Lionhearted

Ron Weasley stared at the badge in his hand, unblinking, as if the very act of looking at it might somehow explain what on earth was going on. 

A prefect badge. His prefect badge. Of all the people in Gryffindor tower—no, scratch that, in the whole of Hogwarts—how in the name of Merlin's saggy pants had he been made a prefect? It had to be some kind of mistake, didn’t it? This sort of thing wasn’t meant for him. He turned the badge over, half expecting to see someone else’s name etched on the back, some kind of proof that this was all a mistake.

But no. 

It gleamed at him, smug and self-assured, as though it had been meant for him all along. A mistake. That had to be it. Someone had stuffed the wrong badge into the wrong envelope. Ron Weasley had an uncanny talent for misplacing things, particularly his chess pieces, which seemed to vanish under his bed more often than not. There was the pumpkin juice incident—an event etched into his memory, along with the faint orange stain on his robes. 

Only Ron could manage to trip over his own two legs while crossing the Gryffindor Common Room. It didn’t help that it always seemed to happen when the room was full. One spectacular tumble had sent him sprawling into a group of second-years, earning him a combination of laughs and wide-eyed stares.

It wasn’t his fault, though, not really. Life just had a way of throwing the occasional stray shoe—or chess piece—underfoot, and Ron always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Prefects were supposed to be...well, like Hermione, weren’t they?

Speaking of her, Hermione was there looking both pleased and ever-so-slightly stunned. She’d said something congratulatory—something supportive, naturally, because that’s just what she did—but Ron had caught the faintest flicker of surprise in her eyes—maybe a trace of disbelief, though she was doing an impressive job of masking it well. Too well.

The twins, on the other hand, didn’t bother with pretense. Fred had pounced almost immediately, slinging an arm around Ron’s shoulders with an exaggerated sigh. “Blimey, Ronniekins,” he drawled, grinning ear to ear. “Standards must’ve dropped while we weren’t looking.”

“Or maybe they’re just handing ‘em out as charity,” George chimed in, circling around to get a better look at the badge. Ron had swatted at them, muttering half-hearted protests, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was too busy soaking up the moment, letting it wash over him in waves of astonishment, pride, and—dare he say it—happiness. Proper happiness. Mum was practically glowing, which was almost enough to make him tear up on the spot. She’d even promised him a new broom, and that alone felt like some kind of cosmic reward for years of mediocrity.

Still, as much as he wanted to revel in it, a part of him kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was this some elaborate prank? A cruel joke? Because honestly, how could someone like him—average, overlooked, perpetually stuck in the shadow of his brothers—ever deserve something like this? And yet, there it was, solid and real in his hand, mocking him with its shiny, undeniable truth.

But in truth, it felt so wrong.

No one had expected it to be him. Least of all, himself.

Ron turned the badge over again in his hand, the weight of it pressing down like a boulder instead of a symbol of recognition. It didn’t feel earned, didn’t feel his. A nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him that he hadn’t exactly done anything remarkable in his four years at Hogwarts. No grand achievements, no spectacular victories. Well, unless you counted surviving. But was that really enough?

He’d scraped through lessons, barely managing to keep his head above water in most subjects. Ron wasn’t like Hermione, who aced every exam without breaking a sweat. Even the twins, for all their pranks, had their own brand of brilliance. Their jokes were clever, their inventions inspired. Compared to all of them, Ron felt like the leftover crumbs at the bottom of the biscuit tin—there, but hardly worth noticing.

Ron then stole a glance at Harry, chest tightening with a peculiar twist of guilt. The raven-haired was sitting just a few feet away, his expression unreadable—then, almost as if he sensed Ron’s gaze, Harry turned and offered a faint, fleeting smile—barely there, but enough to twist the knife a little deeper.

He looked away quickly, trying to squash the bitter taste rising in his throat. 

Ron’s fingers itched to take it off, to chuck it across the common room or bury it under the nearest cushion. He turned it over and over, the weight of it far heavier than the bit of metal and enamel it actually was. Part of him—a rather loud, rebellious part—wanted to hurl the blasted thing out the window, letting it tumble into the darkness.

