#we stan the weasleys

[myloveharry]

Romione headcanons❤️‍🩹

Ron tucking Hermione's hair behind her ear to help her get it out of her face.

Hermione using Ron's lap as a pillow.

Hermione and Ron finger painting with Rose and Hugo.

Ron wearing clothes in Hermione's favourite colour.

Hermione having to comfort Ron because Ron just encountered a very large, unpleasant spider outside their house that scared him.

Ron telling Hermione to go to sleep after she's been reading for 24 hours straight.

Hermione learning to cook Ron's favourite dishes from Mrs. Weasley.

Hermione's heart melting when she sees Crookshanks curled up in Ron's lap, both fast asleep.

Whenever Hermione's late at work, Ron stays awake and waits for her to come home.

Hermione learning things about Quidditch and taking an interest in the sport after seeing how much Ron loves it.

Hermione still has nightmares from the time she was tortured in the Malfoy Manor. Ron helps her calm down and cuddles her to sleep, talking to her about all the good things in their life and telling her that he'll always protect her.

Whenever someone tries to disrespect Hermione because of her blood status, Ron's ready to beat the shit out of them.

Ron being extremely proud of Hermione's achievements and not being insecure about it.

Hermione not having a problem with the fact that Ron works in a joke shop to help his brother out. She loves him and the job he does.

The two of them are perfect for each other, and always will be.

[liv45no]

Hermione: so Professor McGonagall, we’ve been thinking. It’s only a matter of time before Umbridge’s terrible teaching is gonna backfire. We’re going to need to know more advanced spells if we wanna stand a chance against the dark lord.

Ron: we know what you’re gonna say, she’s our headmaster and we should be trying to get along with her.

McGonagall: no

McGonagall: she’s crazy and she needs to go down

[mistapottaa]

Harry being KIND THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME ✅️✅️

Ronald Weasley being the untricked BFF until THAT happens ✅️✅️✅️

Bellatrix not being portrayed as a whore and having an actual personality before being her deranged self ✅️✅️✅️

Voldemort being a dilf ✅️🔥✅️✅️✅️🔥🔥✅️✅️✅️🔥✅️✅️🔥✅️✅️✅️

@metalomagnetic you made a cultural reset and I haven't been the same since.

[itshansolo]

Rowling for some godforsaken reason: oh yeah Harry and Hermione could have totally hooked up in Deathly Hallows

The individuals in question:

[sarkylittlemonster]

Me: Percy

Crowd: *cheers*

Heckler: Which one?

Me:

[whinlatter]

I have a British question: for a book that’s whole theme is love and love prevailing the characters never say “I love you”. I checked and that phrase is only uttered once by ron to hermione (not as a declaration of love but in a casual/jokey way). Is it common for British people (culturally) to not say “I love you” common or casually? Or is there something else going on? What is the verbal confirmation of love seen as in British culture? Does it differ class to class? (I’m asking this because it’s very common in my American familiy and many other American families I know and when I’m writing fics I don’t want to American-ize it by adding uncommon British behaviors,)

my favourite questions to receive are 'are british people as monstrous as they seem in literature?'. mostly because so often the answer is yes :(

keen to hear what the other brits think on this, but i think it is true that brits in general say i love you a bit less often than americans, knowing both camps as i do. i will fall back on my usual disclaimer - that, as you suggest, this is a bit of a class thing as much as it is a british thing, so the posher you are, the less likely you are to be effusive with your declarations of love to family members or romantic partners (and certainly with friends). i think jkr's (british) middle class-ness colours the text somewhat in this way.

