Pride

Harry said nothing after they returned from Hogsmeade, and the magical fair that Ron had been certain would make his friend happy. Harry remained silent the day after, and the next day. He said nothing, barely ate, and drifted through classes like a ghost. He completely shut down, only performing the most basic functions, more often than not only with Ron’s prompting. 

Halloween in general wasn’t much of a holiday for Harry. He had never been allowed to go treat-or-treating with his cousin, and besides that it was the day his dad had died, the day his mum had become a permanent resident of the Janus Thickey Ward, and the day Harry himself had almost died. This was all eclipsed by the heroic deaths of Alice and Frank Longbottom, and the creation of the Boy Who Lived. Harry had been abandoned on the porch, neatly tucked away, forgotten.

If anyone noticed Harry’s withdrawal, they didn’t remark on it. Being barred from going to Hogsmeade was a blow to any Hogwarts students; it was understandable that Harry would be upset, and both teachers and students were content to leave him to his own devices. To let Ron deal with it. People were too busy talking about the Sorcerous Spectacle, all the unforgettable things they had seen, all the amazing things they had done. 

The school spoke of little else in the days following Halloween. Ron agreed that evening had been memorable, but not for anything good. What he remembered was holding Harry as he cried in the middle of the street, mourning a man he believed was dead and yet who was somehow, terribly, alive. 

What could Ron say, what possible comfort was there to offer? He could stay by Harry’s side, but simply being there wasn’t enough when the absence of others loomed so largely in Harry’s heart.

Ron approached their next Defense lesson with great trepidation. Other than meals and in passing, it would be the first time Harry was confronted with the presence of Remus Lupin since Halloween. That things like classes and quidditch practices and meals could go on when the dead walked the streets of Hogsmeade and haunted Harry’s life was absurd. Ron owled his mum, not knowing what else to do.

A mother in a hospital, a drunk godfather, the nightmares he woke screaming from.

Nothing Ron could think, or say, or do, or be could erase these things. He felt powerless in the face of it all, while Harry suffered. Silent, enduring, Harry bore weights Ron was certain he himself would break under. He wanted, desperately, to help Harry bear those burdens, but Harry was a monolith. He was stronger than anyone knew. 

Their classmates flocked around them, still flush with excitement from Hogsmeade, still looking forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Lupin was everyone’s favorite teacher. Kind, charming, intelligent, knowledgeable. He made learning fun. But it wasn’t fun for Harry, nor Ron, knowing what they knew about Remus Lupin. Knowing in all the years since Harry’s father had died, not one person had written to him at Privet Drive. Not one person had visited Lily Potter. 

Lupin had been their friend. What sort of friend would leave so much behind? What sort of person would abandon a friend, abandon their child, in their time of greatest need? Ron felt sick with the implication. He would never—he would never—abandon Harry. Never. And if they were separated, he would stop at nothing to return to Harry’s side. If the world turned its back on Harry, Ron would still be at his side. 

These were bold proclamations to make at thirteen years old, even in the secret chambers of his heart, but Ron could not imagine it any other way. He could not live with himself if he was willing to do anything less. 

Ron walked into the classroom first, prepared to be a shield against Lupin’s affability, and came to a stop. It was not Lupin at the front of the room that day, but someone both better and worse. 

“Move out of the doorway, Weasley,” Snape said coldly. “And take your seat.”

Ron bristled, but didn’t respond. Nothing good ever came of interacting with Snape. The man was composed entirely of spite and grease. He tried to relax as he walked to his desk, but Harry was right behind him and was a favorite target of Snape’s. Uncharacteristically, Harry showed no reaction to Snape being in the classroom. He took the seat next to Ron without comment, while their classmates filtered in, some shooting nervous looks at the front of the room. 

“Excuse me, professor,” one boy from Hufflepuff, Zacharias Smith said, boldly raising his hand. 

“What, Smith?” Snape asked. 

Smith lowered his hand. “Where is Professor Lupin?”

“He claims to be feeling too ill to teach today,” Snape said acidly. 

A few students gasped or made other noises of discontent. Some began muttering, speculating. What could be wrong with Lupin? Ron glanced at Harry, but Harry was busy getting things out of his bag. 

“What’s wrong with him?” another kid in Hufflepuff, Hannah Abbott, asked.

“That is not of your concern,” Snape said. He began pacing before them. “Now, Professor Lupin has left no record of what topics—What, Goldstein?”

