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allyndraTitle: Cannons and Blooming Understanding
Author: Allyndra
Pairing: Ron/Neville
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Not much. Mid-Order of the Phoenix at most
Disclaimer: Um, yeah. You didn't think I owned them, right? Because I truly, truly don't.
Summary: Ron needs someone to go to a quidditch match with him.
Note: I asked for celebratory prompts, and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
entrenous88 donated this one ("How about a bit of Ron/Neville, someone's got a crush, and, er...Quidditch tickets?"). Also, I went with American spelling on this. Hope it doesn't bug people. And if you have any idea of where I should post this, I'm open to suggestions.
Ron’s fingers were twitching along the banisters as he went down to breakfast, the tickets burning a hole in his pocket. Well, not really; they were enchanted with an illusion of a cannon firing, but it was purely visual. Ron wanted to reach into his pocket and trace a possessive finger over the crisp paper edges, but he managed not to. If he patted the pocket proprietarily every few minutes, he could tell himself he was just checking to be sure the tickets were safe.
His excitement wasn't entirely about going to see his favorite team in action. While that was brilliant all by itself, the fact that Ron had won these tickets, that they were his not by luck or hand-me-downs, but by dint of his enthusiasm and determination ... that just made him glow. He wondered if this feeling of accomplishment was what it was like to be Harry, but a glimpse of his friend's clouded face told him otherwise.
Pity, really. If anyone deserved to feel triumphant all the time, it was Harry.
Ron patted his pocket again. Could be, all Harry needed was a reminder that there was more to life than dark wizards and schoolwork. Ron brushed past Parvati, who glared at him, and Neville, who flushed and dropped his toast, to sit in the empty seat beside Harry.
"Remember when I entered that contest with the Prophet?" Harry met his expectant look blankly, and when Ron glanced over at Hermione, her face was just as lost. A twinge of annoyance threaded through Ron's excitement. Harry's focus had been a bit sketchy lately, but wasn't it Hermione's job to pay attention and remember things?
"The letter I spent a week writing? About why my favorite quidditch team was the best," he prodded. When neither Harry nor Hermione showed any sign of recognition, he sighed and carried on. "Well, I won."
Ron pulled the tickets out of his pocket and laid them on the table. The little orange cannons printed on them blasted out cheerful jets of flame and tiny cannonballs, and Ron felt his face splitting into a grin all over again. "Brilliant, innit, Harry? Dad reckons he can get us a pass to leave Hogwarts for the match at the weekend."
"You want me to go with you to a quidditch match?" Harry asked slowly, his eyes tracing a cannonball as it arced through the air and faded away.
"We can have lunch, see the match ... Make a regular lad's day of it. What do you say?" Ron asked with a smile. When Harry didn't immediately accept, the smile slipped a little. And when Harry looked up and met his eyes, it fell away entirely.
"I can't right now," Harry said.
"But- It wouldn't be right now," Ron protested. "Not until Saturday, that's ages."
"Ron." Harry's face was half defiance and half misery, and Ron knew he wouldn't be coming, no matter what Ron said. "Mate, I can't. I've got too much going on."
Ron looked at the tense line of Harry's shoulder and the shadows in his green eyes, and he didn't point out that Harry would make the time if it were Cho or Sirius or Dumbledore asking.
He twitched his lips into an imitation of a smile. "Don't worry about it," he said, palming the tickets and stuffing them back into his robes. "You take care of your," he glanced down at the scrolls beside Harry's breakfast plate, "lesson plans. I'm sure I'll have people begging to go with me once they hear I've got a Cannons-Puddlemere ticket going spare."
Ron made the mistake of letting his eyes meet Hermione's over Harry's shoulder. She raised her chin and one eyebrow and said, "Planning to ask me on your lads' day, Ron?"
He grimaced. "I don't think it's your thing, Hermione. No offence." Hermione's attitude toward quidditch was much like Ron's toward Divination: baffled amusement that people could actually take it seriously. She was good about supporting the house team, but she wasn't the kind of person he wanted along while he watched his heroes play.
Hermione sniffed, but didn't say anything. For a moment they were frozen like that, a triangle of uncomfortable glances and false smiles. Then Neville managed to tip over his goblet, and Harry and Hermione rushed to save the scrolls while Ron rushed to save the bacon, and the tight unhappiness dissipated in a flood of pumpkin juice.