that said, i do think that it's less that most brits are uncomfortable saying 'i love you' than it is them thinking it's a bit surplus to requirements. it's why i don't think harry saying 'i love you' to ginny, or to ron and hermione, or to any of his other loved ones, would be an especially big deal for him or something he'd struggle with. he knows he loves them. he shows it in all the ways he interacts with them and thinks about them and builds his life around them. in his own internal narration, he talks about loving them (on his walk to the forest in DH). he says he loves hermione as a sister to ron in a moment when it really matters for him to say it, in a needs-must situation. he finds his own ability to love people so mundane he's baffled by why that would be special under the circumstances when dumbledore points it out. i think this is where harry is similar to the people around him more than he is distinct: it’s a cultural mode. compared to most british teenage boys, in fact, he’s probably a bit more comfortable with thinking about loving someone as an active process and telling someone he loves them than most. perhaps that owes something to the proximity to the weasleys and their (relatively) more open emotional lives and verbal displays of affection - it may also reflect harry’s experience of loss and healthy recognition that telling and (more importantly) showing people you love them when your time together might be short is a good thing to do.

so that's probably the boring answer - brits and by extension hp characters in general are less likely to say the words, but that shouldn't be mistaken for them not being soppy sentimental shits quite a lot of the time.

[elisedonut]

i really like the concept of Percy outright hiding someone in his flat during the war but like it doesn't fit well with most of the people I ship him with

Like the ones i could actually think of that would benefit from it are mostly ones that would be too young to really be having much happen between them during that year

which im not saying the situation can't be just platonic because that is fun too

Like with Oliver it loses out on what makes a forced proximity fic fun to me because of them having already roomed together for years so there's no like weird phase of having to get used to the other being around and having to learn to live with them

similar situation for Penny honestly they've already been together so while i do like the idea of her staying with him its not as fun for a ship set up to me

Marcus doesn't really have a reason to be staying with him, like he could but he's not going to be in a life or death situation if someone sees him so it doesn't have the same like flavor.

Stan is fun i think if you play with him being imperioused and Percy somehow breaking him out of it or something and having him stay with him after that could be fun. Hiding him to keep him from getting imperioused again or worse outright killed

plus then you get to play not only with the fact he was in Azkaban and effects it had on him as well as the trauma of anything that happened while he was under

which is fun

[saintsenara]

happy birthday ginny, here's a fic with you and both of your dark-haired orphan simps.

Nerve

When she was five, Auntie Muriel had given her as a birthday present a small china figurine of a cow.

And, since she was five, and all she wanted to do was ride brooms and fall out of trees and throw gnomes at Percy, she had laughed derisively the second she opened the gift and called it ‘a bit rubbish’.

Mum had been furious, and the telling-off Ginny had received - as Muriel stormed out of the house with her nose in the air, ‘Weasley children are ungrateful whelps, the lot of them’ ringing around the Burrow - had managed to impress upon her an important lesson: no matter how shit a present is, pretend you like it.

---

- and Percy got a brand new owl when he was made a prefect, and that happened the day before I turned ten, but I didn’t get anything new that day, it was all second hand. Except my Auntie Muriel gave me a box of drawing pins. But who wants a thing like that?

That sounds ghastly.

It was! Obviously I wasn’t rude. I just -

I know it sounds really silly, but I just want my own things. I want to be special. I want everyone to notice me. Nobody notices me.

That doesn’t sound silly at all.

You’re sweet :) 

---

The lesson had held for ten years. It was fracturing today, as she turned fifteen and unwrapped Fleur’s gift to her - presented with a beatific, ‘I ‘ope you will like ‘ow it stops you being so - ‘ow you say - disorganised’ - and saw the embossed scarlet leather cover, her initials on it in gold, of an extremely beautiful and obviously stupendously expensive diary.

‘Oh,’ said Ginny.

Fleur seemed happy enough with that, leaning into Bill’s arm - wrapped around her shoulders - with a contented (read: smug) look on her face. Harry and Ron were both shovelling birthday cake into their mouths, but Hermione was looking at her with the sort of stricken, wobbly expression which made Ginny nervous.

‘Cheers. It’s great,’ she said to Fleur, in an effort to communicate to Hermione that she needed to keep fucking quiet and not bring up my previous diary-related fuck-ups at the dinner table. Fortunately she got the hint, although Ginny knew there’d be plenty of whispered nagging about whether she’d ‘properly dealt with everything’ later.