How in Merlin’s name had Dumbledore decided he was fit for this? He could barely look at the badge without feeling a strange knot of guilt and awkwardness coil in his stomach. And Harry—blimey, Harry. His best mate had smiled and congratulated him, sure, but the redhead had caught the tiniest crack in his cheerful expression. 

Dinner that night was a spectacle he could’ve done without. His mum had gone all out, laying the table with her best dishes. “You didn’t have to do this,” Ron muttered, his voice thick with embarrassment, wishing he could sink straight through the floor instead.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mrs Weasley said briskly, practically glowing with pride. 

“Oh, absolutely ridiculous,” Fred cut in with a wide grin, leaning back in his chair. “So, where’s the famous badge, Ronniekins? Thought you’d be wearing it already, showing it like a crown by now.”

Ron glared at him, his ears burning. “Sod off,” he mumbled, slumping into the chair beside Hermione, who, annoyingly, looked genuinely happy about the whole thing. Of course she did. The bushy-haired probably framed her own badge and rehearsed her acceptance speech in front of a mirror.

Meanwhile, the redhead stabbed at his shepherd’s pie, wishing for the first time in his life that he could just disappear entirely. It wasn’t fair. None of it was.

After dinner, Ron made a beeline for the room he shared with Harry. He shoved the door open, sighing as he crossed the room, and flopped onto his bed with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes. The whole day had been exhausting—packing their trunks for the journey back to Hogwarts always was. He stretched out, arms flung wide, and stared up at the canopy above his bed, its deep red fabric a familiar comfort.

The summer had been long—tense in ways he couldn’t quite put into words, and the prospect of Hogwarts felt like stepping back into something solid, something normal. Ron shifted on the bed, his gaze flicking to the half-packed trunk at the foot of it. Books, robes, and a tangled mess of Quidditch gear spilled over the edges. The redhead groaned at the thought of finishing the job but didn’t move. Instead, he let his eyes drift shut, allowing the images of the Hogwarts grounds to fill his mind—the Forbidden Forest shrouded in mist, the lake sparkling under the autumn sun, the Gryffindor common room lit with the glow of the fireplace.

The corners of his mouth twitched again. Yeah, he thought as sleep began to tug at him, It’ll be good to be back.

“Ron?”

The voice pierced the fog of half-sleep, tugging Ron abruptly back to awareness. His heart gave a sudden thud as his bleary eyes focused on Harry, who was now standing by the closed door, his face partially obscured by the dim light of the room. 

“Harry!” the redhead blurted out, his voice sounding embarrassingly high. 

"Hey," Harry smiled faintly, before pulling off his glasses and rubbing his eyes—the faint lines of exhaustion on his face were even more noticeable without the frames. 

Ron’s throat felt uncomfortably tight, as though the words he was about to speak had caught on something jagged inside him. His eyes flickered to his trunk, It sat there, an unassuming thing, but to Ron, it loomed like some great, hulking reminder of everything he wasn’t. The prefect badge was in there, buried under a mess of clothes he couldn’t even be bothered to organise. “I-I don’t really think I deserve it,” he muttered, he hated how his voice sounded—small, weak, like he’d just confessed some deep, shameful secret.

“What d’you mean, you don’t deserve it?” Harry asked, his voice steady but edged with curiosity. His brow furrowed slightly, that familiar crease forming between his eyebrows. 

Ron stared hard at the trunk, willing it to open and swallow the blasted badge whole—or, better yet, him along with it. The words I’m not good enough clawed at the back of his throat, but he bit them down. “The badge.” his voice wavered as he shifted on the spot, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. It was a flimsy sort of armour, but it was all he had. He felt exposed under Harry’s gaze, as if his thoughts were written across his face in bold letters. 

“O…kay?”

“I-I dunno,” Ron muttered at last, the words felt wrong somehow, not quite enough to explain the knot of guilt and doubt twisting inside him. “It just doesn’t feel right, does it? It should’ve been you, Harry. I thought it would be, and…and I just…” he hesitated, the words stuck somewhere between protest and confusion, and for a moment, all he could hear was the faint creak of the floorboards and the muffled sounds of the castle beyond the dormitory walls. 

"Ron." Harry’s voice was steady, grounding, and when their eyes met, it was as if the room itself faded into nothingness. The raven-haired didn’t look disappointed or resentful. If anything, his expression was calm, almost matter-of-fact, as though this wasn’t a conversation worth Ron tearing himself up over. "I don’t really mind.”