***
The thing was, it should have been easy to find a taker for the second ticket. Most of the students at Hogwarts were nearly as mad for quidditch as Ron was. But he didn’t want to give one of his tickets – his special, prize tickets to see his very favorite team – to just anyone.
The main problem of having two friends he was so close to was that Ron didn’t really spend much time with anyone else. He couldn’t ask Fred or George to come, as they’d have to leave one twin behind. And that simply wasn’t on. He toyed with the idea of asking Ginny along, as she loved quidditch nearly as much as Ron did, but surely there was someone other than his little sister who would want to go with him. Surely.
Ron made a list in his head and ticked off names as he wandered the corridors. There were a few blokes from the house team who would leap at the chance to attend the game, but Ron didn’t know them well, and he wasn’t really sure he even liked them. Angelina was ace, but she was older than Ron, and he was unnervingly certain that if he asked her, she would smile that “Oh, he’s so cute and deluded” smile and tell him he wasn’t her type. And Ron wasn’t so fond of humiliation that he wanted to court that experience.
By nightfall, Ron still hadn’t thought of anyone. Seamus was still giving him and Harry wounded looks all day and night, Dean was always off talking to Ginny, of all people, and Neville … Neville was sitting in the squashiest of the squashy armchairs in the common room, curled around a huge, tatty book that looked as though people had been rubbing dirt into its cover for years. He looked up when Ron stepped through the portrait hole, smiled, and nearly fell off his chair. Ron smiled back. There was something comforting about Neville, even when he was breaking things.
“Oi, Neville,” Ron said, crossing the room to stand in front of the chair Neville was once again occupying. “Do you fancy going to a quidditch match with me on Saturday?”
Neville fell out of his chair again. He looked up from Ron’s feet, where he was sprawled atop his book, and stammered. “You really … That would be … I mean, yes.” He was flushed a pleased pink, and Ron thought it was nice that after four years and more of them sharing a dorm room and classes, Neville was still that delighted to be included. Nice and a bit pathetic.
“Great!” Ron said, offering Neville a hand up off the floor. “I’ll have Dad owl your Gran about it, and they’ll talk with the headmaster to be sure we’ve permission.” Neville took Ron’s hand almost tentatively and allowed himself to be hauled up. Once he was standing firmly on his feet, he slipped his hand free slowly, like he was already busy thinking of something else. Ron peered at the slightly dreamy look on Neville’s face. “You won’t forget?” he asked, feeling a bit pathetic himself.
“What? No, no of course not,” Neville denied. “But perhaps I’d better spell my calendar to remind me.” Ron grinned. One thing he liked about Neville was that he never tried to deny his flaws. He just tried to make up for them.
“It’ll be smashing, you’ll see,” Ron told him, feeling the excitement from the morning seeping back into him. He described the Cannons’ current line-up to Neville as they made their way up the stairs to bed. Neville didn’t say much, but he nodded and looked interested, and Ron chose to take the soft smile on his face as encouragement.
***
“You’re taking Neville to your match,” Harry said, dropping onto the bench beside him at lunch the next day.
“I know,” Ron said around a mouthful of potatoes. “I was there when I asked him. Pass the chicken?”
Harry handed him the platter of chicken and watched with a bemused expression as Ron grabbed a thigh and a drumstick off it. He opened his mouth once or twice before actually saying any words. The tips of Harry’s ears were burning pink the way they did when he was feeling guilty, and the fact that Ron knew that either meant that Harry spent too much time feeling guilty or that Ron sent too much time thinking about Harry. Or possibly both. Finally, Harry said, “There wasn’t anyone else? I mean, Neville’s great, but –“
“Neville is great,” Ron interrupted. “It’ll be fun. Don’t worry about it.”
A clatter behind him made Ron turn, drumstick in hand like a weapon, but it was only Neville. His eyes were bright like they got in the greenhouse when Professor Sprout let them work with some new and terrifying plant, and he had his lower lip caught between his teeth. “Sorry,” Neville said, ducking to the floor. Ron hadn’t even noticed the contents of Neville’s satchel scattered about his feet.
He swallowed and put his chicken down. “Here, mate, I’ll help you.” Ron stooped to gather up Neville’s quill, inkpot, and a few scrolls. When he handed them to Neville, their fingers skating against one another as he dropped the whole pile into his hands, Neville’s face was dreamy and open. Ron thought, rather wistfully, that he’d never been taken enough with scrolls about star charts to wear an expression like that. It must be nice to like school so much.
