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I am productive! And, aw, I haven't bonded with these crazy kids for awhile.
In moments like this, Ron can't help but suspect he's gone mental.
It's Saturday afternoon. It's decent outside -- freezing, yeah, but the sky's clear and occasionally blue, and it's not like being cold's a problem when you've got a mum that likes to knit like mad. Ron hates maroon, but right now, putting on all the mum-made jumpers he has (three, but the sleeves only reach about halfway down his forearm on one) and grabbing his cloak and spending the afternoon out wandering around the grounds seems appealing in a way that only pumpkin pasties can usually manage.
He won't allow his mind to venture into the territory where he's lounging in front of the fire playing wizard's chess in the common room. It seems like such a perfect way to spend the day that if he dwelled on it too long, the fact that he's here instead would become unbearable.
But here he is.
In the library.
'Doing homework.'
(This had been Hermione's suggestion, but damned if he'll actually touch the assignment from McGonagall until tomorrow night at around nine thirty. He hasn't completely lost his marbles.)
It's quiet in here. Too quiet. The only people around are a table of fifth year girls giggling like idiots and a few Ravenclaws thoughtfully perusing books so big Ron suspects you could probably kill someone with them if you really wanted to.
And then, of course, there's Hermione.
He can't see her right now, because she's wandering through the stacks -- probably with that sick, glazed expression she gets sometimes when books are around. They've only been friends for a few weeks, but he's already picked up on the fact that she likes books far more than could possibly be healthy. A few times, he's idly considered different ways of going about getting her to kick the addiction, because otherwise, he reasons, there's no way she won't wind up in St. Mungo's by third year. And from what he's heard, there are some pretty sick blokes in the loony section of St. Mungo's. He figures he owes it to her to save her from that particular fate. After all, what are friends for?
It's still kind of weird, being friends with a girl. He's not used to being around girls all that often, what with the fact that he's got about six trillion brothers and all. There's Ginny, yeah, but she's not really a girl. She's his sister. And besides, she sure as hell doesn't hit like a girl -- or talk like one, when Mum's not around.
But Hermione's not exactly like a girl either, which makes it okay. She's nothing like Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, who've both already managed to freak him out a little. There's no way it's natural to giggle that much.
Hermione doesn't giggle. This, of course, is mostly because she spends all her time getting glazed eyes over books and homework and rules, but on the rare occasion when she does think something is funny, she laughs. Ron can appreciate that.
He also appreciates that when he starts an argument with her, she argues right back. At first, he'd thought it was completely annoying, but it's come to the point where it's a bit fun, really. A few times, he's called McGonagall an old bat or dropped his textbooks on the floor just to get her going. He'd heard his dad say something once when his mum had been in a temper - "hell hath no fury."
Yeah, that seemed about right.
It was kind of cool.
It's not all fun, though, having a girl friend. (A girl for a friend, that is.) For one thing, whenever Fred and George are around the three of them, he kinda gets this weird feeling of dread in his stomach that, more than anything else, resembles the time he ate their entire collection of vomit-flavored jellybeans on a dare. It's just that, well, they're trouble, Fred and George are. He's had that figured out since he was about two. And although they haven't said anything yet, the fact is that he, Ron Weasley, is friends with a girl. Who hangs out with him, and sits next to him sometimes, and occasionally says things that kinda sound like Mum talking to Dad: "Honestly, Ron, you're so irresponsible!" when he forgets his books, or "Really, you could at least show a bit of gratitude!" when she copies her History of Magic notes for him to save him from failing.
Sooner or later, Fred and George are bound to get the wrong idea about things.
They're a couple of right gits like that.
And really, they couldn't be more wrong. (Or they won't be, at least, when the idea finally hits them, which it will.) She's . . . well, she's not like a sister, exactly, because she doesn't draw fake moustaches on him while he's asleep or talk all the time or put spiders in his socks. She's more like . . . well, no, she's not quite like a bloke either, because she doesn't understand the first thing about Quidditch and has no respect whatsoever for Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.
So, well, fine.
She's a girl.
And she's his friend.
But that doesn't mean they can get any ideas. It's not like he's in love with her or whatever, which is what they'd think. He doesn't even think she's pretty, really. She's all tiny and her hair's completely insane -- if you walk too close to her, chances are you'll get hit in the face -- and besides, she gets this look when she's really mad that's truly terrifying, like she'll kill you with her eyes if you're not really careful. The only time she looks nice at all, really, is when she smiles, and even then, her front teeth are too big. It's more about the fact that she is smiling at all, because that's kind of rare when you're all busy with books and homework and lecturing all the time. And so when she does, it's surprising, and kind of nice. That's all.