Ron opened his mouth, the beginnings of a protest forming on his lips, but the words refused to come. His thoughts, which were usually a jumble—tripping over themselves as they scrambled to make sense—were suddenly sluggish, stuck in a fog he couldn’t quite shake. The back of his neck burned fiercely, and he could feel the blush creeping up, blotchy and unwelcome, spreading like spilt ink across his skin.

“B-but…” he stammered, the sound thin and awkward, shattering the fragile silence. His voice felt too loud, too clumsy, like a badly tuned string plucked in an empty hall.

“Ron.” Harry’s voice came again, firmer this time, though it never rose. It wasn’t commanding, exactly, but it carried a weight that demanded attention. 

The redhead swallowed against the dryness in his throat. He wanted to push back, to question how Harry could be so unconcerned, but the words refused to form. Instead, he sat there, caught between his own uncertainty, feeling as though he were teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t but name.

Then the soft creak of his bed had startled him more than he cared to admit, pulling him back to the present where his thoughts couldn’t hide. Ron could feel it now, the slight dip in the mattress as Harry sat down beside him. He sank into his bed, his head pressing into the cool softness of the pillow, and Harry mirrored the action, his own head finding rest. Their gazes met in the quiet stillness, a shared understanding passing between them without words. Harry’s eyes, usually tucked behind the familiar round lenses, now seemed startlingly vivid. 

They weren’t just green; they were alive, vibrant in a way that made him feel oddly safe, like staring into a storm that you somehow knew wouldn’t hurt you. It unsettled Ron, but not in a bad way. It was the kind of unease that made your heart thump too loudly in your ears, the kind that rooted you to the spot even when you felt like you should move. And Harry—Harry wasn’t moving either.

Ron’s throat tightened as he realised Harry was staring back at him, his expression unreadable but...softer, somehow. It wasn’t just the look in his eyes; it was the slight tilt of his head, the way his shoulders had eased as though a weight had been lifted.

The air itself was pulling them closer, Ron's heart was pounding now, each beat a heavy, insistent thrum that drowned out the faint groans of the bed beneath them. He couldn’t tell if it was Harry who moved first or if he himself had leaned forward, but the distance was disappearing, slow and steady, like the inevitable pull of gravity drawing two objects closer and closer until nothing remained between them.

"I-I'm not ready," Ron blurted out, his face flared an angry shade of crimson, the kind of flush that seemed determined to announce to the world just how out of his depth he felt. The heat surged from his cheeks, down his neck, and all the way to the tips of his ears, leaving him squirming under its unwelcome intensity.

Harry blinked, his own cheeks suddenly betraying him with a pink flush that crept in almost as fast as Ron's. They just stared at each other, both looking equally alarmed by the sudden burst of honesty hanging between them. Then, as if they’d silently agreed upon it, they leaned back, putting an awkward but much-needed distance between them.

“Err, sorry,” Harry muttered, before running a hand through his already messy hair, the gesture so distinctly Harry that it somehow made the moment feel even more uncomfortable.

Ron let out a shaky laugh, though it was more a defence mechanism than anything else. "Harry, I—" he stammered, his voice cracking painfully, like he'd been stranded in a desert without water for weeks. He tried to push through, his words stumbling over each other. "W-we'll have time for that—"

"Yeah—"

"Harry—"

"No, it's—fine, I'll go back—" the raven-haired mumbled awkwardly, already shifting to get off the bed. 

Before Ron could think twice, his hand shot out, fingers clutching tightly at the hem of Harry's navy shirt. It wasn’t graceful, nor was it particularly well thought out, but he didn’t care. “Please?” he said, raw with desperation that embarrassed him.

The raven-haired paused—then, with all the subtlety of a troll in slippers, he slowly dropped back onto the bed, stiff and awkward. Ron shifted, trying not to think too much about the situation, but every movement seemed to amplify the uncomfortable closeness. Harry fidgeted too, the mattress creaking under their combined efforts to find some kind of position that didn’t feel so...personal. The room then fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the steady rise and fall of their breathing. Each inhale sounded far too loud in the stillness, and Ron’s chest tightened as he became painfully aware of his own heartbeat, thundering like a drum in his ears. 

