Owl Post

Ron Weasley smoothed the piece of parchment on his knee, the only part of his body other than his face that wasn’t submerged in the tubful of water. He had lost count of the number of times he read this letter, he hated every part of it, but something compelled him to read it again and again and again. If he didn’t stop, he’d go mad. But it didn't stop him from spreading the parchment once more.


Hello Ron! Have you heard from Harry? He seems a bit out of it lately. I’m worried about him. When we left him last summer, he was rather depressed. I don’t know what to do, part of me wants to rush to his side to comfort him, ask him what’s wrong, make sure he doesn’t slit his wrists. Oh my, I can’t believe I just wrote that, he would never do that. Back to what I was saying, I want to go to Privet Drive and check on him, but I don’t want him to think that I’m intruding. Would I be intruding? Would it be considered intrusion when he obviously needs help? But why am I saying that he needs help? He’s strong and capable and he’s gone through much more than I ever did, he could handle anything without me. But still, I would give anything to see for myself that he’s all right, that he’s happy and breathing. I should write to him. I’ve been writing to him all summer in fact. We have quite a nice regular correspondence, so I know that the Dursleys are feeding him right. It seems that Dudley’s off the diet, so they can all eat regularly now. But just the same, I sent over a package of sugar-free snacks. I don’t know if he likes it though. Do you think he does? Maybe next time I’ll send him a turkey sandwich. Do you think he likes turkey sandwiches? Anyway, I’m off to write his letter.

And by the way, how was your summer?

Love from,
Hermione

“Idiot,” Ron muttered under his breath. He rolled the parchment and brusquely dropped it on the bathroom floor. He splashed some water on his knees before scrubbing them with his washrag. He heard the footsteps of a woman with flat feet and chubby ankles and knew instantly that his mother was planning on invading his leisurely bath.

He heard her tap the door lightly, “Ron, son, what are you doing in there?” she said.

“I’m having a snack, you know, since the bathroom is such a great place to have snacks. And I’m right beside the toilet, too, so it’s really convenient,” Ron answered lazily.

“I can hear splashing. Are you taking a bath? I really need to get the dirty clothes, it’s laundry day today,” Mrs. Weasley asked nonchalantly.

“If I say yes, would it stop you from going in here?” Ron asked.

“No,” Mrs. Weasley said.

Ron gave out a sigh and said, “Then by all means, come in.”

Mrs. Weasley poked her head in and smiled at her son. She pranced inside as she hummed Celestina Warbeck’s latest song. She took her wand from the pocket of her robes and pointed to the growing stack of dirty robes and undergarments inside the hamper and whispered, “Lavado!” The stack disappeared from sight. Ron knew that they would reappear downstairs, ready to be levitated to their respective rooms. Mrs. Weasley was about to leave the room when her eyes suddenly landed on her son’s back and a frown developed on her face.

“Look at you! Didn’t I teach you to clean yourself well? Give me that washcloth and I’ll scrub your back,” she scolded as she made a move to grab the piece of cloth.

“Mum, I can scrub my own back!” Ron protested, hiding the cloth under the water childishly.

“Well, you’re not very good at it. You need to scrub it well so all the dirt comes out,” she insisted.

“I am very well capable of scrubbing my own back, I’ve been doing it since I was five!” he said.

“Rubbish! You weren’t able to take a bath alone until you were ten. Remember, you were so convinced that a snakeman lived under the sink? The look on your face whenever I told you that it’s bath time,” she said laughingly.

“I choose not to remember,” he pouted.

“Oh, all right. Wash your own back if you will. Don’t come running to me if you find yourself unspeakably smelly,” she gave in. Ron waited for her to get out of the door. But instead, she pushed down the toilet cover and settled herself.

“Mum? Shouldn’t you be getting out now?” Ron asked.

Mrs. Weasley paid no heed to her son’s question. “You know, there was a time when you children needed me so much. I was your world when you were all little. Now I can’t even scrub your back.”

Ron saw his mother was on the verge of tears, and he felt rather helpless in his birthday suit, submerged in a pool of water. “Mum, I still need you,” he said, trying to soothe her.

