Harry's Best Mate

Harry's Best Mate

By Riots For Pirates

"You just wouldn't understand, Ron."

I look into his green eyes. They're sad and melancholy and wizened; the eyes of someone who grew up too fast--the eyes of someone who's had to see horrible things at a ridiculously young age.

Yeah, I've got a rash.

Everyone's heard the story of Harry Potter. His parents died for him, and he survived the Killing Curse for the first time in history. He's encountered some form of Voldemort or his followers for every year since he was eleven. He's the Fourth Triwizard Champion. He's the youngest seeker in the century. Everyone knows this.

I know this but at that moment I just want him to stop using that fucking patronizing tone on me.

I could tell him this right then, or I could just nod in sympathy, and shrug my shoulders awkwardly.

I go for the latter. You wouldn't think that since I've done this for the past six years that I'd still resent this. And yet alas, there you go, resentment courses through my veins like a muggle drug.

This is probably the three year-old speaking up. I've tried ignoring this three year-old; after all, I should be grateful the famous Harry Potter graces me with his friendship, right? Of course I should, he's a great wizard, isn't he?

Yeah, I know he is. I also know that he's a humble, down to earth guy, and that would be great under normal circumstances. The problem is it gives me no reason to hate him. And I don't. Which is fucked up because at this very moment I find myself wanting to punch that depressed look off his face.

Now, I know this isn't normal.

There was the fight in fourth year, I'm recalling now. And I remember how I wanted to prove to everyone that I didn't just follow Harry Potter around like a puppy begging for treats. That I have a name, thanks. That I wasn't clinging on to him because no one else would have me, anyway. That I can have fights with him; that I can disagree with him. I needed to prove this to everyone.

I needed to prove it to myself.

The thing I don't remember, don't understand, is how I ended up like a bitter old man by the age of sixteen. And I certainly don't know how I ended up loving him in the process.

There had been a time in third year when I was having the tiff with Hermione that I actually loved him like...that.

But that was just a phase that passed like a forgotten trend.

"Honestly Ron, don't flinch."

In every great trio there are the same roles. There's the hero with the hard childhood, and there's the smart one who just happens to know everything at the right times. And then there's the stupid one who's there for comic relief.

You don't have to tell me which part I play.

There's the one who got points for bravery, the one who got points for cleverness, and then there's the one who got points for playing chess.

It's not fair, I keep telling myself, I didn't get to choose my role. But the thing is, neither did Harry or Hermione; they just got the better ones.

I finally got to play Quidditch in fifth year; I finally got to show everyone that I'm not an unnecessary extra, or whatever. I was so happy.

But then I got nervous. But then Malfoy made up that song, and I froze. I wasn't even able to beat Malfoy up afterwards because I was too busy brooding in the showers like some sodding girl, of all things.

And then I won the game. But of course Harry and Hermione weren't there to see it because they were too busy going off into the woods to teach a giant Arithmancy, or something.

In third year I hurt my leg so badly, because of Harry. I was fine about it--I actually didn't care for a few hours because I only cared about Harry and Hermione.

I was fine about it, until they disappeared without giving me a proper explanation. And when they returned they were just wearing these horribly smug looks on their stupid faces, and they gave each other stupid knowing looks.

At the time I wanted to snap their stupid necks. And now? I...still do.

But yet I still love them, and yet I stick around. You see, I know that Harry needs to defeat Voldemort, and I know he had a horrible childhood, and I know that he's a great wizard. I just want...something. Is that really so much to ask?

And I didn't have the best childhood either, for the record. I spent a lot of my days as the guinea pig of most of Fred and George's experiments, as I'm the weak member of the family; Bill's cool, Charlie's strong, Percy's an asshole, Fred and George are clever, Ginny's pretty, and me? I'm the friend of The Boy-Who-Lived.

Most people don't know that Mum cried when I was born. She wanted a girl so badly at the time, and I came instead. Ginny came soon after and everyone was so happy to have a witch, that, I don't know, I was left in the shadows in a way.

I won't tell this to Harry or Hermione. They'll just pity me more than they do now; not a good pity, either. At least with the kind of pity Harry gets there's an undertone of respect. Who'd respect a poor, weak, Weasley? They hardly respect Dad.

The other day we crossed paths with Malfoy and his cronies (Are Hermione and I any better?) a.k.a. That Bitch Pansy Parkinson and quiet Blaise Zabini, and everyone molded into the same positions they've grown accustomed to.