But she couldn’t help staring at Bill, as if to say, ‘thanks for not spilling my most embarrassing secret during your pillow talk’ and ‘hey, you know how there’s a war on? Maybe you should tell your fiancée that your sister was fucking possessed by You-Know-Who for a full year, so she knows exactly what sort of mess she’s getting into.’

He just looked at his cake instead.

---

- and I told mum I didn’t want a victoria sponge cake. But she made one anyway, because it’s dad’s favourite. But it was my birthday. I wanted a chocolate cake.

Does that make me sound really spoiled?

It does, doesn’t it?

What kind of birthday cakes did you have, when you were my age?

I have never had a birthday cake.

WHAT?

How???

I was born in an orphanage. That’s a Muggle institution for children whose parents are dead. There was hardly enough to go around normally. Birthdays were out of the question.  

Oh.

I’m sorry.

I survived.

Harry’s an orphan as well.

Is he indeed?

---

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Hermione later, bustling around Ginny’s room brandishing a hairbrush like a wand. ‘The nerve of her! She had no right to do something like that.’

‘She didn’t know.’

‘But Bill should have told her.’

‘Yeah. Maybe.’

Hermione sat on the end of Ginny’s bed and looked at her earnestly. ‘You can say if you’re upset, you know.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘I mean, I’ve never thought you’ve ever properly dealt with everything, and I -’

‘I said it’s fine, Hermione. For fuck’s sake, give it a rest.’

---

Hermione was still in a mood the following morning.

The diary sat on Ginny’s bedside table, the cover shimmering softly at her.

‘I suppose the colour was meant to be nice - Gryffindor, you know - but it’s just ended up being another cruelty,’ sniffed Hermione, when she’d decided she was no longer angry with Ginny and she ought to have another go at nagging her about her life.

‘What d’you mean?’ said Ginny, round a mouthful of chocolate frog.

Hermione looked at her as if she was as dumb as Goyle. (Ginny could see why quite a few people didn’t like her). ‘Well, it’s like his eyes. Isn’t it?’

She looked so convinced she was onto something that Ginny didn’t have the heart to tell her that her him had eyes the same polished tortoiseshell brown as Hermione’s own.

---

I could make him a valentine’s card, couldn’t I?

You could.

I could say he has nice eyes. He does have nice eyes.

So you’ve said.

They’re very green. I could say that. ‘You have very green eyes.’

That’s not very romantic, is it?

I could say, ‘you have eyes so green they’re like…’

I dunno.

A fresh pickled toad.

Or an emerald.

Pick the emerald.

I like the toad.

Pick the emerald.

They aren’t emerald green, though. They’re fresh pickled toad green.

I just think -

I’m going to say that his eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad.

Or do you think he’d hate that? 

I think you should say his eyes are like emeralds.

He will hate it, won’t he?

Would it matter if he did?

YES.

Picture me rolling my eyes.

Tom. I’d DIE.

Imagine if he laughed at it. 

And if he didn’t?

That isn’t possible.

Ginny.

Anything is possible if you’ve got enough nerve.

---

She dropped a blob of ink onto the page and waited for the inevitable.

She realised she had been staring at it for hours when mum called her down for dinner.

---

She could never have explained to the other three why nothing happening was as much of a disappointment as a relief.

They were bound together so tightly you’d have thought they were one-and-the-same. It didn’t seem to occur to them that their friendship was abnormal. Or, maybe, that hers were. That, maybe, it isn’t normal for a fifteen-year-old to not see her boyfriend all summer, or not to have friends visit, or not to Floo off for house-parties and trips to Diagon Alley. That, maybe, her position in a clique of ‘popular’ girls was tenuous, something light and meaningless and easily discarded.

That, maybe, the best friend she’d ever had was a piece of disembodied soul which had very nearly succeeded in killing her.