They stood opposite each other, not too close, as if an unspoken agreement had been reached to respect the delicate boundaries between them. Ron couldn’t help but notice how their hands hung at their sides, just close enough that their fingers brushed ever so faintly. It was a maddeningly light touch, the sort that sent a shiver racing up his arm and lodged itself firmly in his chest.

Harry, ever so deliberate, shifted his gaze from the redhead's face to their hands, his expression unreadable but charged with some weighty decision. Slowly, achingly slowly, the raven-haired had his head tilted slightly as he slipped his fingers over Ron’s with a kind of quiet determination. 

It was a touch that demanded nothing but promised everything, and Ron—feeling like every nerve in his body had been jolted awake—responded in kind. His fingers curled around Harry’s, gripping him firmly but not too tightly, like he was holding on to the very idea of safety and warmth.

They stayed like that, hand in hand, neither daring to let go, as though the moment would shatter the second they parted. And for once, the redhead's racing mind quieted, as if the world had been reduced to the solid, grounding presence of Harry’s hand in his own.

Getting back to King’s Cross turned out to be far more stressful than Ron had anticipated. The day began in chaos—he’d barely opened his eyes before the shouting started. His mum’s voice echoed up the stairs, sharp as a Howler, ordering them to hurry up. The lot of them stumbled out of bed, all bleary-eyed and groggy, with no time for breakfast because apparently, punctuality took precedence over toast.

Ron had barely managed to pull on his jumper when the real chaos unfolded. Fred and George, in their infinite wisdom, had decided it’d be a laugh to enchant their trunks to fly. Of course, it wasn’t a laugh when one of them went rogue and smacked Ginny square in the back, sending her sprawling. Worse yet, in the ensuing commotion, Ron—who was valiantly trying to help—ended up toppling down two flights of stairs himself, his robes twisting around him like some sort of overly dramatic wizarding curtain.

By the time he landed, tangled and groaning, his mum was at the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips, looking livid enough to make a Hungarian Horntail look tame. Ginny, thankfully unharmed but red-faced with embarrassment, was dusting herself off, muttering something under her breath that Ron was pretty sure wasn’t fit for polite company.

"Brilliant start to the year," Ron grumbled, nursing what felt like the beginnings of a bruised backside, "and we’re not even out the door yet."

They’d somehow managed to scramble onto the Hogwarts Express amidst all the chaos, though Ron couldn’t quite call it a success. They jostled their way through the crowded corridor, dragging their trunks behind them, then icy wave of horror swept over him. His prefect badge—where on earth was it? He hadn’t pinned it to his robes, and now, with his luck, it was probably buried somewhere in his trunk beneath a mountain of socks and Chocolate Frog wrappers.

“Ron, hurry up!” Hermione snapped, her voice sharper than usual as she hovered nearby, clutching her own badge like it was some kind of golden trophy. “We’re supposed to be in the prefects’ carriage already! We’ve got duties, remember? Patrols, corridors, responsibility?”

Ron’s heart was thudding in his chest as he dropped to his knees and started rummaging through his trunk in a panic. Clothes were tossed left and right, a cauldron nearly rolled out onto the floor, and he could swear he caught a glimpse of a rather squashed Pumpkin Pastie. 

“Where is it?” he muttered frantically, his ears burning red. The thought of turning up without it, with Hermione glaring daggers and probably ready to write him up for neglecting his duties, was unbearable. “I had it this morning, I swear!”

“This is exactly why I said we should pack the night before!”

“Well, maybe if the twins hadn’t tried to kill us with flying luggage, I’d have remembered!” Ron shot back, shoving aside his dress robes as if the badge might suddenly appear beneath them. But deep down, he knew this wasn’t going to end well. Hermione's scolding was one thing, but he could already imagine the look on McGonagall’s face. Brilliant start to the year indeed.

“Just give me a moment!” Ron snapped, his voice sharper than he intended as he finally unearthed the elusive prefect badge from the depths of his trunk. He shoved it into his pocket with more force than necessary, his ears still tinged red with embarrassment.

