Contrary to Harry's gloomy thoughts, Ron Weasley felt nothing but sick and ashamed upon his return to Hogwarts. He tried to cover it up with as much blustering and bravado as he could manage, but as soon as he was left alone in the dormitory by Seamus and Dean, who had to return to class, he slumped on his bed and let the facade drop.

He hadn't seen Harry in the Entrance Hall. Wasn't sure he'd wanted to, to be honest. How do you look a boy in the eyes after you've punched him? After you've participated in a gang assault that left said boy unconscious and bleeding in a dark corridor? How do you look a person in the face after you've nearly killed them? He didn't have the courage, and it made him feel sick. Some Gryffindor he was. All that so-called bravery had deserted him.

Ron didn't understand why Seamus and Dean were so glad to see him. Clapping him on the back, blurting out all that had happened during his suspension. Like nothing had happened. Like he'd merely been off sick, or perhaps on vacation. Even older Gryffindors seemed content to nod or smile at him, acknowledging him in their own lofty sort of way. He wanted to scream at them. To tell them to stop it, that they should hate him. Revile him. He was a monster, wasn't he?

His mum had certainly seemed to think so, especially at first. He'd never seen her so angry. She couldn't even speak to him for two days, his father had to pass on her wishes instead.

His mum had never touted Gryffindor's superiority. Never asserted that Slytherins were bad or evil, the 'slimy snakes' that started the war. No, that honour fell solely to his father, who filled his ears with tales when they were alone. Which wasn't often, considering his work at the Ministry and the fact that Ron was the second-youngest of seven children. There simply wasn't enough time in the day. So when Arthur took Ron along to mow the grass with a mostly-broken lawn mower he had "fixed up" with a few spells, or popped him up on the counter while Arthur fiddled with a Muggle this or that, he would tell the solemn red-headed child all about Hogwarts. And the Houses. And why Gryffindor was the best House (although of course, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff weren't too shabby), and why he should never, ever end up in Slytherin.

"But why, Daddy?" Ron had piped up the first time he heard this, confused. Hogwarts was brilliant, wasn't it?

"Because Slytherin's where You Know Who came out of," Arthur had dictated, trying to fit a plug into a child's counting toy. "Bad witches and wizards are in Slytherin, Ronald. Without fail. If someone's in Slytherin, you know they're going to turn out rotten. Remember that, Ronnie. It's important."

And so Ron did remember it, remembered every word his father spoke, and when he came to Hogwarts and sat on the train with Harry Potter of all people, he was bedazzled and delighted beyond words, even if the Boy Who Lived seemed a bit...different than what he'd expected. A lot quieter, for one thing. Like he was shy. But why would the wizarding world's saviour be shy? Still, it's not like it mattered. He was Harry bloody Potter and Ron was friends with him!

And then the Sorting happened, and thus came the most massive sense of betrayal Ron had ever felt. Slytherin? How could Harry be in Slytherin? The Sorting Hat must have made a mistake! Only...the Sorting Hat didn't make mistakes. And faced between losing his first school friend and rejecting the only teaching his father had really seen fit to pass on, well, the choice was an easy one, wasn't it?

Only it wasn't so easy. Oh, it felt easy enough when Potter made a fool out of him at breakfast, and everyone laughed at him. It even felt easy when he overheard some older boys talking about how they'd like to "get" Harry and how he'd slyly slipped up to them, feeling clever, feeling like he was going to get the best of a slimy no-good snake. A Slytherin who had probably only defeated You Know Who because he didn't want the competition!

And then it had actually happened and he'd felt the impact of his fist sinking into Harry's side, and seen the blood slicking the boy's teeth and the way his eyes wobbled around, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't take it. His stomach heaved, he nearly vomited noisily all over his shoes, and he ran. Like a coward. A bloody coward who ended up dashing straight back to his room and hiding in the bed-curtains until the sour taste vanished from his mouth and he stopped trembling. And then the recriminations set in. How could he do that? How could he leave a classmate there like that? Monster.

His mother had called him a monster. She'd paled after she said it, and tried to take it back, but he knew the truth. He was. He was a monster. He'd hurt Harry Potter. Participated in attempted murder. For nothing but the sole "crime" of him being Sorted in a different House.

At least his dad had not escaped Molly Weasley's wrath. They'd nearly divorced when Molly found out the kind of lies Arthur had been filling her children's ears with. Ginny had watched, wide-eyed, as her world crumbled around her. But it was fine now. There was still a formal stiffness in the air, in the way the two interacted, but they would get through it.

Ron wasn't so sure that he could get through it himself. If they'd had the money, he would have begged for a school transfer, but as it was, they were lucky to afford Hogwarts. So he was stuck here. And stuck through Christmas holidays as well, because his parents were taking a trip by themselves to try and rekindle their marriage.

With my luck, Ron thought as he pushed himself up from the bed and began to pace around the room. Dinner could not come soon enough. I'll end up spending winter break with Harry Potter his-bloody-self.