Anthony lowered his hand. “Sir, we’ve covered boggarts, red caps, kappas, and grindylows. We’re meant to—”

“Did I ask, Goldstein?” Snape said, approaching Anthony’s desk. 

Anthony shrank back. “No, sir, but—”

“No buts,” Snape said menacingly. “Professor Lupin’s startling lack of organizational skill will not be ameliorated by the likes of you.”

Next to Anthony, Padma made a strangled noise. 

“Professor Lupin is a great teacher,” Susan Bones, another Hufflepuff girl, said. “He’s practically written the book!”

Snape turned his glare on her. “You children are easily impressed. Any first-year could manage a red cap.”

“Not that Voldemort taught us much,” Ron mumbled, opening his book. Harry twitched, and Ron ducked his head to smile. 

“What was that, Weasley?” Snape said, prowling towards them. The entire class turned to watch. “Care to repeat yourself?”

Ron looked at Snape and felt a blush begin to rise. “No, sir.”

Snape smiled nastily at him. “I thought not. Ten points from Ravenclaw.” He took a moment to sneer at Harry, then spun to face the rest of the class. “Turn to page three hundred and ninety-four. Today we shall discuss…werewolves.”

Harry jerked upright, and an ominous expression passed over his face. 

“We’re not supposed to do werewolves yet,” Harry said softly, the first words he had spoken in days. Ron stared at him in awe. “We’re due to start hinkypunks.”

Snape reeled around. “Are you teaching this lesson, Potter?”

“I could,” Harry said, his voice rising. “Since you seem incapable of instructing us on something as basic as hinkypunks. Sir.”

The classroom fell completely silent. 

“Harry,” Ron hissed. Outright antagonizing Snape was a bad move. “What the hell are you doing?”

Snape was near apoplectic. He said through gritted, “Twenty points from... Ravenclaw. And detention for your cheek. Open to page three hundred and ninety-four. All of you. Now!”

Ron flinched back at the sudden shout, and a flurry of pages announced the entire class hastening to obey. Harry had his hands balled into fists on either side of his book, which was indeed opened to page three hundred and ninety-four. 

“Who can name the key distinctions between a werewolf and a true wolf?” Snape asked, resuming his pacing. Several hands went up. Morag, Anthony, Padma. Ravenclaws, the usual volunteers. Ron’s fingers tightened on his quill. Harry was dangerously still next to him, like a snake coiled to strike. 

“Are you alright?” Ron whispered, feeling stupid. Harry was obviously not alright.

Harry shook his head, watching Snape intently as Morag ran through some facts about wolves and werewolves. Snape’s expression grew darker and darker. 

“Enough,” Snape barked. “For the remainder of class you will be taking notes out of the book…”

“You’re not going to lecture?” Padma asked incredulously. 

“Another five points from Ravenclaw for questioning my teaching methods,” Snape said. “Begin.”

As they silently read their books, Snape walked between the desks, flipping through marked essays Ron suspected Lupin had requested Snape return, and adding his own critiques. 

“We’ve already read the book,” Michael grumbled.

“Just do it or he’ll take more points,” Terry whispered back. 

Ron checked on Harry again, and saw he was pointedly not taking notes.

“Professor Lupin would have brought in a real werewolf,” Harry said, loud enough for Snape to hear as he walked by.

Snape paused and looked down at Harry, a strange, sickly smile on his thin lips.

“Would he?” Snape asked, leaning close to Harry. 

“And it would be perfectly safe,” Harry said, looking directly at Snape. “Since werewolves are people with a disease.”

Snape’s face twisted, and he straightened to address the class. “For your homework, you will write an essay on how to recognize and kill werewolves, due Monday morning.”

Harry’s chair squealed back. Ron watched, stunned, as Harry jumped to his feet

“Sit down, Potter,” Snape said. “Or—”

“You’re evil,” Harry said angrily. “You’re vile. What if my mum was a werewolf?”

For a moment, Snape looked stricken. But his expression quickly returned to one of loathing and he advanced on Harry. Harry watched him defiantly. “You—”

“What if one of us was a werewolf?” Harry went on. “You want us to learn how to kill little kids with lycanthropy? You sick bastard, you—”

“Fifty points from Ravenclaw!” Snape roared, spit flying from his mouth. “And a week of detention!”

“Fuck you!” Harry shouted back. “You’re a bloody coward, and you’ll always be one!”