As they made their way to the prefects’ carriage, Ron’s mood soured even further. The moment he stepped inside, he caught sight of Malfoy’s smug, pointy face, lounging as if he owned the place. And right next to him was Parkinson, her nose tilted so high she might as well have been sniffing at the ceiling. Their mere existence was enough to irritate Ron to no end, and it didn’t help that they both kept shooting smirking glances in his direction, as though they were already plotting some new way to be insufferable.

By the time they finished their prefect duties—which mostly involved Hermione talking, Malfoy sneering, and Ron scowling—the redhead was in a proper foul mood. And to make matters worse, he was starving. Not just peckish, but stomach-growling, light-headed, desperate-for-anything-to-eat starving. His stomach rumbled loudly enough that even Hermione looked over, though thankfully she refrained from commenting.

When they finally made their way back to their compartment, where Harry and Ginny were waiting, Ron was practically dragging his feet. The tantalising aroma of sweets and sandwiches from the trolley haunted him all the way down the corridor. 

Ron dropped into the seat beside Harry, his limbs feeling like lead, and barely had time to breathe before Harry pressed a handful of pastries and chocolates into his hand. He didn’t need to be told twice. Tearing into the food like a man who hadn’t seen a meal in days, Ron felt the tension in his body ease slightly with each bite. His hunger didn’t stand a chance against Harry’s stash.

All the redhead wanted was to lean his head on Harry’s shoulder, just for a moment, to let himself breathe. But as his eyes flicked around the compartment, he froze. Luna Lovegood was perched on the edge of her seat, flipping through The Quibbler upside down, her dreamy eyes darting toward him every so often. Neville sat across from them, examining some sort of plant that looked half-dead but, knowing Neville, was probably some rare magical treasure.

Ron straightened immediately, stuffing another chocolate into his mouth to distract himself. There was no way—no way—he could risk anyone getting ideas about him and Harry. Neville was too kind-hearted to say anything, but Luna? Merlin only knew what kind of offhand, weird comment she might make that’d have the whole train buzzing with gossip by the time they reached Hogwarts.

“Thanks, mate,” Ron muttered through a mouthful of pastry, keeping his tone casual as he glanced sideways at Harry, who was busy unwrapping another Chocolate Frog. But inside, his mind raced, wishing he could just let himself relax without worrying about the prying eyes of the world—or the possibility of Luna Lovegood announcing something like, “Oh, I see you’ve got an aura of shared affection. Fascinating.”

By the time they arrived at their destination, night had fallen, casting a dusky glow over the scene. Ron and Hermione, now tasked with supervising the gaggle of students, watched as they clambered off the train, fumbling with luggage and cages of squirming pets. 

Ron couldn’t help but do a double-take as a few of the younger ones scurried past. Blimey, were they always this tiny? He furrowed his brow, trying to reconcile their diminutive size with his own memories. Surely, he’d never been that small, had he? No, he was certain he hadn’t—he’d always been the tallest in his year, after all. 

The bustling of the platform was now a sight to behold, a flurry of trunks, cages, and eager students swarming to make their way off the scarlet express. Amongst the cacophony, a first-year boy stumbled, colliding haplessly with others in his rush. Ron Weasley, who was himself navigating the corridor with all the grace of a wayward Quaffle, barely registered the lad’s mishap until his gaze fell upon a rather distressed young girl just ahead.

She stood frozen, clutching a cage containing a ruffled owl, her wide eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Er—be careful, yeah?” Ron mumbled, awkwardly attempting to sound authoritative. His words, however, had an unexpected effect. The girl, seemingly overcome with emotion, let out a wail loud enough to rival a banshee’s and flung herself at him, gripping his robes with the desperation of someone clinging to a lifeline.

Ron froze, his ears turning a shade of red to rival his hair. glancing nervously about as if searching for an escape route. The girl’s hands were locked tight on his robes, and no amount of polite tugging seemed to make her loosen her grip.

“Uh, right,” he stammered, flustered, “look, I’ve got to—uh—be somewhere. You know, with the carriages.” He gestured vaguely toward the exit, but the girl didn’t budge, her teary-eyed panic growing with every second. “I’ll, um, see where Hagrid is,” the redhead tried again, spinning around in the hope of spotting the familiar towering figure of the groundskeeper. But to his dismay, Hagrid was nowhere in sight. Instead, he found himself surrounded by a sea of bustling students, none of whom seemed remotely interested in his plight.