“No, you don’t. I accept it, you’ve grown up. I’m not a part of your life anymore. I don’t even know anything about you,” she said as she sniffed her tears back.

“How grown up can I be? I’m sixteen. You know everything about my life, my friends, Harry and Hermione, they love you,” he answered.

Mrs. Weasley wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her robe. “I’m sorry son. It’s just that, when you get old, there are just moments when you can’t help but question your worth. Oh, Ron, can I give you a hug?”

“Mum, I’m in the bath tub!” Ron exclaimed.

“After all I’ve done for you, all I’m asking for is a hug,” she sniffed.

Ron rolled his eyes at his mother, he knew she wasn’t going to leave the bathroom ‘til she got what she wanted. “Fine, a hug it is.”

A satisfied grin spread across her face as she walked over to her bathing son to envelop him. Ron gagged dramatically but she chose to ignore him. As she let go of the gagging Ron, he didn't notice that her mother's eyes has landed upon an interesting artifact on the floor. She had already picked up the parchment before Ron spotted her.

“Mum, that’s mine!” he protested as she began to unroll the parchment.

“Well, you shouldn’t be leaving it just anywhere,” she scolded.

“I’m not leaving it just anywhere, it was right beside me and I was planning on keeping it the moment I got out of this bath, which has been delayed due to an unexpected company,” Ron said with raised eyebrows.

“Well, who’s it from?” she inquired.

“It’s private,” he said indignantly.

“Well, you only have two people writing to you, and that’s Harry and Hermione. This parchment is scented, so unless Harry has suddenly developed a fixation for vanilla scents, then I’m guessing it’s from Hermione. In fact, I’m sure it’s from Hermione,” she grinned triumphantly.

Ron glared at his mother who was very sharp at the most inopportune times. “So what if it is?”

“Nothing, except that I believe you’ve developed a certain fondness for this girl,” she suggested.

“Of course I’m fond of her, she’s my friend,” he said, refusing to acknowledge any of her insinuations.

Mrs. Weasley squealed like a schoolgirl and began fussing with Ron’s hair. “Oh my, my son fancies someone. Tell me, do you love her?”

“I do not fancy Hermione, and I most certainly do not love her any more than I love Ginny,” Ron said through clenched teeth.

His mother immediately stopped her delighted attitude and dropped to her knees, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Ron said as he wiped an imaginary dirt of his nose.

“I’m your mother. I know when you’re sad, or worried, or when your heart is breaking. Come, let your mum help you,” she said as she tucked a lock of red hair behind his ear. The boy in front of her looked very much like the boy who was afraid of the snakeman and wouldn’t let go of the hem of her robes, six years ago.

“Read the letter,” he said simply. And so she did. Mrs. Weasley tried her best to see things in a different light, but it was very clear what the letter said.

“It’s like an annoyingly obvious subliminal writing,” he said. His face was turned away from her so she wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

“She’s very worried about Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said in an attempt to console her son.

“And she’s not worried about me?” he retorted.

“She knows you’re safe,” she reasoned.

“Can’t she talk about anything other than Harry?” he cried, no longer able to hold back the tears.

“She’s just a girl,” Mrs. Weasley tried to tell him.

“No, she isn’t,” he said stubbornly. “And that midget doesn’t even know she exists.”

“I think he does. He’s just not very good at recognizing his own feelings,” Mrs. Weasley remarked rather crassly before she could stop herself. She immediately gave her son an apologetic look.

“It’s okay, I’m not blind. Can’t say the same for both of them,” he said, waving his hand in the air.

“What do you plan to do about it?” Mrs. Weasley asked his son.

“Nothing. Really, if they can’t get with the program, then it’s not my fault,” he answered incredulously.

“Then why are you here, punishing yourself by reading this letter again and again? ” she asked.

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m a masochist,” he answered, trying to sound as unattached as possible.

“Don’t play smart with me young man!” she scolded him once more.

Ron took a deep breath before he spoke, “I’m trying to carry their burden. I’m the only one who knows about their unrequited feelings for one another. It’s beginning to take its toll. I’m losing some of my hair.”

“Then don’t you think it’s about time you pass their own burdens onto them? You have your own unrequited feelings to think about. They should know about their unrequited feelings as well,” she advised him.