The silence rang in Ron’s ears. He knew Harry was upset, but hadn’t realized just how far he had been pushed. Snape had been the last straw, and Harry had completely snapped under the strain. It was unthinkable to speak to a teacher in such a manner, even someone as cruel as Snape. 

Then Harry started coughing, and Ron’s concerns completely changed. He leapt out of his seat and caught Harry’s shoulders. 

“I’m taking him to the hospital wing,” Ron said firmly.

Snape finally broke out of his sinister rictus; apparently he had no idea how to react when a student was so blatantly, aggressively disrespectful. 

“Potter will wait here until the headmaster arrives,” Snape said, his voice shaking with rage. 

“I’m not going to let him suffocate so you can get your jollies off on punishing him,” Ron said heatedly, hastily grabbing all of his and Harry’s things and pushing Harry towards the door. “And you can shove that essay up your flat arse.”

If Snape took any more points off, Ron didn’t hear. The door slammed shut, and Ron’s only regret was leaving the others to deal with Snape’s rage. 

“Professor Snape wants you both banned from quidditch,” Professor Flitwick said happily as he confronted Ron and Harry in the hospital wing. 

Harry was sitting up in bed, holding another steaming bowl in his lap, his face eerily blank. He had run out of words after yelling at Snape, and had returned to his pensive silence. 

“He wanted us to write an essay on killing werewolves,” Ron told Professor Flitwick. “It’s…unethical.”

Flitwick cocked his head. “Why do you say that?”

Ron took a frustrated breath. “Because werewolves are people. People who have been infected with lycanthropy. They’ve got a disease. They aren’t monsters, or evil, or whatever Snape says. I’m not going to write an essay about killing people, nor is Harry.”

Flitwick frowned thoughtfully, then looked at Harry. “Do you agree, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nodded. 

Flitwick’s frown deepened, and he addressed Ron again. “Do you know any werewolves, Mr. Weasley?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Ron said testily. “They’ve got it bad enough as it is.”

Flitwick’s expression cleared, and he gave Ron a faint smile. “Very well. I’ll speak with the headmaster and decide what a suitable punishment would look like for your behavior towards Professor Snape. I don’t see what quidditch has to do with it.” His smile grew, and became slightly scary. “Perhaps Professor Snape will change his mind if I remind him of the numerous disparaging remarks certain members of the Slytherin quidditch team have made about myself, and Professor Lupin.”

Ron watched Flitwick practically skip out of the hospital wing, then sat down next to Harry’s bed. Harry motioned towards the curtains, and Ron obligingly closed them and cast a silencing charm.

“Why did you do that?” Ron asked him. “I mean, I know why, I think, but…”

Harry cleared his throat, and Ron immediately stopped talking. 

“Lupin’s a werewolf,” Harry said quietly. He coughed a few times. “People like Snape are why people like that lady we met have such awful jobs, or no jobs at all. Lupin’s been lucky.”

“How do you reckon?” Ron asked.

Harry coughed again, then said, “Sirius. He’s got…he can afford Wolfsbane. Can pay people off, that sort of thing.” Harry closed his eyes. “Wolfsbane’s bloody expensive, and difficult to brew. If you haven’t got a job you can’t afford it, and good luck getting a job without it.” He laughed weakly. “That’s why that lady was in a cage.”

Harry leaned over his bowl, covered his face, and started to cry. Ron bit his lip and looked down at his hands, helpless in the face of Harry’s confliction. Harry was angry at Lupin for not being part of his life, even when he had come to teach at Hogwarts, but was also angry for Lupin, angry at how the world treated werewolves.

What were you supposed to do when you didn’t like someone, but also pitied them?

Ron wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulders. He felt like crying too.

In the end, Harry got a month of detention in the hospital wing and Ron got a week with Filch. Ravenclaw lost a hundred points, and their housemates were not happy with them.

“It’s always fucking something,” Harry muttered as he vigorously scrubbed another bedpan. Ron had spent most of the evening after dinner polishing in the trophy room while Filch made various threats. A storm had been growing all day and was presently rattling all the windows in the hospital wing. The wind howled fiercely as rain battered the castle. It made Ron’s skin crawl.

Harry tossed the bedpan onto a surprisingly large pile, sat back on his heels, and rolled his shoulders. “It's a full moon tonight.”

Ron shuddered. “Do you think Lupin’s out there?”

