Chapter 1
Harry was cleaning out his trunk. It was a late Saturday afternoon, the light outside the tower holding on through the rain. His first year as captain, and this strangely warm early winter was threatening freezing rain for his first match.
But Harry wasn't thinking about Quidditch, and he was definitely not thinking about Ron, or their fight. He wasn't being cowardly or isolating himself, either. He just simply didn't want to be bothered with the busy common room. He certainly wasn't avoiding Ron.
No, what he was doing was becoming more responsible.
After all, last year, his messy trunk had been part of the reason he had stupidly contributed to the death of his Godfather. No, it was time that Harry Potter step up and start being more responsible. He was, in fact, the Chosen One. And he didn't know much about Chosen Ones, but he didn't think they should have messy trunks. Boys who beat dark Lords certainly didn't have messy trunks. So, here he was, the newly responsible Potter. His parents would be so proud.
He had piles of old clothes and socks with holes, crumpled parchment, and various detritus scattered around the floor near his nightstand. He was sitting away from Ron’s bed, hidden from the door, but he was definitely not hiding. He was responsible!
He had already made a pile of things to throw out and a mental list of items to replace. He had shuffled around the remaining items in the trunk and started a stack of his old textbooks propped up at one end.
The rain was pouring down so steadily, the sound of the tower roof had disappeared into the ambience of distant wind and leaves. Harry stretched slightly to grab another book, but something slipper caused the small pile to shift. His face stared back at him from the Quibbler issue in which was printed his interview from last year.
Without thinking, Harry picked it up. He flipped to his story and without thinking stared at the pages blankly, random words jumping into his mind. He felt a sense of agitation rising. He hadn’t seen or touched this magazine since Sirius had died. He saw again his Godfather’s frozen and contorted face morph to a plaster mask of shock.
Months ago, that image would cause him to throw the magazine or stand up and kick all of his belongings, to scream, to run.
But today, the haunting eyes of his Godfather and all their promise and love faded quickly as his eyes blankly elevated “Voldemort” and the names of his accused. Oh how he had thought this summer would be the vindication this article hadn’t provided. The weight of the printed words seemed foolish now. That he could scream from the mountains the truth for all to hear, and it still would not be heard.
This sense of disorientation occluded his mind, taking him to a momentary place of despair. He flicked the page over. He had never looked at the rest of this issue.
A recipe for a permanent waterproofing potion for boots made of garden slugs. And then an article claiming to be a telepathically gained account of a silver unicorn named Molly. Several other such pieces followed, and Harry skimmed them as well.
And then he saw a quiz about your life archetype. Are you the hero? Are you the villain? He wryly stopped, thinking about Hermione and Ron. He was the bad guy in Ron’s book. And he was the hero to the world sometimes. On a level he wouldn’t even admit to himself, he actually started to care about the outcome of this quiz. It was a stupid quiz in a magazine. But somehow in his unending inability to understand himself, he hoped for some arcane, universal wisdom could shed even a sliver of light on his path.
He had without thinking, completely absorbed in the magazine, picked up his wand and started answering the questions.
“When you have a thought, do you: A. Immediately express it, B. Calculate how others would respond, C. Think of what others would think instead, D. Ignore it”
Harry blindly kept tapping the answers on the page until words faded in: “You’re the Sidekick!”
Harry stared. What? He was the sidekick? How could that be? He was always in the spotlight. Ron was always telling him that he, Harry, was hogging the glory and attention. Harry always had everything happen to him. He was the one who had all the action, and the drama. But then Hermione’s voice cropped up. “Everything does just seem to happen to you, Harry.” ‘Happen to him’ didn’t sound much like a leader or hero. And he didn’t express himself much.
Yesterday, Ron had started fussing and kicking off again, and Harry had just sat there and said nothing. Ron had wanted to go to dinner early, and Harry had wanted to go back to the dorm for a bit and kick up for a few. He hadn’t even been hungry, but there he had been, following Ron to the Great Hall with no appetite, and then later that night, laying in bed feeling slight pangs of hunger, having not had much dinner.
Harry’s whole history of friendships was flashing before his eyes as he sat unseeing on the floor. If someone had walked into the dorm, if a clap of lightning had gone off, he wouldn’t have noticed or moved a muscle.