---

I don’t think anyone understands me like you.

You’re my best friend in the whole world :) 

I’m delighted to hear that. The feeling is mutual.

Now. I need you to do me a favour.

Anything :)

You will walk down to the gamekeeper’s hut.

I will walk down to the gamekeeper’s hut.

---

‘I don’t think Harry will get back together with Cho,’ said Hermione one evening.

Ginny snorted. ‘Yeah, obviously. He fucked that right up.’

‘Dean’s nice.’

Ginny tried to ignore the jittery feeling in her stomach. ‘Yeah. Yeah, he’s brill.’

Fortunately Hermione was already yawning into her pillow. ‘Did you have a nice birthday, by the way?’

‘Yeah.’

There was a brightly-coloured bang from outside.

Hermione jumped up, brandishing her wand. ‘What on earth was that?’

---

I wish I was with mum and dad for Christmas. On New Year’s Eve we always have hot chocolate and watch the fireworks from the village. You can see them really well from our garden.

I spent all evening crying. And now I can’t sleep. 

Are you awake?

Is it New Year’s Eve today?

Yes.

Ah.

It doesn’t feel very festive though.

Go to the North Tower, and - just before the Divination classroom - you will see a painting of three house elves wearing a trench coat. Poke the middle one on the nose and the painting will swing open to reveal a window. Climb through the window and you will find yourself on a flat bit of roof, with an uninterrupted view towards Hogsmeade. At midnight, there will be fireworks to celebrate the new year. 

But there will be nobody else around, and they will feel as though they are for you.

---

‘Relax, Hermione. It’s just someone letting off fireworks.’

‘God. I thought it was the Dark Mark or something. Honestly, who lets off fireworks in the middle of August?’

‘You never know. Maybe they’re for me.’

[corneliaavenue-ao3]

Found

Written for @hinnymicrofic Day 15! 448 words

Cold, bitter cold gusted through his jacket. Warming charms and Hermione's jar of fire did nothing to warm him. The woods were unforgiveable in December. The only light was coming from the tent behind him and the light from his wand.

Harry was on hour 5 of his night watch. He was also on hour 5 of watching Ginny's name on the Marauder's Map. She had been sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room with Seamus and Neville for the first hour before retiring to bed.

He let his thoughts wander to much warmer, sunit days as Ginny went to bed. Hoping warmer memories could insulate him from the inside out. Selfishly hoping that she was dreaming of them too.

Soft footsteps alerted him that Hermione was exiting the tent, ready to switch watch. Quickly, he stuffed the Marauder's Map away, hoping to save himself the embarrassment of being caught staring at the shape of the name of his ex-girlfriend.

He kept his gaze forward at the woods as Hermione sat down next to him.

"You miss her." It wasn't a question. It was just Hermione stating a fact, just like she would state Gamp's Laws of Transfiguration as fact.

He grunted in response.

"I found something when I was looking for my toiletries. I forgot that I had packed it," Hermione said, passing over a shampoo bottle in her hand.

Harry almost laughed at the thought he smelled so bad that Hermione was offering him soap until he looked closer at the label. His breath hitched in his throat as he slowly unscrewed the cap.

His senses became overwhelmed with the familiar flowery scent of Ginny. He was immediately brought back to the sunlit days by the lake, practices on the quidditch field, and late night forbidden adventures in broom closets when everything was so simple and so innocent. He was lost in those memories as Hermione rambled on next to him.

"Ginny made a passing comment when she was trying to think of a birthday gift for you that she should give you her shampoo so you could always be reminded of her. And I thought it was a great idea so I packed it and-"

Hermione's rant was cut off by Harry pulling her into a hug.

"Thank you," Harry said, barely above a whisper.

Hermione pulled away, smiling for the first time since Ron's disappearance. "Go get some rest," she commanded. "I'll take over watch from here."

Harry stood, brushing snow off of his pant leg, and grabbed the map and the shampoo.