Harry scoffed. “No, he’s probably curled up in his office.” His expression soured. “Or maybe with Sirius.”

“You reckon?” Ron asked.

Harry dropped his head and sighed. “I’m hungry.”

“Harry…”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry said, glancing at him. “They must be close. It sounded like it, back in Hogsmeade.” He picked up another bedpan and got back to work.

“Yeah,” Ron said. “Who was that auror?”

Harry stopped scrubbing. “It’s funny. I could have sworn he was also dead.”

“Who?”

Harry looked at him, his green eyes muddled with confusion. “That was Sirius’ younger brother. Regulus.” He shook his head. “Can’t believe he’s an auror.”

“Why not?” Ron asked. 

Harry met his eyes again. “Because he was a Death Eater.” He grimaced, then picked up another bedpan and chucked it at Ron. 

“Oi!” Ron exclaimed. “What was that for?”

“Help me finish these,” Harry said, tossing him a rag too. “Otherwise I can’t go to the game tomorrow.”

Ron needed no further prompting. It was the first quidditch game of the season. Samantha would never let them hear the end of it if they missed it. 

Breakfast was an awkward affair. A hundred points was a devastating loss, but Ron had assumed most Ravenclaws were jaded after the scandal in first year. It was clear, to him at least, that house points didn’t really matter, and it seemed mostly the students under fifth year, those not preoccupied with N.E.W.T.s or O.W.L.s, were the ones upset. 

“The Inter-House Championship is a tool to control us,” Harry said over a bowl of porridge, proving once and for all that he would never be a prefect. “I refuse to legitimize the system by participating in it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Anthony grumbled from behind a stack of toast. 

“I am,” Harry said. 

“You’re thirteen,” Roger said from among the fifth-years. “What thirteen-year-old talks like that?”

“Me,” Harry said, smirking at him. 

“Still running your mouth, Potter?” Samantha called out. Of all the Ravenclaws, Ron thought she had the best reason to complain. Snape knew the worst punishment would be kicking Harry off the quidditch team. Harry loved flying. He was the best seeker, full stop, and losing him would mean Ravenclaw losing their shot at the Quidditch Cup.

“No, captain,” Harry said, dropping his smirk. He stirred his porridge in a desultory manner. “Already banned from Hogsmeade. May as well ban me from quidditch too. What’s the bloody point…”

“You’re not going to get kicked off the team,” Ron promised. “Flitwick would be mad to go along with it. And he’s right, you know. Malfoy’s been bad mouthing Lupin all year.”

Harry made a noncommittal noise, then went back to eating his porridge. 

“Glad it’s not us flying in this weather,” Ron remarked as lightning flashed across the ceiling. The rumble of thunder was muffled by the castle walls, but in Ravenclaw Tower the storm had been loud enough to wake people up. Spirits were nevertheless high—it was a quidditch game, and rain or shine they would play—and the Slytherins seemed particularly amused by the weather. Ron could hear Cedric Diggory at the Hufflepuff table, effortlessly rallying his team with his insufferable good nature, while Oliver Wood at Gryffindor had the demeanor of a man walking to the gallows. Diggory was a better seeker than Alicia Spinnet, and while Angelia and Katie were excellent chasers, Neville was the odd man out. 

“Why does he play if he doesn’t want to?” Ron asked as he and Harry walked to the pitch. Luna was huddled between them with her wand raised, a massive yellow umbrella shielding them from the driving rain. He and Harry had to keep a hold of Luna’s robes so she wouldn’t be carried off by the wind. 

“Because he sees it as a duty,” Harry said. His hand shot out, and something small and wet slapped into his palm.

There was a deafening crack, and lightning streaked overhead. A thunderous boom set Ron’s teeth rattling in his head.

“What’s that?” Ron shouted.

“I think it’s Longbottom’s toad,” Harry shouted back, passing the flailing creature to Luna.

Luna gave the panicked amphibian a penetrating look, moving him closer to her face for inspection. 

“His name’s Trevor,” Harry said quickly, meeting Ron’s eyes. He also remembered Luna’s frog sandwiches

They held their breaths, and Ron feared Luna would eat the poor thing, but Luna overcame her instincts and placed the toad securely into a pocket. 

“Trevor,” Ron emphasized.

“A handsome name for a handsome toad,” Luna said with a guileless smile, patting her squirming pocket.