But that's exactly the sort of thing that Fred and George would get all wrong.
Because they're idiots.
Ron doesn't even know why--
"Oh!" At the sound of her voice, he drops his quill and leans his chair forward so all four of its legs are touching the floor. (He's already been lectured about abusing the library chairs -- Hermione had beat Madame Pince to it, even.)
She's carrying five books, a few of which are so big that they make her look even smaller. Ron suspects that he wouldn't read any of those even if he was locked up for life in Azkaban and needed something to keep his mind off having his soul slowly sucked out. She's definitely mental, he decides.
"You're still here," she says, and looks a little surprised.
He wonders for a second if he shouldn't be.
"Well," he says, a bit awkwardly, and straightens his homework papers in front of him, just in case. "Yeah."
"I thought you'd have taken off to do something else by now." Her brow is furrowed slightly, but she's not quite frowning at him. She looks the way she does when McGonagall's asked a particularly difficult question that she can't quite sort out all at once.
"Nah," he says, after a moment. "There's not much else to do."
"I thought anything was better than the library," she says, and smiles slightly. It's nice -- or it would be, he quickly amends, if her teeth weren't so big. It's not really much of a smile, anyhow. More of a smirk. Nothing special.
"Yeah, I was going to leave," he invents smoothly. "Go find something better to do. But I figured you'd get all upset if I abandoned you. So I didn't."
He expects she'll get upset with him now -- that had admittedly been kind of a stupid thing to say -- but instead, she just stares at him for a second, a bit mystified, before sort of murmuring, "Thanks."
Huh.
"No big deal," he says, as nonchalantly as he can manage, and then -- because just staring at each other is exactly the sort of thing that would make Fred and George think stupid things -- reaches out toward her and attempts to grab a few books off her teetering pile of doom. "You're going to kill yourself toting those things around--"
"Please, Ron -- I can hold a pile of books--"
"Right, sure; tell me again in fifteen seconds once you've crushed your feet--"
"And how, exactly, is this helping?"
"I'm stronger than you."
She responds with a rather mighty tug; he loses his grip on the books, and they tumble to the floor. He hears a sharp intake of breath from Madame Pince's direction, quickly followed by alarmingly swift footsteps. Hermione's eyes start flashing in that way that brings promises of pain, death, destruction, and at least ten minutes' worth of lecturing.
Hell hath no fury, Ron decides.
He thinks he can deal with that.
In moments like this, Ron can't help but suspect he's gone mental.
It's Saturday afternoon. It's decent outside -- freezing, yeah, but the sky's clear and occasionally blue, and it's not like being cold's a problem when you've got a mum that likes to knit like mad. Ron hates maroon, but right now, putting on all the mum-made jumpers he has (three, but the sleeves only reach about halfway down his forearm on one) and grabbing his cloak and spending the afternoon out wandering around the grounds seems appealing in a way that only pumpkin pasties can usually manage.
He won't allow his mind to venture into the territory where he's lounging in front of the fire playing wizard's chess in the common room. It seems like such a perfect way to spend the day that if he dwelled on it too long, the fact that he's here instead would become unbearable.
But here he is.
In the library.
'Doing homework.'
(This had been Hermione's suggestion, but damned if he'll actually touch the assignment from McGonagall until tomorrow night at around nine thirty. He hasn't completely lost his marbles.)
It's quiet in here. Too quiet. The only people around are a table of fifth year girls giggling like idiots and a few Ravenclaws thoughtfully perusing books so big Ron suspects you could probably kill someone with them if you really wanted to.
And then, of course, there's Hermione.
He can't see her right now, because she's wandering through the stacks -- probably with that sick, glazed expression she gets sometimes when books are around. They've only been friends for a few weeks, but he's already picked up on the fact that she likes books far more than could possibly be healthy. A few times, he's idly considered different ways of going about getting her to kick the addiction, because otherwise, he reasons, there's no way she won't wind up in St. Mungo's by third year. And from what he's heard, there are some pretty sick blokes in the loony section of St. Mungo's. He figures he owes it to her to save her from that particular fate. After all, what are friends for?
It's still kind of weird, being friends with a girl. He's not used to being around girls all that often, what with the fact that he's got about six trillion brothers and all. There's Ginny, yeah, but she's not really a girl. She's his sister. And besides, she sure as hell doesn't hit like a girl -- or talk like one, when Mum's not around.
But Hermione's not exactly like a girl either, which makes it okay. She's nothing like Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, who've both already managed to freak him out a little. There's no way it's natural to giggle that much.
Hermione doesn't giggle. This, of course, is mostly because she spends all her time getting glazed eyes over books and homework and rules, but on the rare occasion when she does think something is funny, she laughs. Ron can appreciate that.
