Replacement

by She's a Star

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of one Ms. J.K. Rowling.

Author's Note: I wrote this as a 15minuteficlets drabble awhile ago, and decided to post it because, well, I've kinda been neglecting the whole posting thing as of late. :) And besides, every now and then some R/H is essential. This is set sometime after Christmas during OotP.

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He's nothing more than a replacement, he decides glumly as he steps through the portrait-hole. Technically, he supposes that isn't quite right - big surprise, he thinks sarcastically, because he's not exactly known for being right anyway, now is he? - since Wood's off and graduated and everything. If you want to be technical, then he's it. He's the Keeper. Officially. But the actual Keeper, he figures, can't play like complete rubbish. You've got to be good to really have the position, after all.

So he's just the replacement, the talentless oaf in between Oliver bloody Wood and whoever they can find next year with a bit of talent. Maybe Ginny - she's always been far too good at Quidditch, considering she's a girl and his little sister. And wouldn't that just be fitting: little Miss Ginevra snagging his Quidditch position? God knows Fred and George would never let him hear the end of it.

The common room's nearly empty; just a few first years giggling like idiots and Hermione, who looks like she's about to lecture them. Her mouth's in a very thin line. Right freaky, how much she can look like McGonagall sometimes.

Hermione tells the first years off - "this is a common room, and people are trying to study. If you've got to giggle, then go up to your dormitory." - and then looks over and sees him. He hopes that she isn't in one of those moods she's been in lately, where she doesn't seem to want to do anything besides bite his head off about everything. He reckons he might just throw himself out a window if she goes off on one of those rants. She hasn't got to remind him how useless he is, really. At the moment he's pretty damn well aware of it.

"Ron," she says, getting up like she's going to walk over to him. "How was Quidditch?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure you care," he shoots back, figuring that if she's going to turn into an evil harpy at him he might as well have a bit of a head start.

Her face immediately goes all stony. "Fine. If that's how you're going to act about it."

"Damn right it's how I'm going to act," he mutters darkly, then throws himself onto the couch. His robes've got dirt all over them, courtesy of the really spectacular move he'd attempted earlier that had caused him to fall twelve feet to the ground off his broom. He wonders briefly why he always thought Quidditch was so great, anyway. Stupid game, really. And pointless.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what's wrong, then,"

Hermione says after a moment, in that know-it-all way that she has.

"Nope, don't think so," he replies shortly.

She makes a disapproving little noise - a sort of tutting sound - and goes back to whatever she's writing. He supposes it's another epic letter to stupid Krum. Of course.

And there he is again, a replacement for something else entirely. She still fancies Krum - pretty damn obvious, with the way she writes him blasted epic letters every other ruddy day - but because Krum's not around, she figures she'll just focus her attention on him instead. Probably why she kissed him before the first Quidditch match, he figures. Just because he's the one that's there right now. If things were different, he guesses that she wouldn't even pay the least bit of attention to him. Except to tut at him, maybe.

He sees her move out of the corner of his eye and looks up, only to see that she's walking over toward him. She nudges him lightly, and he moves over, bewildered. It looks like she's trying not to smile as she sits down next to him - quite close to him, really. Their shoulders are brushing and everything. The thing that's funny is that she doesn't even move over or anything; if he didn't know better, he'd almost think that she wants to be this close to him.

"What're you doing?" he asks after a moment. His ears feel warm, and he figures they've gone scarlet by now.

"Really, Ron," she responds, and she sounds sort of impatient, but in a nice way. Her eyes are kind of sparkling as she looks at him. "I'm sitting down. What do you think I'm doing?"

"You were sitting down over there, too," he points out dumbly.

She shrugs; she's got very slim shoulders, he notices. "I thought I might like it over here better."

And then she just settles down like this isn't odd in the slightest, and reaches down to take a textbook out of her bag on the floor. But it is odd - it's bizarre, that's what it is, because she's never done anything like this before. Still, she just sits there and pours over her Arithmancy book like it's no big deal at all.

He leans a little closer to her, experimenting - she'll pull away right quick, no doubt - but she just stays there. Turns a page. And then something catches his attention. He inhales, trying to be subtle about it. Yep, there's no mistaking it - she's wearing the perfume. The stuff that he got her for Christmas.

And he suddenly feels like beaming, just grinning like an idiot. He remembers being hit with a Cheering Charm back in third year; it's a lot like that now, only he guesses it's a different kind of spell.

Hermione pushes a lock of hair back behind her ear and looks over at him. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she demands, but in a gentle sort of way.

Be cool, Weasley. Be cool.

"Like what?" His voice cracks right in the middle of 'what,' causing the group of first years to all glance over at him curiously.

Okay. Maybe cool's not quite his area of expertise.

She looks at him for a moment as though she's trying to figure out what to say. He recognizes the expression; sometimes in class, when the teacher's asking about something difficult that he has no bloody clue about, she gets that look while she tries to figure out how to go about answering it.

And then she seems to give up on it. "Never mind," she says briskly, and goes back to her book.

"'kay," he says uneasily.

He leans back against the couch and tries to forget about it. 'Cause it's a bit unnerving, really. Sometimes, when she acts like this, he thinks that maybe he's not a replacement at all. Maybe it's something completely different.

And then her foot absently brushes against his leg, and he's pretty much forced to abandon thinking altogether.