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Fred and George were both making loud retching noises behind her back but Mrs. Weasley did not notice; arms tight around Ron’s neck, she was kissing him all over his face, which had turned a brighter scarlet than his badge.
“Mum… don’t… Mum, get a grip…” he muttered, trying to push her away.
She let go of him and said breathlessly, “Well, what will it be? We gave Percy an owl, but you’ve already got one, of course.”
“W-what do you mean?” said Ron, looking as though he did not dare believe his ears.
“You’ve got to have a reward for this!” said Mrs. Weasley fondly. “How about a nice new set of dress robes?”
“We’ve already bought him some,” said Fred sourly, who looked as though he sincerely regretted this generosity.
“Or a new cauldron, Charlie’s old one’s rusting through, or a new rat, you always liked Scabbers—”
“Mum,” said Ron hopefully, “can I have a new broom?”
Mrs. Weasley’s face fell slightly; broomsticks were expensive.
“Not a really good one!” Ron hastened to add. “Just—just a new one for a change…”
Mrs. Weasley hesitated, then smiled.
“Of course you can… well, I’d better get going if I’ve got a broom to buy too. I’ll see you all later… little Ro
She gave Ron yet another kiss on the cheek, sniffed loudly, and bustled from the room.
Fred and George exchanged looks.
“You don’t mind if we don’t kiss you, do you, Ron?” said Fred in a falsely anxious voice.
“We could curtsey, if you like,” said George.
“Oh, shut up,” said Ron, scowling at them.
“Or what?” said Fred, an evil grin spreading across his face. “Going to put us in detention?”
“I’d love to see him try,” sniggered George.
“He could if you don’t watch out!” said Hermione angrily.
Fred and George burst out laughing, and Ron muttered, “Drop it, Hermione.”
“We’re going to have to watch our step, George,” said Fred, pretending to tremble, “with these two on our case…”
“Yeah, it looks like our law-breaking days are finally over,” said George, shaking his head.
And with another loud crack, the twins Disapparated.
“Those two!” said Hermione furiously, staring up at the ceiling, through which they could now hear Fred and George roaring with laughter in the room upstairs. “Don’t pay any attention to them, Ron, they’re only jealous!”
“I don’t think they are,” said Ron doubtfully, also looking up at the ceiling. “They’ve always said only prats become prefects… still,” he added on a happier note, “they’ve never had new brooms! I wish I could go with Mum and choose… she’ll never be able to afford a Nimbus, but there’s the new Cleansweep out, that’d be great… yeah, I think I’ll go and tell her I like the Cleansweep, just so she knows—”
He dashed from the room, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.
For some reason, Harry found he did not want to look at Hermione. He turned to his bed, picked up the pile of clean robes Mrs. Weasley had laid on it and crossed the room to his trunk.
“Harry?” said Hermione tentatively.
“Well done, Hermione,” said Harry, so heartily it did not sound like his voice at all, and, still not looking at her, “brilliant. Prefect. Great.”
“Thanks,” said Hermione. “Erm—Harry—could I borrow Hedwig so I can tell Mum and Dad? They’ll be really pleased—I mean prefect is something they can understand.”
“Yeah, no problem,” said Harry, still in the horrible hearty voice that did not belong to him. “Take her!”
He leaned over his trunk, laid the robes on the bottom of it and pretended to be rummaging for something while Hermione crossed to the wardrobe and called Hedwig down. A few moments passed; Harry heard the door close but remained bent double, listening; the only sounds he could hear were the blank picture on the wall sniggering again and the wastepaper basket in the corner coughing up the owl droppings.
He straightened up and looked behind him. Hermione had left and Hedwig had gone. Harry hurried across the room, closed the door, then returned slowly to his bed and sank on to it, gazing unseeingly at the foot of the wardrobe.
He had forgotten completely about prefects being chosen in the fifth year. He had been too anxious about the possibility of being expelled to spare a thought for the fact that badges must be winging their way towards certain people. But if he had remembered… if he had thought about it… what would he have expected?
Not this, said a small and truthful voice inside his head.
Harry screwed up his face and buried it in his hands. He could not lie to himself; if he had known the prefect badge was on its way, he would have expected it to come to him, not Ron. Did this make him as arrogant as Draco Malfoy? Did he think himself superior to everyone else? Did he really believe he was better than Ron?
No, said the small voice defiantly.
Was that true? Harry wondered, anxiously probing his own feelings.
I’m better at Quidditch, said the voice. But I’m not better at anything else.
That was definitely true, Harry thought; he was no better than Ron in lessons. But what about outside lessons? What about those adventures he, Ron and Hermione had had together since starting at Hogwarts, often risking much worse than expulsion?
Well, Ron and Hermione were with me most of the time, said the voice in Harry’s head.
Not all the time, though, Harry argued with himself. They didn’t fight Quirrell with me. They didn’t take on Riddle and the Basilisk. They didn’t get rid of all those Dementors the night Sirius escaped. They weren’t in that graveyard with me, the night Voldemort returned…
And the same feeling of ill-usage that had overwhelmed him on the night he had arrived rose again. I’ve definitely done more, Harry thought indignantly. I’ve done more than either of them!
But maybe, said the small voice fairly, maybe Dumbledore doesn’t choose prefects because they’ve got themselves into a load of dangerous situations… maybe he chooses them for other reasons… Ron must have something you don’t…
Harry opened his eyes and stared through his fingers at the wardrobe’s clawed feet, remembering what Fred had said: “No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect…”
Harry gave a small snort of laughter. A second later he felt sickened with himself.
Ron had not asked Dumbledore to give him the prefect badge. This was not Ron’s fault. Was he, Harry, Ron’s best friend in the world, going to sulk because he didn’t have a badge, laugh with the twins behind Ron’s back, ruin this for Ron when, for the first time, he had beaten Harry at something?
At this point Harry heard Ron’s footsteps on the stairs again. He stood up, straightened his glasses, and hitched a grin on to his face as Ron bounded back through the door.
“Just caught her!” he said happily. “She says she’ll get the Cleansweep if she can.”
“Cool,” Harry said, and he was relieved to hear that his voice had stopped sounding hearty. “Listen—Ron—well done, mate.”
The smile faded off Ron’s face.
“I never thought it would be me!” he said, shaking his head. “I thought it would be you!”
“Nah, I’ve caused too much trouble,” Harry said, echoing Fred.
“Yeah,” said Ron, “yeah, I suppose… well, we’d better get our trunks packed, hadn’t we?”
It was odd how widely their possessions seemed to have scattered themselves since they had arrived. It took them most of the afternoon to retrieve their books and belongings from all over the house and stow them back inside their school trunks. Harry noticed that Ron kept moving his prefects badge around, first placing it on his bedside table, then putting it into his jeans pocket, then taking it out and lying it on his folded robes, as though to see the effect of the red on the black. Only when Fred and George dropped in and offered to attach it to his forehead with a Permanent Sticking Charm did he wrap it tenderly in his maroon socks and lock it in his trunk.