, united. Harry's team had won the match, and Ron had caught his Golden Snitch.