"If you're planning on being a teenage boy in there, please remember to cast a silencing charm!" Hermione shouted back at him.

[perciver4ever]

Lee: YOU CHEATING SCUM! YOU FILTHY CHEATING B-

McGonagall: Jordan!

George: *Literally staring at Lee lovingly and almost flies into Fred*

[acourtofquestions]

"Please tell me you brought food," Luca said again.

"Is that why you came? Rowan promised you snacks?"

"I'm a growing boy."

[asexualenjolras]

Being a next gen fan is such a struggle because amongst all the great content we get of Scorpius, Albus and Rose as themselves and with their canon parents, you also have the Drarry, Dramione and whatever other ships exist with the three being siblings.

I know why people hate Cursed Child canon but it's so difficult lmao 😭

[cruelsummer-ficfest]

“I got a phone!” she beamed into the line. “Now you can call me wherever. I got a flat. In London. Not far from where you used to shop, Mum.”

“By yourself?” her father asked. 

“And did you end up looking into university?” her mother chimed in. 

“Well, no, I got a job at the ministry, remember? And no. Ron’s here too.”

“Don’t you think you’re a little young for living together?” she could hear the judgment in her mother’s voice. Could picture it on her face. “It can’t be that serious of a relationship. You’re only nineteen.”

“But after the year in the tent, and…”

They didn’t say anything back. She’d always prided herself on being smart, but somehow, her own parents made her feel like she knew nothing. 

[cherry-pop-elf]

This is why we love Charlie Weasley everyone

Never forget when Charlie wanted to name a puppy “dragon”

[wisteria-blooms]

sunburns & dragons (charlie weasley & reader) (10/??)

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

TAGLIST AT THE BOTTOM! (Let me know if you'd like to be added or if I've missed you!) A/N: I might have a cold coming on, ugh. Thought I'd get this out if I'm afflicted by illness AGAIN. And apologies in advance if there are mistakes I missed while reading it over! Feel free to let me know about them + what you think about the story!

CHAPTER 10 : What goes up must come down. Your relationship with Charlie is no exception. (5.6k words)

CHAPTER 10: YOU DON'T OWN ME

“What happened?”

Your voice was pitchy and stricken with worry. Your eyes urgently implored Charlie to provide a reason for his concern as if it was more important for you to hear than it was to him. You’d never seen Charlie in this state, though you supposed you’d barely been around for two months of his life, and no important moments at that.

Charlie read: “Fleur’s in labour. Come when you can. Love, mum.”

“You got it, Charlie.” Stan obeyed by performing the sharpest u-turn known to mankind, on the narrowest road known to mankind. The force flung your body towards the windows this time but Charlie effortlessly caught you by the wrist. When you recovered from another near-death incident with the metal insides of Knight Bus, Charlie’s words sunk in. 

“Charlie!” you exclaimed.

“(Y/N)!” he returned with equal excitement, blue eyes widening. 

You got back on your knees, bone meeting the plush covers of the bed, found a stable moment in Stan’s driving, and clapped your hands together giddily. “You’re going to be an uncle!” 

The moment—half past midnight—you entered the obstetrics wing of St. Mungos was precisely the moment you asked yourself: why were you here? Why had you followed Charlie here? It felt natural to drunkly stumble out of Stan’s bus with Charlie to help him find his way to the right wing, but when Bill (who was standing by a water fountain) came into view, you felt like you had intruded on a personal moment. 

”Shit, Bill, I’m sorry,” Charlie apologized as he strode into the waiting area. Your nervous gait reflected in the windows, the colours of your long skirt spilling on the black skies outside, brightened only with a speckling of stars. You left a considerable amount of space between Charlie and yourself, not wanting Bill to perceive your being here as impolite. You hoped the green chairs would provide enough coverage if you stood behind them.

“This was precisely the reason I told you I couldn’t make the concert,” Bill explained, pulling Charlie into a hug. The hug was long. Bill made eye contact with you as he released Charlie. 