He didn’t notice that Harry had left until he sat back down at the table.
Ron went through his week like always, but suddenly, Neville seemed to be everywhere. As they tool so many of the same classes and not only shared a house, but a bedroom, Ron knew that Neville reasonably had always been everywhere, but he hadn’t noticed before. Now he noticed. He noticed the way Neville cringed and started whenever Snape walked past him, which made Ron hate the greasy git even more than he had before. He noticed the way Neville’s eyebrows furrowed in Transfiguration, when he was truly trying to master a new spell. It made him wish he had a bit of Hermione’s cleverness, so he could share the secret of turning a butter knife into a bludger. He was thinking this so hard, that Ron didn’t even know he’s accomplished his own transfiguration until Professor McGonagall stopped by his desk and said, “Well done, Mr. Weasley,” in a shocked tone.
Hermione’s face was insultingly surprised, and even Harry was looking at Ron in disbelief. But when Ron looked over at Neville, the furrow between his brows was smoothed away, and he didn’t look remotely astonished at Ron’s success. He just looked proud.
The thing that Ron noticed most about Neville was his hands. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at them before, and if he’d been forced to guess, he would have assumed they were large and ungainly, looking as clumsy as fumbling as they so often were. But then Professor Sprout had the class pair up in Herbology, and Ron didn’t even wait to see if Harry was going to choose Ron or Hermione today. Ron just stepped up beside Neville and said, “Your job today is to make me look good.”
Neville’s eyes flickered, and he replied, “You don’t need my help,” which Ron thought was generous of him, because he was pants at Herbology.
They were set to work transplanting Silver Tangle plants, dainty little vines of gleaming silver that had to be cajoled into their pots. If they were startled or frightened, the things wrapped tight around whatever body parts they could reach, clinging hard until they felt safe again. Ron felt awkward and uncertain with the plants, sure that he would hurt them at any moment, but Neville fingers were gentle and sure as he lifted them from one pot and nestled them in another. Ron found himself staring at Neville’s hands, and they were entirely different than he would have expected. Large, yes, but with long fingers that looked clever and confident with silver vines draping over them. Ron stared unabashedly, almost forgetting about the plant in his own hands.
“Do you need help with that?”Neville asked, reaching toward the Silver Tangle in Ron’s grasp. His fingers brushed against Ron’s palm as he moved to take the plant, and Ron gasped and started. The vines surged with frightened strength and wound around the boys’ wrists and hands, binding them together.
Ron went red, which he bloody well hated, because he knew it made him look like a tomato. “Sorry,” he mumbled, feeling every centimeter of skin that was touching Neville’s.
“I don’t mind,” Neville said. He wriggled his hand in the confines of their vegetative cage, just enough to rub his thumb comfortingly against Ron’s. “It’ll let go in a moment.”
“Yeah,” Ron said, still blushing. He just wasn’t sure he wanted it to.
***
Ron lay in bed, staring up at the canopy, his brain circling inexorably around Neville. It seemed impossible that only a few days ago, he barely thought about the other boy. He wondered if, in a few more days, he’d go back to dismissing Neville entirely. He felt a stab of fear at the thought. He didn’t want to go back to ignoring Neville.
Right, so. What to do about it, then? He cast about for any advice he’d ever gotten on the subject, but he didn’t think he’d ever got any. For a moment he was disgruntled about that. Among his entire busybody family, no one had ever thought Ron likely enough to have a love life to butt in about it? That was depressing. But then he recalled the lecture his mum had given the twins two summers ago, when they got caught chasing the Dalrymple sisters around the garden with a pair of toads.
“You don’t want to scare someone when you like them,” Mum had said, blowing her hair out of her face and glaring. “You say a few nice things to them, pay attention to them, ask them out. Maybe give them a little something you think they’d enjoy.” She gave Fred and George each a firm smack on the head. “And most girls don’t enjoy toads.” Two unrepentant smiles had gleamed back at her.
Neville did like toads, but he already had one. Ron wondered what else he might like. He was still thinking about it when he fell asleep, listening to the sound of Neville’s breathing, buried under Harry’s mutters, Dean’s snuffles, and Seamus’s snores.