Hermione and Blaise Zabini sort of glared at each other while exchanging telepathic insults. Bitch Parkinson and I almost went for each other's neck while snarling insults. And Harry and Malfoy just said a few snide remarks, and told Parkinson and me to stop (Honestly Ron, she's not worth it). I hate it when he does this. I'd like to tell him that, yeah, she really is. After all, it's not like I get to express my anger at anyone else. I almost said this when I looked at Parkinson, and saw that look of desperation in her eyes, and I just knew. I knew that she was thinking the exact same thing. We held gazes for a little. Our eyes portraying brief understanding, and then we were pulled away.

I'll never forget that look in Parkinson's eyes. That was the most understanding I've ever received. The only person I've known to have the same role that I do. It gives you a strange feeling.

In every great trio there are the same roles.

Hermione is now glaring at me, and so I'm snapped out of my reverie. I return back to the present very depressed looking Harry (he's been looking this way a lot recently--like he's bored or unsatisfied with us, or something. The Boy-Who-Lived unsatisfied? Please, someone alert the papers), and a concerned looking Hermione.

"Perhaps you could tell us, Harry. I mean, there's no use in brooding about and not telling your best friends what's wrong, is there?"

I think she's genuinely concerned, bless her heart. I gave up being concerned about these little pissy moods right before fifth year, right after he told me and Hermione that we weren't worth shit.

"Look, can you guys just leave me alone? I won't talk about it, so you guys can just give up right now," Harry snaps.

Oh really?

"Oh, I see. Then Harry, you can just leave us be and quit sighing in that oppressed way you have. Because you aren't oppressed, so please get it together," Hermione retorts, as if she's been keeping that in for a long time. Join the club, I say.

"That's the problem with you two. You guys will never understand!" And with that Harry storms out of the common room, and into the dormitory.

Hermione sighs in frustration, and starts her homework with a determined and angry expression on her face.

I love that face. I love that horrid hair. I love Hermione.

I'm perfectly sincere on this point, because I really do love her. She's the only one who I let push me around (Harry doesn't count), and she lets me annoy her. It's a fair trade.

I realize I'm drooling now, not the most attractive thing to do if you're trying to win someone's affections.

I feel a rush of air on my back and when I turn to look around, there's no one there. Oh, I see. He's under the invisibility cloak, and thinks we don't know it. Funny, that is.

~*~

Harry didn't return the night before. I can't say I'm really surprised; he enjoys disappearing and making Hermione worry sick.

We were sitting in the Great Hall eating breakfast the next morning when it happened. Malfoy enters and looks cool and controlled and as if he's about to pull something right under everyone's noses. I know that look--it's the one he used right before he started that song about me in fifth year. This look isn't making me nervous, but wary; what was he going to do now?

Cue Harry, who looks a great deal more anxious. Harry sort of passes Malfoy, heading over to us, but he's stopped. Stopped by a pale muscled arm, and Harry stiffens, and gives Malfoy an almost pleading look. Why?

And then Draco Malfoy is kissing Harry Potter.

And Harry Potter is not resisting.

There's a minute of terrible silence. Not that I'm calm--oh no, I'm absolutely livid.

The silence is broken by Hermione sighing as she puts down the Daily Prophet. Not out of relief but of frustration and hurt and so many things worth mentioning but I can't because I'm frustrated and hurt and so many things, too.

Huh. So Harry wants him after all.

I thought he--what--I thought he chose me. Chose me over the blond git in first year. I thought no matter what he would always choose me rather than Malfoy. I was absolutely certain.

I look over at Parkinson by impulse. I didn't know I was doing that until I already did it. Her face is scrunched up and furious and she's about to burst out into tears.

And she does exactly what I feel like doing.

She stands up and makes a strangled cry of fury and betrayal and her eyes were blazing and shining of unshed tears and her face was contorted and I know everyone's thinking that at this moment, she's the ugliest thing they've ever seen, but I think at that moment she's beautiful.

Not beautiful like Hermione, but proud and angry and devastated and free.

I look over to Harry for the first time since Parkinson yelled, and I see a look of horror on his face. I haven't seen him so scared since he saw Fluffy for the first time.

Parkinson is stumbling over to Harry and Malfoy now, and then comes that unbearable silence again. She stops right in front of Malfoy and for a moment I thought she was going to slap him, but alas, no. Nothing goes my way.

Malfoy is holding her gaze steadily but I can tell he's afraid. Everyone flinches at the sound of Parkinson's voice.

"Him?" she whispers evenly, but the desperation is there, I know it is.

"Now Pansy, just listen to--" Malfoy begins. Ha.

"No, I've listened to you for six years, it's your turn. First of all, Harry Potter, you can go to hell." There are a few gasps scattered among the student body. Some gasps from the first years at the language, and the others for the audacity to use the language in front of the whole Hogwarts staff.

Harry clears his throat and opens his mouth, as if to say something, but he is sorely mistaken.

"Shut up!" and Harry's mouth closes with an audible click. "Draco...I...no. Please, not him. He's probably doing it to get Death Eater information, or something. He's doing it to get at your father or something...please, Draco."