The weight of the girl’s small hands on his robes and the mounting pressure of being utterly clueless left Ron in a state of utterly befuddled, waiting for salvation—or Hagrid—to appear. 

The castle grounds were bathed in a hazy autumnal glow, and Ron Weasley found himself in a rather unfortunate predicament. He’d been scouring the grounds for Hagrid, but the great oaf was nowhere to be seen. Ron reluctantly approached a cluster of older students milling about near the carriages. "Oi, you lot," he called, running a hand through his unruly ginger hair. "You seen a group of first-years about?”

They exchanged bemused glances before shaking their heads in unison. Ron huffed, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "bloody useless, the lot of them." He then turned away, an unexpected tug at his robes nearly sent him sprawling. He glanced down to find the same small, determined girl clinging to him as though her very life depended on it. 

"Oh, for Merlin’s sake," Ron grumbled, attempting to gently pry her fingers loose. "Let go, will you? You’re gonna rip the ruddy thing in half!" 

And before he could even extricate himself, a familiar voice rang out across the grounds. "Ron!" Hermione’s sharp tone cut through the din, and he looked up to see her marching toward him, her bushy hair bouncing with every step. "What on earth are you doing?" She demanded, her tone teetering on exasperation. "The first-years were supposed to stay with Hagrid—"

"I couldn’t find him, could I?" Ron snapped, his frustration bubbling over. "And this one—" he gestured to the girl, who now clung to him with the tenacity of a Niffler guarding treasure—"she won’t let go of my robes! I’m tellin’ you, Hermione, she’s gonna tear ‘em clean off at this rate!"

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly torn between annoyance and amusement. "Honestly, Ron," she muttered. "You’ve got the patience of a Blast-Ended Skrewt." After much coaxing and no small amount of grumbling, Ron managed to shuffle back to the carriages, the determined girl still latched onto him like he was her long-lost guardian. 

Ginny, waiting by the nearest carriage, took one look at the scene and burst into laughter. "Well, don’t you look cosy," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Shut it, Ginny," Ron growled, his ears turning a spectacular shade of red. The redhead shot her a glare so fierce that she stifled her giggles—though not before giving him a cheeky smirk that promised she wouldn’t let him live this down anytime soon.

Harry, who’d been about to talk with him about something or other—Ron hadn’t been paying much attention—abruptly stopped mid sentence, his gaze sharp as it fixed on a girl fumbling with her trunk just ahead. “And who’s that?” Harry asked, his voice edged with suspicion as his green eyes narrowed dangerously at the young girl.

Ron felt a prickling sense of unease but ignored the bite in Harry’s tone. “Dunno,” he said, striding forward and offering the girl a hand. The first-year looked flustered and overwhelmed, and the redhead didn’t think twice about hoisting her trunk up and helping the young girl into their carriage. And by the time they arrived at Hogwarts, Ron felt Harry’s simmering annoyance as if it were a living thing between them. The first-year, oblivious, unhooked her small fingers from where they’d clung to Ron’s robes and darted off to join the other first-years gathering at the far end of the platform.

“Finally,” Harry muttered under his breath.

Ron rounded on him, raising a ginger eyebrow. “What?”

Harry shrugged, but the air around him felt taut. “She seemed very fond of you.”

Ron blinked, baffled. “She’s a first-year, Harry. She was lost. Most of the prefects barely managed to check on all the students properly.”

Harry, however, wasn’t appeased. His arms crossed over his chest as he pouted off in the direction the girl had gone. “You’d scarpered off before I’d even managed to catch hold of you,” he added.

“Well…” Ron’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat in a rush, the tips of his ears burning bright enough to rival the embers behind them. “Prefect duties, wasn’t it? Had to—erm—supervise,” 

“And is it not your duty to supervise me instead?” Harry tilted his head innocently.

Ron's face turned a shade of crimson that could rival a ripe tomato as he floundered for a response. “You’re—” he stammered, unable to find the words, and before he could think better of it, he swung his long arm out and gave Harry a light—well, maybe not that light—clout on the side. 

The raven-haired then doubled over with a pained yelp that echoed far too loudly for Ron’s liking.