“How was the concert?” Bill asked, looking at you. 

“It was excellent,” you said. “We got—Charlie got Molly’s letter at the end of it.” You hoped this would absolve you of your uninvited presence. 

”Well, thank you for taking my place,” Bill said with a smile. “Charlie was never going to let me live it down.”

”(Y/N) was better company, anyway,” Charlie scoffed. “And easier on the eyes.”

“Of course she is,” Bill agreed, nudging Charlie with his elbow.

“You wound me, Bill,” Charlie protested, holding his side.

Bill smirked. “You know what wounds me? The fact you missed the birth of your niece and almost made me miss it, too.”

“What are you boys bickering about now?” Molly chided, stepping out of the room. Her hair was frazzled, the bulk of it pulled back into a bun. She appeared more stressed than the nurses walking out the room before her. Her expression softened immediately at the sight of her second eldest son. “Charlie! You’re here.”

“Of course, mum.” Charlie walked over to give his mother a hug, his body towering over hers.

“Come meet Victoire. The others will come tomorrow to give Fleur some breathing room.” Then, Molly noticed you. Your grasp on the green leather chair tightened and your chest strained anxiously at the same. “(Y/N),” she called out sweetly. “Would you like to come, too?”

“Oh, no, I can wait here,” you said, sliding over to sit on a chair. “Please, take as long as you need.”

“Alright, then,” Molly said. She placed a hand on both Charlie and Bill’s backs and guided them back into the delivery room. 

You exhaled heavily when they left. A pounding tension still lingered in your jaw; you were so embarrassed. You should’ve waited downstairs in the lobby instead of following Charlie upstairs. You were certain that as nice as Molly was, she was going to talk about your gaffe with her neighbours over tea: her perfect son’s only-remarkable-because-of-what-her-last-name-affords-her girlfriend invited herself to meet her first grandchild. And can you believe she might’ve been drinking prior to it? Ruined the occasion. You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. Next time, you’d think things through. 

“Don’t drop her!” a shrill voice, muted by the door, rang out. 

You looked up. 

“I promise I won’t, mum! Now, calm down. Not even Fleur is worried,” came the response. Definitely Charlie. 

“He did a decent job holding onto the snitch back in school.” That was Bill.

Then, a delicate little laugh complemented by Bill’s deeper one.

“See, mum, nothing to fret over. She’s perfectly happy in her uncle’s arms.”

Your mind crafted an image of Charlie holding the newborn in his arms. There was a tender look in his blue eyes as he cradled something so delicate and precious. You felt the look of love through your vision and for a moment, the weight on your chest lifted. 

Every single detail of the night of the concert lingered in your mind for the next couple of days. You replayed each segment in your mind. Charlie taking you to pub and meeting Don. Charlie’s show of some emotion—jealousy?—and the touch of his hand on your hip in front of Alex. The moment in Stan’s bus, and had it not been for that owl, something might’ve happened. A confession, a kiss… you would’ve been pleased with either outcome. But you sung high praises for that aforementioned owl; it led to you being able to witness him being there for his niece’s first moments. You reckoned you handled it perfectly well, passing yourself off as a supportive partner rather than a nosy one.

Feelings of infatuation overwhelmed you as you tried to scrub them away at the dirt-speckled skin of a potato. It was Monday evening and you were running high on the fumes of adrenaline. You’d decided to expel that energy by trying your hand in the kitchen. A recipe for leek and potato soup caught your eye and it seemed easy enough. You figured Charlie might appreciate it too, given how he’d made fun of there not being a meal ready for him previously. He said he’d be back this evening, and you were going to be ready for it this time.  You even pulled down two wine glasses in anticipation.