Ron and Neville were meant to leave at noon, to walk down to Hogsmeade, where Ron’s dad would be waiting with a portkey, but Ron nearly didn’t make it. He’d woken with the clever idea of giving Neville some kind of plant, and had rushed out to the grounds right after breakfast. Once in the gardens, though, Ron had no idea what kind of plant to nick. After all, Neville lived here, too. He must have seen all of these plants dozens of times. Besides that, the season was edging into winter, and many of the plants looked dry and dead. Ron considered sneaking into one of the greenhouses, but he didn’t want to risk it. Professor Sprout wasn’t big, but she was tough.
Ron wound up sweaty and disheveled, running up to the castle at five minutes after twelve, clutching a handful of slender stems trailing little yellow flowers. His heart was already pounding from the run, but he could still hear it thud in his chest when Neville caught sight of him and smiled.
Ron shoved the flowers at him gracelessly, grateful that he was red enough from running that his blush wouldn’t show. “Here,” he said.
Neville looked from the star-like yellow flowers to Ron and back again, and his face went soft. “What are these for?” He asked, lifting one of the blooms to his nose. Ron already knew they didn’t smell like much, but he just shrugged his shoulders and rocked back on his heels.
“Just glad you’re coming with me,” he mumbled.
Neville’s eyes were dreamy again, and Ron was about to start hating the entire vegetable world for being able to put that look on Neville’s face when he realized it was aimed at him.
Oh.
Ron straightened up out of his slouch. “Ready?” he asked. Neville nodded, and they headed down the path toward Hogsmeade. Greatly daring, Ron reached out a hand and traced a stem of flowers, right up to Neville’s fingers. Neville’s long, clumsy, clever fingers, which curled around his own.
Ron felt like his whole body was on fire, flushed with nervous joy. It was almost better than winning the quidditch tickets. Then Neville shot a look at him from under his lashes, and Ron stumbled.
Definitely better than quidditch.
***
***
Ron’s Letter:
Dear Daily Prophet,
I thought about writing you about my favorite team’s records and statistics, and describing brilliant plays they’ve made, but you should know all that already, as sport writers. And anyway, the Cannons haven’t won enough in the past century for that to be a good reason to support them. But I do support them, and I want to tell you why.
When I was five years old, my dad took us into the city for the first time. I grew up with a big family, so the crowds didn’t bother me, but I hated the way people stared at me. At my whole family. It wasn’t that they knew bad things about us – they didn’t know us at all. It took me all day to realize they were staring at us because we all, from my mum and dad to my little sister, had ginger hair. The next time we went into the city, I wore a hat.
When I was seven, we were in Diagon Alley buying my brothers’ school things when a crowd of quidditch fans swept through. There was a game in Montrose, and they were all apparating together. We were right in the center of the pack of them, and I realized that no one was whispering about my hair at all. I looked up, and I saw why. The whole lot of them had charmed their hair orange, bright as anything, in support of the Chudley Cannons. I was a little kid from a quiet village, and they were a swarm of grownup sport fans, but I felt like I belonged there. And I still do.
So I don’t care how often the Cannons lose, and I don’t care if people joke about their plays being one part strategy and two parts hope. They’re my team, and they’re my family, and I’ll support them until my hair gets so white I have to charm it, too.
Sincerely,
Ronald B. Weasley
Author: Allyndra
Pairing: Ron/Neville
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Not much. Mid-Order of the Phoenix at most
Disclaimer: Um, yeah. You didn't think I owned them, right? Because I truly, truly don't.
Summary: Ron needs someone to go to a quidditch match with him.
Note: I asked for celebratory prompts, and
entrenous88 donated this one ("How about a bit of Ron/Neville, someone's got a crush, and, er...Quidditch tickets?"). Also, I went with American spelling on this. Hope it doesn't bug people. And if you have any idea of where I should post this, I'm open to suggestions. Ron’s fingers were twitching along the banisters as he went down to breakfast, the tickets burning a hole in his pocket. Well, not really; they were enchanted with an illusion of a cannon firing, but it was purely visual. Ron wanted to reach into his pocket and trace a possessive finger over the crisp paper edges, but he managed not to. If he patted the pocket proprietarily every few minutes, he could tell himself he was just checking to be sure the tickets were safe.