“Yeah,” Ron said, relieved. “Uh, you know frog legs are a delicacy in some parts of the world?”

“Why would you say that?” Harry muttered, his words almost lost in the storm. “Come on, the match is about to start.”

They made it to the stands, though it had been touch and go while climbing the stairs. They cast drying charms on the benches and on themselves, made sure Luna would stay put, and settled down to watch what they could. The sky was dark and ominous, raining down on them like bullets. Harry pulled his seeker googles out of his pocket and affixed them over his glasses. Ron smiled to himself, knowing that Harry would find the snitch before either of the seekers playing.

The Gryffindors were muted in their soaked scarlet robes, and the Hufflepuffs looked like drenched dandelions. A gale whipped around them, snatching up words and Madam Hooch’s shrill whistle. Lee Jordan’s voice was a garbled mess. People were shouting, but Ron had no idea what for. They couldn’t see anything. 

“Couldn’t they have put a dome over the stadium?” Harry shouted over Luna’s head. “Or delayed the game? This is mad!”

Ron squinted, trying to follow something. The quaffle, a bludger, anything. Though it was morning, the sky was growing darker. The players were buffeted around on their brooms. Lightning streaked across the sky, a clap of thunder rocked the stadium. A group of players flew past them, low on their brooms, clutching the slick handles. Angelina passed the quaffle to Neville, and Neville’s broom dropped several feet as he lurched to grab it. The quaffle slipped out of his hands and fell towards the muddy pitch. Insanely, Neville dove after it. 

Ron jumped up to watch, Harry following suit. The shouting rose in pitch, and Ron jerked his head as Cedric Diggory streaked by, followed closely by a desperate Alicia Spinnet. 

Then the stadium went completely silent. 

Another bolt of lightning dazzled Ron’s vision, illuminated the pitch. 

“No,” Harry whispered, his voice strangely loud. Next to him, Luna began shivering. 

Ron saw the moment that Neville recaptured the quaffle. And he saw what was waiting for Neville on the pitch.

Dementors.

A hundred dementors, their hooded faces tipped up, their grey hands reaching. Cold suffused him, sank into his bones, the inevitability of drowning in those frigid waters, as everything good fled the world.

A whistle blew. A victorious cry went up.

The quaffle escaped from Neville’s limp fingers. The Boy Who Lived slid off of his broom and began to fall.

Diggory caught the snitch.

“Expecto patronum!”

Ron gasped, warmth wrapping around him, all the goodness and brilliance that was Harry Potter standing in resplendent defiance. His patronus ran down the dementors, burning silver and blue, chasing away the misery that had draped over the stadium like a funeral shroud. The rangy dog snarled silently, spreading its implacable light throughout the pitch, the dementors fleeing from its providence. Harry blazed with determination as he directed his patronus, and it obediently lunged. Ron could feel the magic rolling off of Harry, could practically see it in the movement of his robes, the fluttering of his hair, the brightness of his eyes. Harry was so, so beautifully alive, and Ron was completely, hopelessly captivated.

Neville was still falling.

Ron snapped out of it and scrambled for his wand, but Harry was not the only one casting spells. Someone was running onto the pitch. The headmaster. His wand was raised. Neville began to slow, his body levelling, as if some giant, invisible hand was lowering him to the ground. A patronus burst from the headmaster’s wand, a phoenix of blinding silver flames, and finished driving the dementors away.

Harry dropped his arm and sagged, breathing heavily. 

“Fuck,” he rasped. 

“Ron?” Luna asked worriedly.  

“It’s alright,” Ron said, switching places with Luna. 

People were watching, torn between the drama on the pitch with Neville and shock at Harry casting a spell most aurors couldn’t cast. Ron put an arm around Harry and immediately felt how cold he was. Harry was shaking and ashen. 

“We need to get out of here,” Ron said, looking around for an exit. 

He guided Harry out of the stands as fast as he could, forcing his way through the crowd, Luna close behind. It was absolutely insane that dementors had shown up at a quidditch match, that Harry had been the first one to react rather than all of their teachers.

It wasn’t lost upon Ron that, as the headmaster conjured a stretcher and floated Neville off of the pitch, he was watching Harry. 

Ginny was the first to tell them the news. 

Not everyone had seen Harry cast a patronus, mostly only those in Ravenclaw. Everyone else had been either watching Diggory and Spinnet race for the snitch, Neville falling, or Dumbledore storming the pitch to rescue him. The big news around school was the dementors, Neville falling, and the destruction of his Nimbus 2000. And, of course, that Hufflepuff had won by one hundred points. 

