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title: And So the Story Goes date: december 8, 2002 Ron is very ready to scream now. It sounds like one of those slogans plastered all over Ginny’s import-Japanese toys in her dorm. Happy Weather Day Makes Bright Sunshine. Let’s Us Go to Down and Have Nice Tea. And his favourite: Never Friends Good Girls and Boys. All the lower-year girls are mad over them; Hogsmeade has sales and cash registers ringing with Tokyo-bound Galleons. The toys twist and twine and turn in the normally sedate and damply heated air of Hogwarts rooms; they spin and attract and spurn each other in psychedelic shades. There are mushrooms that explode fireworks and taste like candy floss, tiny burnt men with flattened heads who squeak something like “See you good this blue day!”, stuffed panda bears who melt over any surface because air is narcotic to them; squealing girls jumping up and down in the midst of the cuteness. And everything, everything, everything has huge eyes. They stare at Ron from the surface of toothbrush mugs, hand-held mirrors, lipstick holders, quill-cases, ink pots; faintly accusing. Ron swims in the vacuous blankness of their gape, never quite touching the inky black pupil. The day his head went under was when Harry asked him, “Ron, do you like me?” “Hunnh?” “I mean, I know you like me as a friend, but, do you like me as in like like me?” As in, kiss me please I like you too that kind of like you? Of course I like you like that. I like you like I like green tea, udon, miso soup, koi rippling through water, watery days with nothing to do but spend the entire day. Inside with you. “Harry, don’t be daft!” “Okay. That’s good. Because you know, I’m straight. At least, I think I’m straight but I’m pretty sure I am.” Ron’s life is exactly like his little sister’s favourite Japanese stuffed toy of all. It’s called Kamikaze Kitty and is ostensibly a pink cat with two ears, huge eyes, whiskers and no mouth. It comes up to you and says: “Hello! Goodbye! My friend!” and explodes in a shower of yellow and pink stars. Ginny calls it Kitty. Ginny has never been terribly creative; Ron supposes it runs in the family. After all, if Ron were really that smart, he’d manipulate Harry into liking him back. If you can’t join the enemy (read: straight people) camp, you make the enemy join yours. Maybe starting with looking at Harry differently, leaving your hands on his shoulders for longer than usual, brushing grit off his nose with casual meticulousness. But of course Ron doesn’t think of all that, because he’s not smart, plus he failed his examinations. Percy looked ready to commit seppuku on Ron’s behalf when he heard. The scream started building up inside of Ron’s chest when he saw Harry and Malfoy talking. As in, talking talking; but really, Malfoy doesn’t need specifications. Specifications for Malfoy is like specifying exactly how big is an E cup bra size, the one that was nicked from Millicent Bulstrode and passed around like a holy relic. Malfoy is just Malfoy, Harry is Harry, Harry does not speak to Malfoy except to insult and defend the good name of his friends. But let’s go a bit deeper, past the black robes, grey vest, white shirt and turn to the left slightly; there. Right beneath the Gryffindor badge. Ron’s heart, and it right now only beats for Harry. Sounds stupid, but there you go; love is stupid. Ron has yet to figure this out. Never Friends Good Girls and Boys. That’s where the scream is building up. It’s going to either come out in fisticuffs with Malfoy or snogging with Hermione. And then Ron saw Harry holding hands with Malfoy while it was raining. He goes straight to Hermione, repentant and miserable, ready to give up this hideously heinous lifestyle of wanting and never getting, saving his soul. “Ron!” gasps Hermione, putting her hand over her mouth once Ron has got his hand on the back of her bra. “I never knew you liked me!” “It should have been obvious,” says Ron in return, feels something give in the bra clasp, pulls it apart, pulls himself apart. Kisses Hermione, who makes a noise that Ron isn’t terrifically turned on by, but is comforting in its dependability as Hermione, who is never a hypocrite, who was always one way or the other, never probably straight. He screams into her mouth, streams into her body, steams up the windows, but everything is still taut and still stretched. He can see himself ten years down the road, married with wee children, driving his kids to King’s Cross, waving goodbye as they pass through the gate, picking up the pieces, but always missing the one piece that mattered. Malfoy stole it, you see, on a Happy Weather Day. |
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