The Boy with the Musical Laugh

The Boy with the Musical Laugh

Lanni Weasley

For a moment, you think that life is beautiful.

As you lie on the soft grass at night and look up at the sparkling stars that decorate the black sky, you think that life is wonderful.

And when you look at the boy lying next to you on this beautiful and wonderful night, you could say that your life was more magical than what should be allowed.

It's almost like heaven, you suppose, because when you sit up on the hill, the road that leads to the Burrow glistens when the moonlight touches it like the golden streets and a large, fruit bearing tree stands tall and strong next to quietly running creak. You think it's perfect, even the crickets chirping in the background and the laughter of a red-haired girl in the Burrow as she somehow manages to bond with her breath-taking, new sister-in-law.

The boy next to you sits up, disrupting the peace with the shuffling of his clothing, but you don't care. He stretches, runs a hand through his dishevelled red hair, and then blinks at you with groggy, blue eyes.

"I have an idea," he says quietly. You turn to him with an arched eyebrow. The lopsided grin on his freckly face tells you that the idea in his mind is a good one, even though you know it'll sound ridiculous at first. "We should head on to the Dursley's tomorrow morning - at daybreak."

"What?" It's more ridiculous than you thought it would be. Perhaps it's not much of a good idea after all. "Ron," you say in your primmest voice, "that's much too foolhardy and dangerous. Remember, we have to have a small guard come with us; Professor Lupin told us that he'd take us over there next week with Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, and your father." He snorts, disdaining your cautious, rule-following warning. "It's war; we're only seventeen; people-"

"Yes, I know people die - they always do, war or not," he says, his hot-tempered mind trying to calm down even though he feels so much conviction in his words that he cannot possibly do or say anything else to stop going on. You can feel his conviction, too, it's so powerful. His eyes glow in a way that reminds you of the colour of the sea. "But I was only twelve when I sacrificed myself on a chessboard; I was only thirteen when I went into the Chamber of Secrets to try to save Ginny; I was only fourteen when I stood up against Sirius Black; I was only fifteen when You-Know-Who rose again; I was only sixteen when I flew off to the Department of Mysteries to save-" Here, he stops, because you know how much he looked up to Sirius. He fixes a troubled look on his face, closes his eyes, and looks down at the ground. He continues quietly, like he embarrassed himself for having so much passion in his words before: "And I was only seventeen when I had to face Death Eaters and find out that Dumbledore was dead."

You bow your head in honour of the late Headmaster of Hogwarts. "We were much too young even then," you whisper. "All those things...in the past...we should not have had to go through any of those things."

"But we did," he tells you, "and I say that it doesn't matter anymore."

You look up at him quickly. "Of course it matters! If we die, then what will Harry have left?"

"He'll have plenty left!" he says fiercely. "But what are we going to matter to Harry if we're sitting on our lazy arses here when he's there?" He looks at you, eyes blazing. "We're not going to die, Hermione, not now."

"Of course we're not going to die now, Ron, because it's not tomorrow, now is it!" you retort before you can catch yourself. You close your eyes, breathing heavily, because you just know that he will burst at you. And tomorrow will come and neither of you will be speaking to the other and you won't go to see Harry any earlier than next week. At what cost must you get your way and only that? At what cost? What must you sacrifice in order to make sure that he follows what you think is right? When will it end?

But instead of hearing him storm away, you hear him laugh.

You open your eyes and stare at him. He's lying on the ground, rolling as laughter tumbles out of his mouth clumsily; he can't seem to breathe properly either. You can't seem to find anything to say with the sight before your eyes. He wraps his arms around his stomach, clutching his sides like they hurt from laughing too hard. You want to yell at him, to demand him to stop laughing, to scream that what he's doing is wrong on so many levels because this is a serious matter. But you can't bring yourself to interrupt to musical laughter that rings in your mind again and again and again...

Before you know it, the urge to laugh rises inside your chest. You want to shriek with laughter, roll on the grass with him, and feel better. Why should he be the only one to experience the joy of laughter? Why should you be left alone to watch him enjoy it? Deep down, however, you can't laugh because you feel so dark and stuck in that darkness that you can't bring yourself to laugh. A sad look comes over your face. He stops laughing soon, sighs, and sits up.

"What was so funny?" you demand because it's the first thing that comes to mind when you look at his beaming face.

"You were sarcastic!" he exclaims.

You arch an eyebrow again, challenging the apparent humour of her actions. "And why's that funny?"

"You're never sarcastic!" He laughs again and shakes his head to get his red hair out of his eyes. He grins at her. "It's always facts this, facts that; I'm right, you're wrong; cut and dry and that's it." You shoot him a glare, but it appears to just bounce right off of him. "It's just the fact that you used a fact to be sarcastic was, well, funny."

"You're ridiculous, Ron."

"I've been told that many times, most of them by you," he quips casually. It's true, you can't deny that. "So, about my idea?"

You raise your head to show that you're somehow superior to him, but you feel more silly than anything else; when he smirks, you lower you head embarrassedly and try to retain a bit of dignity. "I still say that it's foolish and outlandish."

"Oh, Hermione, you flatter me so!"

You wish he wouldn't sound so cheerful; it ruins the seriousness of this conversation. But you can't bring yourself to admonish him for it.

Instead, you fix him with a stern look and say, "How are we going to get there? They've been taken off the Floo Network for two years."

He smirks and idly replies, "Apparation, of course."

"Ronald Weasley, you can't be serious!" you gasp. He nods his head, smirk only broadening on his face as he sees the horror sink onto your own face. "But you don't have your Apparation License yet; you could get into serious trouble!"

"Unless you'd rather go by brooms, Hermione," he then mentions.

You freeze, mouth mid open to berate him more. He knows that you're terrified of heights and that you'd do anything in all your power to stay as close to the ground as possible. Your conscience screams for the brooms, but your heart, thoughts, and fear override your conscience and trample it to the ground.

"Besides," he begins again, "you can always help me a bit. Harry Apparated with Dumbledore before he even knew how to do it. And he didn't get in trouble when he Apparated to get the Horcrux."

"But that was Dumbledore!" you exclaim fearfully. "I'm not Dumbledore-"

"That's right," he says with another lopsided grin of his, "you're Hermione Granger." You decide to say nothing, but instead, look down at your feet and blush, hoping that the darkness covers your red cheeks up. But judging by his laughter, the darkness of the night didn't do a very good job at it. "So we're going to the Dursleys tomorrow then?"

You look up at him with a glower to let him know that you think he's a complete buffoon. "I still say it's the most ridiculous thing we can do - not to mention very dangerous and thick."

He stands up, brushes himself off, and holds a hand out. You take it, and he pulls you up to your feet quickly. He looks up to the stars and sighs. "Mars is very bright tonight."

"Ron, you are-"

"Ridiculous?" He looks at you - no, he looks into you - and you question yourself. He chuckles, but it's not quite as amazing as his laughter. "Yeah, I know I am, but it really is very bright tonight. I think it's supposed to mean that this war is really on now."

"It was like that last year, too," you say softly.

"No," he replies as he pockets his hands, "not quite as it is now."

"Ron-"

"C'mon, Hermione," he interrupts with a grin, "you're going to need your beauty sleep if we're going to the Dursleys at daybreak - that is, of course, unless you want to look like a lion with that mad main of hair of yours."

"Ronald!" you yell as you smack him on the arm playfully. He laughs and runs to the Burrow with you chasing him. And you can't help but think that his laughter his music to your ears.