Title:  That's What You Want, Isn't It?

Author: Lady Christina

Summary:  PWP of Ron at the end of Chapter 19 of GoF.  
(When he was fighting with Harry.)

Rating: PG, just because it doesn't seem G-rated to me.

Disclaimer:  Harry Potter, all related names, characters and 
places belong to Ms. Joanne Kathleen Rowling.  Not me.

Archive:  Fanfiction.net, others please ask first.

Feedback:  Would you?
 
"There you go," Harry said.  "Something for you to wear 
on Tuesday.  You might even have a scar now, if you're 
lucky . . . That's what you want, isn't it?"
 
Harry strode by me, slowly, as if he wanted to show me 
he wasn't scared.  I think he half expected me to throw 
a punch--I almost did.  It was only with clenched fists 
and a tooth digging into my lip, drawing blood, that I 
stood still.
 
That's what you want, isn't it?  Harry's words ricocheted 
around my brain, sinking into every possible crevice.  
When he said that, oddly enough, my vision blurred and my 
thoughts began to slow down.  I knew, then and there, that I 
would never forget he said that to me.  Sure, I might 
forgive him, or say I did, but I'd never forget it.  
 
Harry was being a prat, plain and simple.  Of course, Harry 
was often a prat, what, with "let's enter the Chamber of 
Secrets, and face the monster of Slytherin all by ourselves," 
"let's go after Sirius Black, when we still think he's a 
convicted murderer" or "Why don't I sneak into 
Hogesmead to meet you and Hermione, even though I'd be 
smashing about a million school rules in the process?"


Of course, then, not only were Harry and I on speaking 
terms, but he never acted this horrible.  
 

I mean, he put his name in the Goblet!  He could have at 
least told me about it.  What did he think I'd do, tell 
McGonagall?  I wouldn't do that; I'm not Hermione, and 
we're not dealing with a Firebolt.  It would have been nice 
to enter, something that Harry and I would be able to laugh 
about in the future: how we got around Dumbledore and his 
age line, and entered the Triwizard Tournament, even if we 
weren't chosen as School Champions.  A shot at the fame, 
glory, and the possible gold that went along with being 
School Champion.  Obviously, Harry doesn't need that.  
He's famous Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived!  He 
doesn't need any more fame (especially after that Rita 
Skeeter article,) or gold.  (Trust me, I've seen his vault at 
Gringotts.)
 
I heard the fourth year Boys dormitory close, or, more 
accurately, slam, and I finally moved from where I had 
rooted myself on the beige common room carpet.  I slowly 
shuffled towards one of the scarlet armchairs in front of the 
fire; glad for once everyone else was already asleep, 
leaving the room to myself.
 
I drew my legs up to my chest, nesting in the fetal position.  
The warmth of the fire failed to penetrate the icy 
boundaries I had sub-consciously put up around myself, 
letting almost no one in, save Hermione.
 
Turning my head slightly, I noticed a flash of white from 
under the "Potter Really Stinks" badges that rested on the 
ornately carved wooden table to my right.  I shifted the lot 
of them aside-they really were heavy, no wonder the one 
Harry threw at me had hurt so much-and uncovered The 
Daily Prophet.  Not the most recent Daily Prophet, but the 
one in which Rita Skeeter's expose on Harry appeared.
 
I quickly glanced down, already knowing what I would see: 
"An ugly scar, souvenir of a tragic past disfigures the 
otherwise charming face of Harry Potter . . ."
 
I threw the paper down in disgust; it was just another 
symbol of Harry's "Star Status."  Reporters fawning over 
him, Dumbeldore's pet, hated by the Slytherins . . . exactly 
everything I've always wanted.  My whole life I've been 
overshadowed by my brothers because everything worth 
doing they've already done.  They're so different in their 
personalities there is nothing left for me to do to separate 
myself from them.  Bill, the cool one, Charlie the 
adventurer, straight-laced Percy, Fred and George, the 
jokers . . . and me.  Ron.  Hell, Ginny's different just 
because she's a girl.  All my life I've been constantly 
overshadowed, but slugged through it because I figured life 
at Hogwarts would be different.  Nope.  Wrong.  I'm no 
more then I ever was.  I'm Harry Potter's best friend, not 
Ron Weasely.  I'm Hermione Granger's best friend.  I'm 
not known as me, but known for those around me.
 
Suddenly rage, a rage that has been building up for over ten 
years burst inside of me.  I grabbed a wand lying on the 
table.  (Dennis Creevy's-he should be more careful where 
he leaves his things, even if he is only a first-year-and 
switched it from my left to my right hand-my wand hand.
 
It feels odd, because, of course, it's not my wand, but then, 
I used Charlie's wand for the first two years of my 
wizarding career, so it's not as foreign as one might think.  
Still, it's amazing how fast your hand adapts to your own 
wand.  Tentatively at first, and then gaining momentum, I 
steer the tip of the oak at The Daily Prophet.
 
"Incendio."
 
The paper bursts into flames, and, after a period of no more 
then thirty seconds, is nothing but a pile of ashes on the 
floor.  I didn't clean the ashes up, but instead left them for 
the House-Elves.
 
House-Elves.  Hermione.  SPEW.  Harry.
 
Tears formed in my eyes, and I buried my face into the soft 
velour of the chair, embarrassed that "The Boy Who Lived" 
had gotten me, fourteen year-old Ron Weaseley, to cry.
 
I lay their, in that chair, curled into a ball, never moving, 
for who knows how long.  All I knew was that I never went 
up to the dormitory, and the last thing I remember before 
shutting my lead-filled eyelids is the dancing blue-black of 
the flames in front of me.
 
Ginny woke me up the next morning, thankfully before 
Harry saw me.  I decided that I wouldn't give him the 
satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt me, and how 
much he meant to me.  Because it was a lot.