“I never knew the word unrequited could be said so many times in such a short while,” he said, smiling a bit.

“You better get out of that tub or you’ll catch a cold,” she said, ruffling his hair.

“I will, if you would only get out of here,” he said.

“I’m sorry if I prolonged my welcome,” she smiled.

“Apology accepted,” he answered. Mrs. Weasley gave his son an encouraging smile. A few moments after his mother left, he lifted himself from the tub.

The pile of crumpled parchments flooding the floor of Ron’s room rejoiced as yet another one of their kind joined them. A disgruntled Ron Weasley took out another one of his mini-roll parchments and began to scribble on it with his quill. The scratching of his quill on his paper was drowned out by strong, deciding footsteps on the hallway outside his room. As he had expected, the bald head of his father appeared behind his door.

“Hello there, son. What are you doing?” he beamed, too cheerily for comfort.

“I’m writing,” Ron said, trying to make it sound as if it were the most boring thing in the world.

“Homework?” his father asked. Ron gave a not so subtle grunt as Mr. Weasley opened the door fully and let himself in.

“Letters. Dad, is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.

“Nothing, just wanted to know what’s going on with my son,” he smiled guiltily.

“Mum told you, didn’t she?” Ron smiled knowingly.

“Well, you know your mother,” his father answered sheepishly.

“Does everyone know?” he asked hesitantly.

“Don’t worry, the secret’s kept between the three of us. I made sure of that,” his father said.

“Good, because the last thing I need is for Fred and George offering to make me love potions,” Ron sighed.

“So, what are you really doing, Ron?” Mr. Weasley asked again.

“I’m trying to set up Harry and Hermione, except I don’t know how to do that,” he grinned awkwardly.

“Hmm, you know I once set up a friend of mine by sending them both singing valentines?”

“I’m not very sure this will work as I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You know I once set up a friend of mine by sending them both singing valentines?” his father said again.

“Dad, I tried to ignore that the first time.”

“Okay, well, may I see what you’ve worked on?” his father asked as he pulled up a chair and sat in front of the desk Ron was working at.

Ron raised his eyebrow at his father. “No.”

“Oh come on. I heard you and your Mum had a very lovely bonding in the bath yesterday. Why can’t you open up to me?” he complained like a teenager.

“That was because I needed her help,” Ron explained.

“Well you obviously don’t know what you’re going to do now, either.”

“Neither do you! You sent singing valentines!”

“That was a long time ago. And it worked!”

“So you suggest I send singing Valentines to them both?” Ron asked sarcastically.

“Of course not,” Mr. Weasley answered. Without warning, he grabbed the letter from Ron’s hand. He began to read it aloud.

“Dear Harry, I think you’re neat. And you’re really wicked. Please meet me at the Astronomy Tower on the first night of school. I know it, we’re M.F.E.O. Love from your secret admirer.” To Ron’s horror, his dad started laughing like crazy. “It would be much better if you sent singing Valentines,” he managed to say in between bouts of mirth.

“I thought you wanted to help. You’re not helping,” Ron grumbled.

Mr. Weasley calmed down and looked intently at his son, “You know what the problem is with this letter?”

“Aside from the fact that it sucks?” Ron asked.

“It lacks heart. Tell them the truth, and they’ll know where to go from there,” he said.

“Do I have to tell them the entire truth?” Ron said, “Because it’s pretty embarrassing.”

“Trust me, they will thank you for it. And I’m sure that you’ll thank them in return someday,” Mr. Weasley said with a wink. He left the room to let his son bare his heart to a piece of parchment.

Harry,

How are you doing matey! Hope you’re fine, I’m pretty sure Hermione’s been checking on you every five seconds. Maybe I should stop this nonsense and get to the point. Do you remember that time when I paid you with Leprechaun gold and you didn’t even notice that it disappeared? You said that it was because you lost your wand. So maybe you’re right, but I was still angry with you because you had something that I will never have and you couldn’t even appreciate it. My anger sort of mellowed in the following days, after all it was still just gold. This time, I’m going give you a heads up on another treasure by your side. She’s more valuable than all the galleons in the world, but just like Leprechaun gold, she will disappear if you don’t take notice. Maybe I’ll even take her from you. Trust me, the first chance I get, I will. I hope you won’t lose her because you needed to face You-Know-Who or because you dropped your wand. Because if you do, I won’t let it pass and I won’t understand either. I do hope you know what I’m talking about because if not, then I will hex all those people who say that you’re a lot sharper than I am. After all, there’s only one girl in this world who deserves you, who you deserve. Too bad that she had to be the girl I love.