His excitement wasn't entirely about going to see his favorite team in action. While that was brilliant all by itself, the fact that Ron had won these tickets, that they were his not by luck or hand-me-downs, but by dint of his enthusiasm and determination ... that just made him glow. He wondered if this feeling of accomplishment was what it was like to be Harry, but a glimpse of his friend's clouded face told him otherwise.
Pity, really. If anyone deserved to feel triumphant all the time, it was Harry.
Ron patted his pocket again. Could be, all Harry needed was a reminder that there was more to life than dark wizards and schoolwork. Ron brushed past Parvati, who glared at him, and Neville, who flushed and dropped his toast, to sit in the empty seat beside Harry.
"Remember when I entered that contest with the Prophet?" Harry met his expectant look blankly, and when Ron glanced over at Hermione, her face was just as lost. A twinge of annoyance threaded through Ron's excitement. Harry's focus had been a bit sketchy lately, but wasn't it Hermione's job to pay attention and remember things?
"The letter I spent a week writing? About why my favorite quidditch team was the best," he prodded. When neither Harry nor Hermione showed any sign of recognition, he sighed and carried on. "Well, I won."
Ron pulled the tickets out of his pocket and laid them on the table. The little orange cannons printed on them blasted out cheerful jets of flame and tiny cannonballs, and Ron felt his face splitting into a grin all over again. "Brilliant, innit, Harry? Dad reckons he can get us a pass to leave Hogwarts for the match at the weekend."
"You want me to go with you to a quidditch match?" Harry asked slowly, his eyes tracing a cannonball as it arced through the air and faded away.
"We can have lunch, see the match ... Make a regular lad's day of it. What do you say?" Ron asked with a smile. When Harry didn't immediately accept, the smile slipped a little. And when Harry looked up and met his eyes, it fell away entirely.
"I can't right now," Harry said.
"But- It wouldn't be right now," Ron protested. "Not until Saturday, that's ages."
"Ron." Harry's face was half defiance and half misery, and Ron knew he wouldn't be coming, no matter what Ron said. "Mate, I can't. I've got too much going on."
Ron looked at the tense line of Harry's shoulder and the shadows in his green eyes, and he didn't point out that Harry would make the time if it were Cho or Sirius or Dumbledore asking.
He twitched his lips into an imitation of a smile. "Don't worry about it," he said, palming the tickets and stuffing them back into his robes. "You take care of your," he glanced down at the scrolls beside Harry's breakfast plate, "lesson plans. I'm sure I'll have people begging to go with me once they hear I've got a Cannons-Puddlemere ticket going spare."
Ron made the mistake of letting his eyes meet Hermione's over Harry's shoulder. She raised her chin and one eyebrow and said, "Planning to ask me on your lads' day, Ron?"
He grimaced. "I don't think it's your thing, Hermione. No offence." Hermione's attitude toward quidditch was much like Ron's toward Divination: baffled amusement that people could actually take it seriously. She was good about supporting the house team, but she wasn't the kind of person he wanted along while he watched his heroes play.
Hermione sniffed, but didn't say anything. For a moment they were frozen like that, a triangle of uncomfortable glances and false smiles. Then Neville managed to tip over his goblet, and Harry and Hermione rushed to save the scrolls while Ron rushed to save the bacon, and the tight unhappiness dissipated in a flood of pumpkin juice.
***
The thing was, it should have been easy to find a taker for the second ticket. Most of the students at Hogwarts were nearly as mad for quidditch as Ron was. But he didn’t want to give one of his tickets – his special, prize tickets to see his very favorite team – to just anyone.
The main problem of having two friends he was so close to was that Ron didn’t really spend much time with anyone else. He couldn’t ask Fred or George to come, as they’d have to leave one twin behind. And that simply wasn’t on. He toyed with the idea of asking Ginny along, as she loved quidditch nearly as much as Ron did, but surely there was someone other than his little sister who would want to go with him. Surely.
Ron made a list in his head and ticked off names as he wandered the corridors. There were a few blokes from the house team who would leap at the chance to attend the game, but Ron didn’t know them well, and he wasn’t really sure he even liked them. Angelina was ace, but she was older than Ron, and he was unnervingly certain that if he asked her, she would smile that “Oh, he’s so cute and deluded” smile and tell him he wasn’t her type. And Ron wasn’t so fond of humiliation that he wanted to court that experience.
