The darkness behind the tightly drawn bed curtains felt stifling, but Ron had no intention of opening them. From below, in the common room, the muffled echoes of the celebration still filtered through the floor and walls. Shouts, laughter, some crashing — Gryffindor was toasting its champion.
Ron clutched his pillow so hard his knuckles whitened.
Inside him churned a poisonous cocktail of hurt, anger and the sticky, humiliating sense of his own insignificance. Again. It was happening again.
For as long as he could remember he had always been ‘someone else’s’. Fred and George’s brother. Percy the prefect’s brother. Charlie the Seeker’s brother. And at school he had become simply ‘Harry Potter’s friend’. That red-haired boy who trailed after the Chosen One. Ron had made his peace with it because Harry was… well, Harry. He didn’t seek fame; it fell on him along with the problems.
But today everything was different.
Harry knew how badly Ron had wanted this. He had told him often enough! Imagined winning, getting a thousand Galleons… A thousand! Ron could have bought himself a new broom, a new robe, an owl… For once in his life he could have bought something himself instead of wearing his brothers’ hand-me-downs.
And Harry, who already had a vault stuffed with gold, who already had fame Ron could only dream of… Harry had gone and done it. Behind his back. Without a hint.
‘“I won’t be entering, Ron”,’ he whispered mockingly into the dark, and his voice cracked. ‘Liar.’
But the worst part wasn’t even that. The worst was how quickly he had been replaced.
Ron rolled onto his other side; the springs creaked plaintively.
This Morgan. Kieran. First he had taken Hermione’s attention. Fine, Ron could live with that — let them discuss their boring books and Japanese hieroglyphs. But today… Today Harry, coming out of the champions’ room, had stayed with them. He hadn’t come looking for Ron. He had stayed with Hermione and that gloomy, arrogant git who looked at everyone as though they were beneath notice.
Ron felt the familiar world — their unbreakable trio — cracking at the seams. Into that gap, like a wedge, Morgan had driven himself, and Harry and Hermione had simply… accepted him. And Ron was left outside. Alone.
The dormitory door creaked. Ron instantly went still, stopped tossing and steadied his breathing, feigning deep sleep.
He heard Harry’s uncertain, shuffling steps. Heard him pause in the middle of the room. Ron lay with his back to the door, eyes squeezed shut, feeling his friend’s gaze on every inch of his back. Part of him — the part raw with hurt — screamed: Go on, ask me! Explain! Say it was a mistake!
But Harry said nothing. He stood for a minute, sighed heavily, and Ron heard the rustle of robes and the creak of the neighbouring bed.
Not a word.
Hurt — hot and prickling — rose in his throat like a lump. So that’s how it is? You haven’t even got anything to say to me. Fine. Whatever.
He lay in the dark a long time, listening to the breathing of his sleeping dorm-mates, until exhaustion finally claimed him.
Morning greeted him with silence and the grey light filtering through the curtain gaps. Ron opened his eyes feeling as though he had spent the night hauling sacks of dragon dung. His head throbbed; his heart felt scratched raw.
He pulled back the curtain.
Harry’s bed was empty and neatly made. Neville’s bed — empty. Morgan’s bed — perfectly smooth, as though no one had slept in it.
Ron sat up, legs dangling. The clock showed it was time for breakfast. But it wasn’t about the time. Normally Harry woke him. Threw a pillow, shook his shoulder, or just yelled: ‘Get up, sleepyhead, we’ll be late!’
Today no one had woken him. They had simply left.
Ron dressed slowly, yanking his jumper on with unnecessary force. Fine. I don’t need nannies either. I can get there myself.
He descended the spiral staircase to the common room, hoping it would be empty and he could slip through the portrait hole unnoticed.
But by the fire, in their usual spot, they sat.
Harry, Hermione and… that Morgan.
Harry was in an armchair, Hermione explaining something with animated gestures, and Morgan — perched on the arm of the neighbouring sofa — occasionally nodding. They looked… complete. Like a finished picture missing one detail, yet no one seemed to notice.
Ron slowed. A treacherous spark of hope flared in his chest: Now. Now Harry will see me. Wave. Say: “Oi, Ron, come here, we’ve saved you a spot”.
He took a few deliberate steps, scuffing his boots loudly on the carpet.
Hermione paused for a second, turning her head. Harry looked up too.
Ron stopped, ready to accept the invitation, ready — perhaps — even to forgive if they called him over.
But Harry merely looked at him with dark, tired, somehow distant eyes in which there was none of the usual warmth. Then he turned back to Hermione.
‘…so anyway, I don’t understand what we’re even supposed to compete in,’ Harry said, as though Ron were just furniture or a passing ghost.
Ron’s heart missed a beat, then hammered painfully fast. Heat flooded his face.
So that’s it. Fine. I’m nothing to you now. You’ve got your own little group of clever-clogs and champions.
Wounded, bleeding pride reared up inside him, blotting out the pain. Ron lifted his chin, clenched his fists in his robe pockets and walked past them, quickening his pace.
‘Great friends,’ he muttered loudly into the empty air, shoving the Fat Lady’s portrait with his shoulder. ‘Simply marvellous. Didn’t even look round.’
He burst into the corridor, leaving his friends behind. Ron was alone, and this time the feeling cut deeper than ever.