You nearly nicked your finger with the peeler when you heard keys in the front door. You drew in a deep breath and extended your hands over the top of your head to smooth out any flyaways. But really, did the rugged, sun-kissed, outdoor-prone Charlie Weasley care about how your hair looked? Before you could answer, Charlie walked in with a small duffel bag slung over his shoulders. His hair was dishevelled, his cheeks rosy, and a thin sheen of sweat coated his skin.

Your heart nearly gave out at the sight. Heavens, he looked even more handsome like this. 

“Letter for you, (Y/N),” was Charlie’s greeting.

”Thank you,” you said. “Just set it down on the table there, if you don’t mind.” “Where’ve you been?” you asked, trying to keep your eagerness to a minimum. 

Charlie closed the door behind him. “I took up Mallory’s offer of Quidditch.”

Oh.

Your smile dropped but you prayed that Charlie didn’t see it.

Something more bitter and darker washed out the sweet taste in your mouth. “How was it?”

”Great!” Charlie replied cheerily. “Reminded me of old times.”

You didn’t dare ask what those old times consisted of. Treacherous images of post-celebratory locker room make-outs and late-night “practice” sessions came to mind. 

“I got around to chatting with her brother, Marcus,” Charlie added. “ When I wasn’t being tackled down to the ground or gasping for breath, at least. I forgot how well-connected he was to all the Ministry departments.”

More treacherous images flooded your mind. Charlie. Entangled with Mallory. On the field. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, stellar guy. I reckon I should keep in touch with him.” Charlie shedded his bag and his jacket. ”What are you making? It smells good.”

You beamed at his question. “I figured I’d take one out of Millicent’s book, seeing both you and I are such fans now.”

Charlie sucked some air through his teeth. “Bad night for me to grab dinner with old classmates, huh?”

“Oh, not at all,” you waved Charlie’s sentence off with a shake of your head. You shuffled slightly over to your left to conceal the second wine glass you’d pulled out. “There will be quite a bit left over, if you want it.”

“Thanks, (Y/N),” Charlie said. “I’m going to shower before I head out. Want to join?”

”No, I have dinner—” you stopped yourself, your peeler wedged in the crevice of a potato and refusing to budge. You swallowed a lump in your throat. Your chest felt strange, a strong ache casting shadows on where there was just so much joy. “I’ll see you afterwards.”

Charlie responded with a crooked smile and clamped his lips together like he was concealing a retort. You imagined it would’ve gone something like, ‘Ah, so you were thinking about joining me in the shower. How naughty of you, (Y/N).’

Well, no kidding. What sane person would refuse an elusive chance to see Charlie shirtless? The longer you thought about it, the more you could taste the hot beads of water coating his hair, running down the nape of his neck, down his chest and into the ridges of his abs. 

Your steam-ridden daydream was shot by you remembering of why he was in such desperate need of a shower. 

His mention of Mallory and his dinner plans made you want to dump the contents of the soup—that you’d made a second time over because you’d burned the first batch—into the sink. You feared how much more Mallory could get under his skin when you weren’t around him. Trying to quell your building insecurities, you had to rationalize it and break it down for your own sanity. ‘Friends’ was a plural word; Charlie and Mallory weren’t going to be alone at dinner. Charlie loved Quidditch. Mallory loved Quidditch. You didn’t love Quidditch. It was easy for the thought of inviting you to slip his mind. Charlie clearly talked to Mallory’s brother, Marcus as well. And most importantly, Charlie wasn’t your boyfriend or some committed lover or a lover of any sort. That prohibited you from asking anything of him.

Besides, he was going to come home after…right? 

You brushed off these thoughts as fanatical insinuations. Maybe you were going a little stir-crazy from Charlie’s flirting. When you heard the shower start, you slipped the extra wine glass back in its place and topped your own glass off. You needed it, because what else did Malfoys do when faced with trivial matters besides drinking them away? The dose was derived from observing your father: two glasses for a mild inconvenience, four for a moderate one, and the whole bottle for a considerable issue.

The situation at hand was pretty moderate, so four glasses it was.

