ron weasley starter for // @raisedpure
there was little enough time for wandering around now that george had taken him on to help at the shop, but he’d seen george start to breathe a little bit better. come a little bit more out of his shell. and for ron, that was worth it. fred being gone never got easier, time might dull it a bit - but george bore the loss greatest of all. he’d lost the other half of himself, he’d lost the one person who made the world make sense. and to some degree, ron understood that. when he’d decided to leave the ministry behind as an auror - harry had understood but, it had been a bit awkward still.
truthfully ron was tired of saving the world. he just wanted to live a bit. the shop was closed for a two hour lunch. george had wanted to go home to angelina, and ron had opted to not head back to the burrow but to finally take the time to explore the street. a few treats stuck in his pocket, he wanders up the length of it - then back down the opposite side. across from weasley’s wizards wheezes, was an art shop. pansy parkinson’s if he’d heard correctly. he hadn’t thought about her in ages. he remembered the trials, remembered thinking how weird it was that someone his age was being tried for war crimes. sometimes, despite having lived it, despite having lost people to it - the war still seemed like it had happened to someone else.
hand in his pocket as he draws out a few of berty’s beans, selectively sniffing them before popping them in his mouth, a pleasing combination of cinnamon, ginger, and perhaps an earthy curry flavored bean — he heads into the gallery. he’s not been one who ever really thought about art, but he appreciated beautiful things, he appreciated things that could be interpreted. maybe that’s why he’d not done so badly in professor trelawny’s class. he finds himself wandering, the beans forgotten in his pocket — he isn’t sure how much time passes before he ends up standing in front of one. it makes him feel something. a strange feeling that settles in his stomach, a bit like hunger, but it hurts all the same.
it felt like — all those times they’d split too little food among them, or all the times people had mentioned they’d had no money, and when fred had died and george had walked around like a ghost, or like when he’d wanted nothing but for his mother to notice him — to be proud of him. there’s a stinging in his eyes. a hand raises to rub it away, pale freckled skin flushing at the hard touch. ron weasley had never been beautiful perhaps, but he’d grown into himself - where once lanky and clumsy, he’d become muscled and lean, his hair remained a flaming shade of red, but there was a warmth and tan to his skin now he spent more time out of doors and less studying or reading about quidditch. he’d grown up. but this painting? this made him feel very small again. and he found strangely, he liked that feeling.
there’s someone next to him now, he doesn’t look away — just a mumbled sort of polite , ‘ oh hello —. ‘