By nightfall, Ron still hadn’t thought of anyone. Seamus was still giving him and Harry wounded looks all day and night, Dean was always off talking to Ginny, of all people, and Neville … Neville was sitting in the squashiest of the squashy armchairs in the common room, curled around a huge, tatty book that looked as though people had been rubbing dirt into its cover for years. He looked up when Ron stepped through the portrait hole, smiled, and nearly fell off his chair. Ron smiled back. There was something comforting about Neville, even when he was breaking things.
“Oi, Neville,” Ron said, crossing the room to stand in front of the chair Neville was once again occupying. “Do you fancy going to a quidditch match with me on Saturday?”
Neville fell out of his chair again. He looked up from Ron’s feet, where he was sprawled atop his book, and stammered. “You really … That would be … I mean, yes.” He was flushed a pleased pink, and Ron thought it was nice that after four years and more of them sharing a dorm room and classes, Neville was still that delighted to be included. Nice and a bit pathetic.
“Great!” Ron said, offering Neville a hand up off the floor. “I’ll have Dad owl your Gran about it, and they’ll talk with the headmaster to be sure we’ve permission.” Neville took Ron’s hand almost tentatively and allowed himself to be hauled up. Once he was standing firmly on his feet, he slipped his hand free slowly, like he was already busy thinking of something else. Ron peered at the slightly dreamy look on Neville’s face. “You won’t forget?” he asked, feeling a bit pathetic himself.
“What? No, no of course not,” Neville denied. “But perhaps I’d better spell my calendar to remind me.” Ron grinned. One thing he liked about Neville was that he never tried to deny his flaws. He just tried to make up for them.
“It’ll be smashing, you’ll see,” Ron told him, feeling the excitement from the morning seeping back into him. He described the Cannons’ current line-up to Neville as they made their way up the stairs to bed. Neville didn’t say much, but he nodded and looked interested, and Ron chose to take the soft smile on his face as encouragement.
***
“You’re taking Neville to your match,” Harry said, dropping onto the bench beside him at lunch the next day.
“I know,” Ron said around a mouthful of potatoes. “I was there when I asked him. Pass the chicken?”
Harry handed him the platter of chicken and watched with a bemused expression as Ron grabbed a thigh and a drumstick off it. He opened his mouth once or twice before actually saying any words. The tips of Harry’s ears were burning pink the way they did when he was feeling guilty, and the fact that Ron knew that either meant that Harry spent too much time feeling guilty or that Ron sent too much time thinking about Harry. Or possibly both. Finally, Harry said, “There wasn’t anyone else? I mean, Neville’s great, but –“
“Neville is great,” Ron interrupted. “It’ll be fun. Don’t worry about it.”
A clatter behind him made Ron turn, drumstick in hand like a weapon, but it was only Neville. His eyes were bright like they got in the greenhouse when Professor Sprout let them work with some new and terrifying plant, and he had his lower lip caught between his teeth. “Sorry,” Neville said, ducking to the floor. Ron hadn’t even noticed the contents of Neville’s satchel scattered about his feet.
He swallowed and put his chicken down. “Here, mate, I’ll help you.” Ron stooped to gather up Neville’s quill, inkpot, and a few scrolls. When he handed them to Neville, their fingers skating against one another as he dropped the whole pile into his hands, Neville’s face was dreamy and open. Ron thought, rather wistfully, that he’d never been taken enough with scrolls about star charts to wear an expression like that. It must be nice to like school so much.
He didn’t notice that Harry had left until he sat back down at the table.
Ron went through his week like always, but suddenly, Neville seemed to be everywhere. As they tool so many of the same classes and not only shared a house, but a bedroom, Ron knew that Neville reasonably had always been everywhere, but he hadn’t noticed before. Now he noticed. He noticed the way Neville cringed and started whenever Snape walked past him, which made Ron hate the greasy git even more than he had before. He noticed the way Neville’s eyebrows furrowed in Transfiguration, when he was truly trying to master a new spell. It made him wish he had a bit of Hermione’s cleverness, so he could share the secret of turning a butter knife into a bludger. He was thinking this so hard, that Ron didn’t even know he’s accomplished his own transfiguration until Professor McGonagall stopped by his desk and said, “Well done, Mr. Weasley,” in a shocked tone.
Hermione’s face was insultingly surprised, and even Harry was looking at Ron in disbelief. But when Ron looked over at Neville, the furrow between his brows was smoothed away, and he didn’t look remotely astonished at Ron’s success. He just looked proud.
