It’s easy to feel small when everyone around you stands so tall. The boy who lived, who’s faced he-who-must-not-be-named, twice mind you, McGonagall's youngest seeker, courageous, effortless, everything. The brightest witch of her age, witty, strong willed, ambition personified. Yes, it’s easy to feel small when your best friend is Harry James Potter, and perhaps the smartest muggle you’ll ever meet by his side.

It’s not jealousy, he’s happy for his mate, hell- he’ll probably be shouting the loudest when it’s all over and Harry wins that cup. Instead, it’s this trickling, stinging discontentment. Why’d his name end up in that cup, why couldn’t this be a normal school year, for the both of them, why does he get to be gold, why’ll he’s just iron. It’s silly, and it makes Ron feel a tad guilty. It all boils down to his own insecurities that he doesn’t dare contemplate. Yet he supposes that’s not up to him, because inadequacies and shortcomings frolic in his mind as he slumps on a common room settee. His gaze is on Harry, but he’s practically staring right through him. He’d already given his congratulations, he isn’t obligated to do more, even if he wanted to, he’s too miserable at the moment. People crowd around their Gryffindor champion, listening for the millionth time as he recounts the story of how he outwitted that dragon. And Ron, he just wants to crawl into some hole.