You Can't Run Away to the Circus If You're Already in It
The nine-year-old's insides were screaming, itching to rip off the maroon lump imprisoning his skin. Every year, several times a year--oh, why did there have to be so many holidays?--it was just a cycle of the same torture. A conglomeration of circus clowns crowded on some relative's lawn, each red head kissing another and pinching the cheek of anyone under the age of twenty.
And once again, Ron found himself becoming a single, unimportant part of one giant red machine. At home he was one of many. But here--here, he was lucky if anyone would remember that he was left by the buffet table. He squeezed his arms around himself, trying to make himself smaller in hope that he may not be trampled upon by the frantic stampede of merrymakers. He wanted to go home. He'd even be nice to Ginny, really, if he could just go home now.
But he couldn't. So Ron would grin his little ears off for the family photos, counting each click of the shutter as he waited for the world to quiet.