He also appreciates that when he starts an argument with her, she argues right back. At first, he'd thought it was completely annoying, but it's come to the point where it's a bit fun, really. A few times, he's called McGonagall an old bat or dropped his textbooks on the floor just to get her going. He'd heard his dad say something once when his mum had been in a temper - "hell hath no fury."
Yeah, that seemed about right.
It was kind of cool.
It's not all fun, though, having a girl friend. (A girl for a friend, that is.) For one thing, whenever Fred and George are around the three of them, he kinda gets this weird feeling of dread in his stomach that, more than anything else, resembles the time he ate their entire collection of vomit-flavored jellybeans on a dare. It's just that, well, they're trouble, Fred and George are. He's had that figured out since he was about two. And although they haven't said anything yet, the fact is that he, Ron Weasley, is friends with a girl. Who hangs out with him, and sits next to him sometimes, and occasionally says things that kinda sound like Mum talking to Dad: "Honestly, Ron, you're so irresponsible!" when he forgets his books, or "Really, you could at least show a bit of gratitude!" when she copies her History of Magic notes for him to save him from failing.
Sooner or later, Fred and George are bound to get the wrong idea about things.
They're a couple of right gits like that.
And really, they couldn't be more wrong. (Or they won't be, at least, when the idea finally hits them, which it will.) She's . . . well, she's not like a sister, exactly, because she doesn't draw fake moustaches on him while he's asleep or talk all the time or put spiders in his socks. She's more like . . . well, no, she's not quite like a bloke either, because she doesn't understand the first thing about Quidditch and has no respect whatsoever for Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.
So, well, fine.
She's a girl.
And she's his friend.
But that doesn't mean they can get any ideas. It's not like he's in love with her or whatever, which is what they'd think. He doesn't even think she's pretty, really. She's all tiny and her hair's completely insane -- if you walk too close to her, chances are you'll get hit in the face -- and besides, she gets this look when she's really mad that's truly terrifying, like she'll kill you with her eyes if you're not really careful. The only time she looks nice at all, really, is when she smiles, and even then, her front teeth are too big. It's more about the fact that she is smiling at all, because that's kind of rare when you're all busy with books and homework and lecturing all the time. And so when she does, it's surprising, and kind of nice. That's all.
But that's exactly the sort of thing that Fred and George would get all wrong.
Because they're idiots.
Ron doesn't even know why--
"Oh!" At the sound of her voice, he drops his quill and leans his chair forward so all four of its legs are touching the floor. (He's already been lectured about abusing the library chairs -- Hermione had beat Madame Pince to it, even.)
She's carrying five books, a few of which are so big that they make her look even smaller. Ron suspects that he wouldn't read any of those even if he was locked up for life in Azkaban and needed something to keep his mind off having his soul slowly sucked out. She's definitely mental, he decides.
"You're still here," she says, and looks a little surprised.
He wonders for a second if he shouldn't be.
"Well," he says, a bit awkwardly, and straightens his homework papers in front of him, just in case. "Yeah."
"I thought you'd have taken off to do something else by now." Her brow is furrowed slightly, but she's not quite frowning at him. She looks the way she does when McGonagall's asked a particularly difficult question that she can't quite sort out all at once.
"Nah," he says, after a moment. "There's not much else to do."
"I thought anything was better than the library," she says, and smiles slightly. It's nice -- or it would be, he quickly amends, if her teeth weren't so big. It's not really much of a smile, anyhow. More of a smirk. Nothing special.
"Yeah, I was going to leave," he invents smoothly. "Go find something better to do. But I figured you'd get all upset if I abandoned you. So I didn't."
He expects she'll get upset with him now -- that had admittedly been kind of a stupid thing to say -- but instead, she just stares at him for a second, a bit mystified, before sort of murmuring, "Thanks."
Huh.
"No big deal," he says, as nonchalantly as he can manage, and then -- because just staring at each other is exactly the sort of thing that would make Fred and George think stupid things -- reaches out toward her and attempts to grab a few books off her teetering pile of doom. "You're going to kill yourself toting those things around--"
"Please, Ron -- I can hold a pile of books--"
"Right, sure; tell me again in fifteen seconds once you've crushed your feet--"
"And how, exactly, is this helping?"
"I'm stronger than you."
She responds with a rather mighty tug; he loses his grip on the books, and they tumble to the floor. He hears a sharp intake of breath from Madame Pince's direction, quickly followed by alarmingly swift footsteps. Hermione's eyes start flashing in that way that brings promises of pain, death, destruction, and at least ten minutes' worth of lecturing.
Hell hath no fury, Ron decides.
He thinks he can deal with that.