Time after time, he saw himself, covering over, not speaking his mind on the little things, handling and smoothing things. He saw his thoughts go unspoken. He saw himself diminishing. How long had this been going on? He had actually used to be quite assertive. He remembered early in his youth when his mouth had gotten him in trouble with the Dursleys. But when had his words ever gotten him in trouble with Ron? Or Hermione, even? Never.
Harry marveled. And it wasn’t a good marvel. It was the type of realization where you walk by a mirror and realize you look like a mess.
He lowered the magazine after flipping through a few more pages absently. Bat wing soup couldn’t hold his interest. He abruptly stood up. He needed to move again. Damn if he’d have to run into Ron. He waved his wand and all the junk on the floor flew back into his displaced trunk, leaving it unchanged except for a stack of books now hidden under detritus.
But he was already to the dormitory door and making his way down the spiral staircase to the common room intending to march right out the portrait hole and not even look at Ron. But that was the problem, right? He needed to own his presence.
Halfway across the room, he started glancing about and quickly spotted Ron. He was in a chair in a corner, but-- and Harry actually stopped in shock-- he wasn’t alone. Lavender was sitting in his lap and attached to his face. Harry stared. He felt the anger and rage wash over him.
“Harry, you ok there?” Seamus had called to him from a nearby exploding snap game. Harry didn’t even register who all was now watching him. He also didn’t hear the portrait open or see Hermione step in.
He just knew that he was standing over Ron, and Ron was looking up at him in a furtive and slightly scared way, trying to stand up and push Lavender off him at the same time. Harry pulled him up by his collar, speaking quietly “You scum. She asked you to Slughorn’s party last night.”
“Yeah-- but she didn’t say-- just as friends--“
“You know damn well what she meant.”
Harry didn’t raise his voice. And he didn’t talk so anyone else could hear him. And Ron was looking at his eyes now, darting back and forth, calculating. Manipulating, justifying, Harry thought.
“What the hell are you thinking? No -- don’t speak.” Harry interrupted Ron. All that was in the other boy’s face was self-righteous annoyance. “I’ll tell you. You weren’t thinking. And now you’ve hurt her and destroyed her trust. You are acting heartless. And not only destroying your friendship with her, you’re ruining my trust in you as well. We are done here.”
Harry pushed Ron back into the chair and gave Lavender a disgusted look. He walked toward the door, planning to go for that walk, and then he stopped again. Hermione was standing there, stunned, with tears in her eyes. He walked quickly toward her and put his arm around her and ushered her out of the common room.
When they were alone in the hallway and had stepped into the abandoned classroom they sometimes met in, she buried her head in his shoulder and started sobbing. Harry rubbed her back soothingly.
“Hermione, you don’t deserve this.”
After six years, he still betrayed Hermione. The early bullying and the picking fights was one thing, but to mess with her heart, Harry was beyond fed up. But could he ever really break things off with Ron?
Sidekick, echoed in his mind. Hermione had sunk to the floor and sat on a step leading up to the teacher’s dais. Harry sank next to her.
Why was he so alone? Why did he just spend so much time with Ron? Why hadn’t he made other guy friends in all these years? There were boys from other houses and other years he may get on with. It was a bit pathetic in a way. Was he some fan of Ron’s?
He let Hermione lean on him and he stared at the floor of the classroom as she gazed into space silently. He caught hints of motion dancing and looked at the tiny birds Hermione had conjured. His arm had slid off at some point and she was resting her head on her hand, knees pulled up in front of her, tears in her eyes.
The door burst open, “Whoops!” Lavender was giggling and laughing but quickly fell silent. She was out the door as soon as she was in, her arm pulling Ron’s arm to have him follow.
Hermione stiffened beside Harry.
“Sorry,” he said, slightly stilted, and made to close the door, but Hermione had suddenly stood. Ron’s instinctive flinch of fear wasn’t lost on Harry. He felt a surge of pride and vindication.
“Repugno!” Hermione shouted. Ron yelled and tried to slam the door unsuccessfully and started running.
Harry stood up in solidarity, but as he did Hermione ran off.
He stood there for several moments, unsure of what to do. No doubt Hermione would be going to the girl’s dorms. She would want to be alone.
He ran his hand through his hair. His first thought was wanting to have someone to talk about this situation with. And of course his second thought was to tell Ron and Hermione. This thought utterly disgusted him. This was the whole problem. He was enraged at Ron and still didn’t have anyone but Ron to talk about it with.