The thing that Ron noticed most about Neville was his hands. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at them before, and if he’d been forced to guess, he would have assumed they were large and ungainly, looking as clumsy as fumbling as they so often were. But then Professor Sprout had the class pair up in Herbology, and Ron didn’t even wait to see if Harry was going to choose Ron or Hermione today. Ron just stepped up beside Neville and said, “Your job today is to make me look good.”
Neville’s eyes flickered, and he replied, “You don’t need my help,” which Ron thought was generous of him, because he was pants at Herbology.
They were set to work transplanting Silver Tangle plants, dainty little vines of gleaming silver that had to be cajoled into their pots. If they were startled or frightened, the things wrapped tight around whatever body parts they could reach, clinging hard until they felt safe again. Ron felt awkward and uncertain with the plants, sure that he would hurt them at any moment, but Neville fingers were gentle and sure as he lifted them from one pot and nestled them in another. Ron found himself staring at Neville’s hands, and they were entirely different than he would have expected. Large, yes, but with long fingers that looked clever and confident with silver vines draping over them. Ron stared unabashedly, almost forgetting about the plant in his own hands.
“Do you need help with that?”Neville asked, reaching toward the Silver Tangle in Ron’s grasp. His fingers brushed against Ron’s palm as he moved to take the plant, and Ron gasped and started. The vines surged with frightened strength and wound around the boys’ wrists and hands, binding them together.
Ron went red, which he bloody well hated, because he knew it made him look like a tomato. “Sorry,” he mumbled, feeling every centimeter of skin that was touching Neville’s.
“I don’t mind,” Neville said. He wriggled his hand in the confines of their vegetative cage, just enough to rub his thumb comfortingly against Ron’s. “It’ll let go in a moment.”
“Yeah,” Ron said, still blushing. He just wasn’t sure he wanted it to.
***
Ron lay in bed, staring up at the canopy, his brain circling inexorably around Neville. It seemed impossible that only a few days ago, he barely thought about the other boy. He wondered if, in a few more days, he’d go back to dismissing Neville entirely. He felt a stab of fear at the thought. He didn’t want to go back to ignoring Neville.
Right, so. What to do about it, then? He cast about for any advice he’d ever gotten on the subject, but he didn’t think he’d ever got any. For a moment he was disgruntled about that. Among his entire busybody family, no one had ever thought Ron likely enough to have a love life to butt in about it? That was depressing. But then he recalled the lecture his mum had given the twins two summers ago, when they got caught chasing the Dalrymple sisters around the garden with a pair of toads.
“You don’t want to scare someone when you like them,” Mum had said, blowing her hair out of her face and glaring. “You say a few nice things to them, pay attention to them, ask them out. Maybe give them a little something you think they’d enjoy.” She gave Fred and George each a firm smack on the head. “And most girls don’t enjoy toads.” Two unrepentant smiles had gleamed back at her.
Neville did like toads, but he already had one. Ron wondered what else he might like. He was still thinking about it when he fell asleep, listening to the sound of Neville’s breathing, buried under Harry’s mutters, Dean’s snuffles, and Seamus’s snores.
Ron and Neville were meant to leave at noon, to walk down to Hogsmeade, where Ron’s dad would be waiting with a portkey, but Ron nearly didn’t make it. He’d woken with the clever idea of giving Neville some kind of plant, and had rushed out to the grounds right after breakfast. Once in the gardens, though, Ron had no idea what kind of plant to nick. After all, Neville lived here, too. He must have seen all of these plants dozens of times. Besides that, the season was edging into winter, and many of the plants looked dry and dead. Ron considered sneaking into one of the greenhouses, but he didn’t want to risk it. Professor Sprout wasn’t big, but she was tough.
Ron wound up sweaty and disheveled, running up to the castle at five minutes after twelve, clutching a handful of slender stems trailing little yellow flowers. His heart was already pounding from the run, but he could still hear it thud in his chest when Neville caught sight of him and smiled.
Ron shoved the flowers at him gracelessly, grateful that he was red enough from running that his blush wouldn’t show. “Here,” he said.
Neville looked from the star-like yellow flowers to Ron and back again, and his face went soft. “What are these for?” He asked, lifting one of the blooms to his nose. Ron already knew they didn’t smell like much, but he just shrugged his shoulders and rocked back on his heels.
