Summary: It’s obvious, isn’t it? They don’t really need him.
Word Count: 100x5
Category/Warnings: language, sensuality, angst
A/N: Written for harryron100. I apologize in advance for the melodrama, but in this case it seemed to fit.
She never asks him for input, and neither does Harry. Clearly Ron is not the brains of this operation, nor is he the brawn. For every time he’s gotten them out of a tight spot, the other two have done it a hundred times. He knows it and so do they, which is why they don’t ask anymore, even if they haven’t said as much. But it’s obvious, isn’t it? They don’t really need him.
He watches them pore over one of her textbooks, shoulders pressed together as they work, wishing they would look up and remember him.
Sometimes he picks fights with them to see how they’ll respond.
Hermione releases a weary sigh and says, “Oh, Ron,” but Harry’s different. Harry glares at him over the top of his glasses and frowns so deeply that his forehead wrinkles. He doesn’t say anything, but Ron wishes that he would. He doesn’t even know how Harry could make it better, only that he’d like to see him try.
But he doesn’t. Ron sees them exchange another exasperated look and feels like he’s just buried himself under another foot of sand.
They probably wish he’d just leave them alone already.
Sometimes he returns to the tent to find them sitting on Harry’s bunk, carrying on a hushed conversation that ends abruptly upon his arrival. Hermione brushes off his concerns impatiently.
“The Horcruxes,” she says, as if it’s none of his concern.
He swallows down the anger, but it never really goes away. Sometimes it aches, gnawing at him throughout the day. Sometimes it builds into a rage so powerful that he has to sit really still and close his eyes or else it’ll take over completely and rip through his heart and maybe tear him open from the inside out.
At night, he listens to the sound of Harry breathing and imagines that same warm breath against his throat, reassuring him with an open-mouthed kiss as he fumbles for the waistband of Ron’s trousers.
But then Ron remembers that Harry can hardly stand to look at him, let alone touch him, that he probably prefers someone else’s fingers, and the warmth in his belly keeps churning until it becomes something else entirely, something hot and cold all at once, seizing his stomach and prickling against his spine, until he has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming out loud.
He’s not even wearing it anymore, but he can still feel its power coursing through the blood pounding in his temples, reminding him that if it hadn’t been for Hermione’s Shield Charm, Harry would have blown him to bits by now.
Can’t explain that away. He’s grown so tired of you, he can’t even pretend anymore.
Ron searches Harry’s eyes for a flash of panic, for any sign that he will be sorry if Ron leaves, but there is only cold, unflinching anger.
Before he has a chance to lose his nerve, Ron pushes through the tent flaps and Disapparates.