“There’s no chance,” Ron said over a platter of sandwiches. Luna was playing with Trevor the Toad, whipping his arms through the air. They all knew Trevor should be returned to his rightful owner, and would perhaps cheer Neville up in the process, but Luna had grown attached to the spirited creature. Crookshanks kept looking up from his plate of raw chicken, moving his head back and forth as he watched Trevor with his calculating yellow eyes. 

The door to the kitchens flew open, and a mighty quack announced the arrival of Ginny. 

“Neville’s off the team,” she declared, looking painfully conflicted. Ron couldn’t tell if she was happy or miserable. “He’s just got a Howler from his gran. So has Dumbledore. I think she sent one to the aurors too.”

Ginny marched in and plopped herself next to Luna, swinging Custard around before she took a bite out of a sandwich. “Bad duck, no bread!”

“So he’s off the team for good?” Harry asked, not looking up from his plate. 

“He hasn’t got a broom,” Ginny said airly. 

“You don’t need a broom to fly,” Luna said, waving Trevor through the air as he croaked in panic.

“I don’t think he really wanted to be on the team,” Ginny said. She hesitated, then added, “I’m going to try out for seeker. Alicia’s going back to chaser.”

“That’s brilliant,” Ron said, smiling at his little sister. 

“You can borrow my Nimbus if you want,” Harry offered. An odd feeling began growing in Ron’s chest, making him very uncomfortable. He took a sip of pumpkin juice. It was rather warm in the kitchens.

For some reason, Harry’s offer made Ginny grumpy. 

“Thanks,” she said, “but that’s not something I can rely on. We’re going to play against each other, and what would I do then?”

“Did you bring your Comet?” Ron asked her. 

“Yeah, obviously,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes. Custard hissed at him. “It’s not as good as a Nimbus 2000, or a 2001…”

Harry’s mouth opened, but Ron put a hand on his arm. He knew Harry would happily buy his entire family brand new brooms. It was true that Ginny’s old Comet 220 wasn’t nearly as fast as a Nimbus, but it wasn’t a bad broom. Being a seeker wasn’t all about speed, even if it helped. 

“How’s Longbottom doing?” Ron asked, trying to change subjects. 

Ginny wilted, and he felt guilty for bringing it up.

“He landed funny on his elbow and broke it,” Ginny said, stroking Custard’s downy feathers. Custard was eyeballing the sandwiches again. A house-elf appeared with a bowl filled with water and floating peas. “Professor Lupin’s supposed to be teaching him that spell you did,” Ginny said, glancing at Harry. “The patro-whatsit.”

“The Patronus Charm,” Harry said. He frowned at his sandwich. Ron didn’t care for corned beef, but Harry liked it. He was keeping track of all of Harry’s favorite foods, since he knew his friend was too polite and too self-conscious to make requests of Ron’s mum.

“Is it hard?” Ginny asked. “Could you teach me?”

Harry’s face went curiously still, and Ginny narrowed her eyes. Ron felt his ears turning red.

“Have you been teaching Ron?” Ginny asked bluntly. 

Ron cleared his throat, and Ginny gave him a knowing look. 

“It’s soul magic, Gin,” Ron told her. Her eyebrows shot up. 

“A conjuration,” Harry added quietly. “It’s…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not normal that I’m able to cast it.”

“Daddy says it’s love,” Luna said, holding a beetle out for Trevor. His tongue snapped out to claim his meal.

“Happiness,” Harry said, smiling faintly. “The capacity for true happiness.”

Ginny frowned in confusion. “That sounds easy.”

Harry snorted, and picked up his sandwich again. Ron gave Ginny a cool look. 

“It’s not,” he said firmly. “Most people can’t even conjure an incorporeal patronus. Scratch that, most can’t even cast a shieldcharm.” He paused, then added, “Bet Longbottom can’t do it.”

“Yes, he can!” Ginny exclaimed, jumping up. 

“No,” Harry said, his eyes going distant. “He can’t.” He shook his head, then looked at Ginny again. “Like Ron said, most people can’t. It’s not an insult to them, it’s just…most people don’t know themselves well enough. They don’t…” Harry furrowed his brow. “They don’t get it. It’s hard to explain.” Harry hesitated, then said, “I think your dad can, and most of the professors. Some aurors, you know, anyone who regularly goes to Azkaban.” He smiled sadly. “My parents could.”