Harry wished it wasn’t storming. He started walking determinedly anyways up to his dorm to get his broom, but as he passed a window in the hallway, the darkened sky lit up with lightning and howling wind. He ran his hand through his hair again. He felt restless.
He walked around the hallways of the school for a quarter hour and found himself in front of the library. He was so bored and so restless that he didn’t even know what to do that he actually was considering studying. And when he didn’t have a better idea than the outlandish idea of studying when it wasn’t necessary, he actually approached the bookshelf on Transfiguration. He had a test coming up and had remembered some topic McGonnogal said would be extra credit. Transmogrify. He was actually doing this. He lifted a book off the shelf, and it wasn’t until a full hour later that he mentally resurfaced. A memory of himself under the covers at privet drive before his third year popped into his mind. He had wanted his spellbooks unlocked. A memory of him reading countless books in his cupboard for years as the sound of television and family chatter filled the house on Saturdays.
As the library was closing, he stood up, feeling disoriented. He had been dreading going back to the common room and seeing Ron, but he felt like some spell had been lifted. Suddenly, he didn’t care. He felt a strange new perspective on life, like he had woken from a long dream.
As he walked back to the dorm, he wasn’t phased by the prospect of seeing Ron. Immaturity and betrayal coupled with a complete lack of remorse had given Harry a fresh perspective. Excusing Ron had become a sort of sport. How much could Harry tolerate Ron’s lashing out before he snapped on him? He always waited and waited before simply speaking his mind.
He thought back to how readily he used to spout his opinions with the Dursleys. How long had Harry felt beholden to Ron’s moody demands? No more delays.
Harry climbed the last staircase and the high of his resolve started to fade. He felt a sense of surrealness when he stepped through the portrait hole.
He looked around more furtively than he was proud to admit. And then he went into all-out nervousness as he climbed the boys staircase. But the time he reached the door, he felt slightly sick. He needed to not just ignore Ron, but to speak his mind at all times. For some reason, without raw anger fueling him, he felt that he might cower or look away.
It was with relief that the door opened to reveal the sight of Ron’s hangings pulled shut and firmly enclosing the boy’s entire bed.
Harry glanced over at Seamus and nodded once. Seamus made his usual greeting in solidarity, and Harry went to bed.
For what felt like hours, he still couldn’t sleep, replaying over and over in his mind scenes from his friendship over the years with Ron. And he wasn’t sure when he had finally dozed off, but the morning stung in his bleary eyes, and his body was alert and forbade him more sleep.
The bright orange sunrise, level with the tower, streamed aggressively onto his pile of robes as he dressed, glaring still at Ron’s tight hangings. He gathered his pack and slung it over his shoulder and went down for an early breakfast.
Hermione was sitting away from their usual spot, closer to the high table. The hall was sparsely attended, and Harry recognized a smattering of the most studious, it was an elevated society, somehow. He walked a little straighter.
At the end of the table, he slowed down, looking for signs that Hermione may want to be left alone.
She looked up suddenly and a small smile warmed her face.
“Hello, Harry,” she said, “you look awful.”
“You don’t. How are you holding up?”
“Me?” She lilted, stirring her porridge, “I’m actually quite well.”
Harry watched her face carefully. The sadness slightly pulling at her eyes was abated by resolve and peace.
“I’m glad you’re ok,” he said in a quiet tone. She looked up into his eyes.
“Thank you, Harry,” she suddenly let go of her spoon and reached to place her hand on top of his. “Thank you for being such a good friend yesterday.”
Harry froze. He didn’t look away and managed a small smile, but mostly just looked at her eyes. The whites of her eyes looked the slightest shade of blue and he realized he didn’t actually look at his friend much. Suddenly he couldn’t stop.
After a moment, she squeezed and then released his hand with a soft smile and resumed her porridge and scanned her notes.
He found that he wanted to tell her about his resolve to change things between him and Ron. But he just couldn’t say it out loud.
Harry sat in silence with Hermione as they finished their breakfasts, and he was about to ask if she wanted to go for a walk around the lake before their first class when Ron appeared outside the hall, talking in a loud voice to Ernie as they walked in. Harry instinctively looked up and tracked their progress. He had this leaping sensation in his chest and it was like his anger had evaporated. What was wrong with him?
When he looked back at Hermione, she was packing up, evading his eyes and rushing a quick ‘see you later, Harry,’ before darting off.
He felt sick again. The Quibbler had rocked his world. And now he had to figure out how to stop being Ron’s sidekick.