“Just glad you’re coming with me,” he mumbled.
Neville’s eyes were dreamy again, and Ron was about to start hating the entire vegetable world for being able to put that look on Neville’s face when he realized it was aimed at him.
Oh.
Ron straightened up out of his slouch. “Ready?” he asked. Neville nodded, and they headed down the path toward Hogsmeade. Greatly daring, Ron reached out a hand and traced a stem of flowers, right up to Neville’s fingers. Neville’s long, clumsy, clever fingers, which curled around his own.
Ron felt like his whole body was on fire, flushed with nervous joy. It was almost better than winning the quidditch tickets. Then Neville shot a look at him from under his lashes, and Ron stumbled.
Definitely better than quidditch.
***
***
Ron’s Letter:
Dear Daily Prophet,
I thought about writing you about my favorite team’s records and statistics, and describing brilliant plays they’ve made, but you should know all that already, as sport writers. And anyway, the Cannons haven’t won enough in the past century for that to be a good reason to support them. But I do support them, and I want to tell you why.
When I was five years old, my dad took us into the city for the first time. I grew up with a big family, so the crowds didn’t bother me, but I hated the way people stared at me. At my whole family. It wasn’t that they knew bad things about us – they didn’t know us at all. It took me all day to realize they were staring at us because we all, from my mum and dad to my little sister, had ginger hair. The next time we went into the city, I wore a hat.
When I was seven, we were in Diagon Alley buying my brothers’ school things when a crowd of quidditch fans swept through. There was a game in Montrose, and they were all apparating together. We were right in the center of the pack of them, and I realized that no one was whispering about my hair at all. I looked up, and I saw why. The whole lot of them had charmed their hair orange, bright as anything, in support of the Chudley Cannons. I was a little kid from a quiet village, and they were a swarm of grownup sport fans, but I felt like I belonged there. And I still do.
So I don’t care how often the Cannons lose, and I don’t care if people joke about their plays being one part strategy and two parts hope. They’re my team, and they’re my family, and I’ll support them until my hair gets so white I have to charm it, too.
Sincerely,
Ronald B. Weasley
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(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-16 01:00 pm (UTC)Neville is charmingly besotted with Ron -- love how it takes Ron ages to realize it isn't the plants that Neville has that dreamy look for.
You create such a wonderful mood with this, from the encounter in Herbology with the shy (and narratively appropriate!) Silver Tangles, to the memory of Molly scolding the twins with good advice about crushes at the same time that she's thwapping them on the head.
Ron's reasons for liking the Cannons made complete sense to me, and his position of rooting fiercely for the underdog translates well into his dawning desire that he would like to make Neville happy.
Fantastic!
I can give you suggestions about where to post if you like. Also, one *teensy* thing -- the juice they spill at the table in the first scene should probably be pumpkin rather than orange.
Again, this is so lovely, and I'm thrilled that you wrote it for me!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-17 12:27 am (UTC)I don't recall why I went with orange juice in the breakfast scene, because I remember thinking about whether it should be pumpkin juice. *shrugs* But you're right, pumpkin juice is pretty much the drink of choice at Hogwarts. I went ahead and changed it.
If you have suggestions for posting this, I'd be happy to hear them. I don't belong to any Harry Potter comms, so I've been scouting around a little, but (as I don't know the memberships) I wasn't sure which comm I should drop this on.
Thanks for commenting!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-17 12:40 am (UTC)If you've posted on IJ, there's an HP Newsletter of everything posted on that journaling service: Potter Prophet (http://asylums.insanejournal.com/potter_prophet/profile). You can email them (in userinfo) and include a link to your HP fic as long as it is on InsaneJournal.
You may also want to try HP Rarepairs -- there's an LJ version (http://community.livejournal.com/hprarepairs/profile), and an IJ version (http://asylums.insanejournal.com/hp_rarepairs/profile).
There's a Neville-focused community at IJ, xnevillelovingx (http://asylums.insanejournal.com/xnevillelovingx/profile).
I hope that gives you some places to start! :)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-28 10:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-29 01:32 am (UTC)If you're interested in somewhere another place to post this fic to get it the attention it deserves, I'd suggest
xxx
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-30 08:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-29 02:04 pm (UTC)Wonderfully sweet :)
(no subject)
Date: 2012-05-22 12:33 am (UTC)