Ginny, who had looked eager to jump to Neville’s defense again, deflated. “I could still try to learn,” she mumbled.

Ron glanced at Harry. He didn’t object to Ginny, or anyone, learning the Patronus Charm, but a patronus was a very personal thing. He remembered reading somewhere that some people intentionally cast incorporeal patronuses to hide the true form of theirs. Every time Harry cast his patronus, he bared his soul. That was one reason—the main reason, if he was honest—why Ron had been unhappy to see Harry use his so flippantly to intimidate Malfoy. Malfoy wasn’t worth it. 

“Why don’t you go with Longbottom and his mates when he’s learning from Lupin?” Ron suggested. “Isn’t he already giving them extra Defense lessons?”

“I don’t know,” Ginny said, patting Custard as she messily devoured her peas.

“Or maybe your dad could teach you,” Harry said. “I wish…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

Ron realized with a start he had never asked his dad to teach him any magic. What Harry meant was that he wished his dad could teach him…anything. Ron took a gulp of pumpkin juice, feeling confused and overwhelmed. If he was feeling so disjointed, he could only imagine what Harry was going through. Remus Lupin personally tutoring the Boy Who Lived. Sirius Black drunk in Hogsmeade. Peter Pettigrew who knew where. Dementors all over the place. His mum in St. Mungo’s. It was too much to deal with. 

“We’re busy with quidditch, too,” Ron said. “We’ve got our game against Hufflepuff in a few weeks.”

“I know,” Ginny said dolefully, unsticking a pea from Custard’s bill. “You’re going to slaughter them.”

Their next Defense class was not nearly as bad as the one with Snape. Ron already knew Lupin was back; Lupin had been at breakfast, somewhat wan and lethargic, but no worse for the wear. Ron hoped that werewolf lady fared as well during the full moon, but Ron knew she likely hadn’t, nor the many other werewolves who couldn’t afford Wolfsbane. Somehow it was their fault they had lycanthropy despite being infected by someone else, their fault they didn’t take Wolfsbane despite not being allowed to have most jobs, and their fault when they lost complete control due to a disease they had no choice in contracting and no opportunity to treat. 

Harry had grown more silent as the time for Defense class neared. He still had detention for getting into a fight with Snape.

It had been for Lupin.

While Harry didn’t know the man well, and hadn’t even met him until they happened to share a compartment on the train, Harry still cared about Lupin. He cared about Lupin, and knew that Lupin didn’t care about him. Not enough to visit Harry’s mum, or to even let Harry know that he existed. 

That was the scary thing about caring about people. It gave them the power to hurt you.

It was a fairly normal and uneventful class. Lupin assured them they weren’t required to write Snape’s werewolf essay, smiled as he listened to complaints, then introduced them to a hinkypunk trapped in a glass box. There weren't any marshes near Ottery St. Catchpole, and Ron had never seen a hinkypunk in real life, but he already knew about them. So did Harry. And while it was interesting to see a one-legged creature made almost entirely of wisps and somehow holding a lantern, Ron could tell Harry was angry that the hinkypunk was trapped in a small box. The hinkypunk kept squelching unhappily, and Harry grew more and more tense. 

When the bell finally rang, Ron was one of the first out of his seat. 

“Harry, would you tarry a moment?” Lupin called out, tossing a cloth carelessly over the glass box.

Harry, who was more eager than Ron to get out of the room and halfway to the door, stopped in his tracks. Ron stopped with him, ignoring the curious looks their classmates gave them as they passed. 

Lupin leaned on his desk, smiling amiably at them. He waited until everyone else was gone to speak. 

“I heard about your patronus during the match,” Lupin said. “That’s very impressive for a third-year.”

“Harry’s impressive in general,” Ron muttered. “Not that you would know.”

“I was hoping to speak with Harry alone,” Lupin said, giving Ron a significant look. 

“Ron can stay,” Harry said firmly. “He’s my best friend. He saved my life.”

Lupin’s eyes widened, and he smiled. “Did he?”

“After my uncle beat me,” Harry said calmly, “Ron and his brother took me to live at the Burrow.”

Lupin’s smile froze. “I’m… I’m sorry, I—”

“Tell that to my mum,” Harry said acidly. “If you ever bother to visit her.”