Everyone thinks they see Harry's eyes narrow, but Malfoy is the next to speak. "Don't be ridiculous, Pansy. I know it's odd, but I think I know Harry, and I know he wouldn't do that. I just know."

There's a flicker of something else in Parkinson's eyes at the word 'Harry'. I can see denial in her features hoping--begging--for this to not be true.

"Like you thought you knew him the summer before first year? Come on Draco, you remember. When you thought you two would be the best of friends from the start? Oh yes, you thought you knew him then, and he turned your hand down, Draco, didn't he? Oh yes, you offered to be friends and he turned you down." She's using her last resort weapons, now. Her final hope is scalding insults, as if she's trying to scare Malfoy back into the Dungeons. But I can see it's not working, and she can see it, too.

The silence in the hall was getting louder, if that makes any sense. Loud silence? Who knew there was such a thing.

Harry goes for his wand, and bares his teeth in a way strangely reminiscent of Sirius. I want to tell him that really, Harry, she's not worth it. I want to but Malfoy beats me to the punch. What else is new?

Malfoy lays his hand over Harry's arm, and Harry melts immediately. Malfoy looks to the ground and speaks very steadily but there's pain in his voice.

"Pansy, you just don't understand."

And for an unknown reason that makes me want to punch Malfoy in the face.

"Oh yes, of course, I don't understand, right? That's the way it's always been, hasn't it? Pansy Parkinson, the girl who has no self-respect, and will be Draco Malfoy's girlfriend whenever he pleases? Don't act like you're in so much pain, Draco, you've always gotten what you wanted. It's just--I've always just been your friend with benefits, isn't that it? And don't you dare tell me that, no, that isn't how it is, because--I--I know, Draco, I always have." She lets out a harsh, ragged breath, and she sounds a little deranged. "I may not understand all this high and intelligent, and angsty love-hate thing you have going on with the Golden Boy, but I've always known that. I cared for you, but to be close to you I had to put up with rumors--oh god, how many rumors--about what a slut I am, what a hopeless twit I am, and what a bitch I am, and for what? To be your acquaintance who you do nothing but--but--but talk down to, and to count on to always be there to calm you down because you had a bad Quidditch match? Well, fuck you, Draco!"

Malfoy looks badly shocked, which annoys me. It's like, 'Who knew that the girl who I've known all my life actually has emotions? What a queer concept.'

Parkinson paws at her face savagely, as if saying that actually, no, the tears she was wiping away weren't real, and just daring anyone to say anything about it.

"Pansy, I'm...sorry you feel that way, but, I'm sorry. I trust Harry."

Parkinson winces a little at the word 'Harry' again, and now she has this crazed look in her eye that I envy.

"More than you trust me?"

When Malfoy doesn't answer she runs. She runs clumsily to the entrance of the Great Hall and trips and falls right in front of Gryffindor's table. She looks up and glares at everyone staring at her and she looks like all she would like to do is punch the stone floor for being so uneven, but suddenly her gaze stops. Stops at me.

When her gaze stops at mine her enraged face changes. When she looks at me her face portrays a grim understanding that return without knowing it. I see the pain in her eyes, and I don't feel bad for her, I feel like her. She's the only one I've known to have the same role that I do.

She just nods, and she looks at Malfoy again, and nods again. Then she stands up and runs out of the Great Hall, and away from her embarrassment (I wasn't even able to beat Malfoy up afterwards because I was too busy brooding in the showers).

I want to go after Pansy, but I know that outside that door lies so many complicated and frustrating things that I really just don't need right now.

I look at Hermione, and she looks far from crying. She looks far from crying, but at that moment she leans on me, for a few seconds. It's a very novel concept, and at that moment I love Hermione more than anything else in the world, and all I want to do is just breathe in the fragrance of her shampoo, and forget the rest of my worries forever, but she pulls away.

She squeezes my hand one more time, stands up, and looks at Harry and Malfoy. A look I can't describe.

She marches out of the hall with a determined look on her face, and I can tell she's going after Pansy.

Now it's my turn to be badly shocked.

I look over at Harry and Malfoy, and they're doing only what I can describe as telepathic exchanges.

It was then that I realized--keep in mind, I've always thought this, but now I truly realized--that no matter how hard we try, Hermione will never be able to analyze Harry and Malfoy.

And me and Pansy will always be below them.

Harry walks over to me and gives me a half smile. I guess he thinks that our bond is so deep, that we have some sort of understanding. That's the thing with Harry, he can't make up his mind; I either never understand, or I'll always understand him, even in the most incomprehensible times. Worst of both worlds, really.

"We're okay, right?"

No.

"Yeah."

[end]