Your friend,
Ron

Author's Notes: Firstly, thanks so much to Clio for the beta. This is probably my least reviewed and least *liked* fic but it remains to be my favourite, I don't care if I'm the only one who likes it. And J.D. Salinger, thanks so much for writing Zooey and Mrs. Glass so well.
“Wow, that was…wow,” Ginny muttered the first words that entered her mind, “It’s just so…”

“I know, I know, wow,” Ron said, “I wish it weren’t so believable.” Ron shifted his gaze to the far horizon, as he felt the soft breeze blow over his face.

“But I thought you were over her?” Ginny asked with concern.

“I am now,” Ron said.

“You mean for the past year you were pining for her?” she asked.

“I kept wishing that they’d break up, that she’d turn around and tell me that she was mistaken, that it was me she loved,” he said.

“And?”

“And it never happened,” he finished.

“Why did you have to ask her that?” Ginny asked.

“Closure, I guess,” Ron answered.

“Or maybe you’re expecting that she wouldn’t know what to tell you,” she concluded knowingly.

“I wasn’t expecting, I was just hoping,” he corrected her.

“So, how do you feel now?” she asked, bringing her hand on his shoulder.

“It's like catharsis,” he told her.

“I think a year is a pretty long time to pine for a childhood crush,” she thought aloud.

“You should talk,” Ron teased.

“I once saw them down in the common room. She had her nose buried in his robes; she said that she loved his smell. The funny thing was, he just came from Quidditch practice and he was sweating like a pig, probably smelled like one too. But for her, he smelled like heaven. She sees past everything, past his robes, past his scar, she actually sees him, just him. It was right, everything about them was right. Who am I to say it was wrong. Who am I to object to that?”

“Doesn’t mean it hurts any less,” Ron muttered.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“We really are siblings,” Ron said.

“Yes, except I have more sense than you do.”

“What do you mean by that?” he chided.

“I knew from the start that I should just accept it, and move on. Harry couldn’t possibly be the right one for me; he’s the right one for Hermione. My Mr. Right is out there. So is yours.”

“Ooh, my Mr. Right is out there too?” Ron kidded.

“Bite your tongue,” Ginny said, punching his brother’s arm lightly.

“Owwww!” Or maybe not so lightly.

“So what do you plan to do with this?” she asked, as she handed him the parchment.

“I’m thinking of archiving it. You know, make a scrapbook entitled ‘To all the girls I’ve loved before,’” Ron joked.

“You’re so funny sometimes, my dear brother. I love you,” Ginny expressed. She lunged forward and gave Ron a hug that he happily accepted.

“Right back at you, kid,” he said, ruffling his sister’s hair.

“Stop that! I’m not a cat,” she protested, moving away from him. She slowly stood up and began to walk the trail to their house. “You coming?” she asked him without turning back.

“In a minute, I just want to see the sunset.”

Ron unrolled the piece of parchment and read it alone. He wondered what he looked like, sitting there and crying in front a piece of parchment.

Dear Ron,

I don’t know why you asked me this, but you seemed so sincere that I just had to answer. Why? Does there need to be a reason to love someone? I think the answer is that there is no reason, there is no logic, it simply is. I love him for the whole and the parts, for the beginning and the end. I won’t try to explain what exactly I feel for him, I don’t think Aristotle got that far into logic to be able to explain my love for Harry. All I know is, underneath that scar, I find myself inscribed in his head. I live in his soul, I inhabit his heart, he has me within every inch of him and I don’t think I can ever get away. And I’m sure I don’t want to. Does that answer your question? It’s the best I can do; I hope it will suffice.

Love from,
Hermione

Ron chuckled lightly. “Cheesy crap,” he thought. He stood up and began to walk away.

“I hope someone will write me cheesy crap like this someday."