Lupin stood up. “Harry—”

“I know who you are, Remus Lupin,” Harry said darkly. “And I know Sirius is here too.”

Lupin paled. 

“Don’t speak to me as if you know me,” Harry said, taking Ron’s hand and pulling him towards the door. Ron stumbled along, speechless. “I have people who actually care about me now.” Harry paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be tutoring Neville? He’s the Boy Who Lived, not me. I’m just a half-breed freak.”

The door burst open, and Harry stormed out. It slammed shut behind them, cutting off whatever Lupin was going to say. Harry kept walking, keeping an iron grip on Ron’s hand. He suddenly veered away and dragged Ron into a hidden staircase. 

Harry was breathing rapidly. He leaned against a wall, and began to sink down. Ron crouched next to him and pulled Harry into a hug. 

“I hate this,” Harry mumbled, tangling his hands in Ron’s robes. “I hate it. Why don’t they care about me? Why don’t they ever care about me?”

Ron held him tightly, not quite understanding but feeling punctured by Harry’s words. “I care about you. I’m sorry it’s not enough.”

Harry shook his head, but said nothing more. They stayed there for a while, in that cramped, quiet place, until Harry was able to breathe again. 

There was a persistent drizzle the day of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff match. Ron wasn’t concerned about dementors showing up again; Dumbledore was furious they had entered the school grounds, and Harry was more than capable of holding off a hundred dementors. 

A hundred dementors at thirteen. Small wonder Lupin was impressed. But no matter how impressed he was, nothing could undo the time Harry had spent with the Dursleys. Passing compliments and praising his schoolwork couldn’t repair the damage done. 

Ron strode onto the pitch with his team, indifferent to the leaden sky. The weather was nowhere near as bad as it had been during the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff game. Harry had his charmed goggles which would let him see in any condition. Eddie Carmichael and Penelope Clearwater were the most cunning beaters in the school. Samantha guarded the hoops like a bear protecting her den. Ron, Cho Chang, and Roger Davies drilled relentlessly, tearing apart the strategies and formations of the other teams. And Harry was a prodigy, the greatest seeker in Hogwarts history, who flew so masterfully, so gracefully, the difference between him and his broom was merely a suggestion. 

All told, Ron was fairly confident they would win. 

Samanta wasn’t a large girl, but she was almost eighteen and had a trick of looking down on people who were taller than her. Cedric Diggory looked happy to be there, but his smile wavered at Samantha’s expression. He was boorish and ungainly compared to Harry, who sat on his broom as if he had been born on it. 

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and Harry disappeared. It threw the Hufflepuff team into disarray; Diggory, clearly thinking Harry had spotted the snitch, shot off. Cho darted forward and seized the quaffle, passing it seamlessly to Roger while Penelope slammed a bludger towards the Hufflepuff keeper’s head. Roger passed to Ron, and Ron hurled the quaffle towards the same spot as the bludger. 

“Ten-nought, Ravenclaw!” Lee announced.

Ron tuned out the rest of the commentary, focused on evading bludgers and other players, racking up points, and keeping an eye out for Harry. Things were going pretty well, until about an hour into the game. 

Harry, who was leading Diggory on another merry chase, abruptly stopped. Ron stopped as well, worried that a dementor had managed to get onto the grounds after all. He was nearly concussed by a bludger for his distraction. Samantha and Penelope both yelled at him, but Ron narrowed his eyes and looked at the same spot Harry was. 

In the topmost seats of the Gryffindor stands, sitting next to Hagrid, was a large black dog. 

Ron knew immediately it wasn’t Fang. The fur was darker and shaggier, and the dog looked like a different breed entirely. He looked similar to a grim, but it was broad daylight and they weren’t anywhere near a graveyard. 

“Harry!” Ron shouted. “The snitch!”

Ron hadn’t seen anything, but the words were enough to get Harry moving again. Ron blocked one of the Hufflepuff chasers, Zacharias Smith, from scoring, stole the quaffle, and raced to the other end of the pitch. A few minutes later, there was an uproar. Harry had seen the snitch. Ron paused again to watch his best friend pull off a flawless Wronski Feint—completely unnecessary, but it was funny to see Diggory crash into the mud—then rise like a phoenix to capture the snitch. 

It was only a quidditch game, and Ron knew when they landed they would have to deal with the rest of the world, but it was one of the few victories they had that year and Harry was smiling. He would take it.