In the reflection of the window, you saw your father’s eyes staring back at you. They held the same look of perturbance and wondering of why you should have to deal with any misfortune. You really were his daughter. 

The effect of the alcohol cushioned the pain of Charlie leaving through the door. He looked well-combed and delectable and ready to slip right into Mallory’s arms. Or into her mouth. No, you scolded yourself, none of that nonsense. After a lonesome dinner, your fork scraping your teeth in contemplation more than scraping the bowl, you sorted the leftovers into containers. You had your bath and went straight to bed.

Sleep that night was not only futile, it was wishful thinking. You tossed and turned. When you turned the light on again, both the hour and minute hand on your clock inched perilously close to two, meaning it was that late and Charlie still wasn’t back. He’d been gone for almost six hours.

You should’ve been asleep right now. You should’ve been fine right now. You shouldn’t be fretting over Charlie right now. So, why were you staring at the ceiling, a bruising feeling consuming your bones?

Before Charlie came into your life, you were trying to prove a point to your parents: you didn’t need a partner. And you’d always sworn you wouldn’t let the affections of a man change you; you preferred to operate independently.  Now, you were absolutely sick over Charlie. Sometime in the past couple weeks, you’d gone from not really caring where he was to your mood beating to the sound of his drums. Merlin, you were a raging hypocrite. 

The memories you had thought beautiful seemed so ugly now. His act of blowing off dinner in favour of hanging out with Mallory and her friends cheapened everything that happened over the weekend. And how was it fair that Charlie was free to spend his nights as he pleased, while the moment you engaged with Alex, he led you away? Wouldn’t it be preposterous if you showed up to the bar he was at right now and made a show by snatching him back in front of Mallory? If you did it, you’d look crazy. But when Charlie did it, it was chivalrous. 

As you fluffed your pillow just to lay down again, you thought about your friend, Alicia Spinnet. She used to complain about the men she dated and the ways they cycled hot and cold. They were indecipherable, affectionate one day and gone the next. In the end, they wanted nothing more than a fling which led to numerous late-night conversations with her asking you where she’d gone wrong or if those men were really interested in the first place. The pain she felt was only punctuated when she saw them out with a real partner months later. 

While you empathized with her by providing long hugs, ice-cream, and promises of getting petty revenge, you didn’t think yourself as so naive to find yourself in such a situation. You’d look for the signs, you’d know when to leave. But now, you felt so, so stupid. 

Charlie Weasley was not different; he was exactly the type of men Alicia complained about. At this point, you weren’t even sad. You were angry and you didn’t know who to be angry with.

“You look like shit.”

You eked out a smile. “Thank you, Fred.”

You stopped by Cauco and Weasley Wizard Wheezes the next morning just before work. Neither place brought you much peace after what had happened with Charlie there, but Fred and George were the cure-all to any sort of pain. And the last time you trekked from Cauco to the shop, you hadn’t met Charlie yet, so maybe this would serve as some sort of spiritual reset. 

You almost choked on your coffee order. You’d asked for the strongest drink as a feeble attempt to get through the day and you were served accurately. You peeled off the sleeve trying to ascertain how many shots of espresso were exactly in this concoction. Oh—was that a 3 or 8?

The delivery man finished stacking a boatload of parcels near the front and readied a slip in front of you. You counted the boxes and signed off on it for Fred and George who were busying themselves with opening duties. You thanked the worker as he left.

From there, you walked around the shop and gently rearranged some crooked products as a means to distract yourself. Charlie did get back last night, interrupting your very light sleep. You heard him brushing his teeth around 3 a.m. It was early enough to signify he didn’t spend the entire night in Mallory’s bed but late enough for the opportunity of an emotional and physical rekindling to occur. You slipped past him this morning as he slept in. You had no desire to ask him how last night went as your first conversation of the day.

You were confused. The burning desire to be by Charlie’s side flamed out so quickly after he’d mentioned Mallory. Was what you thought you felt even real, then?

“Want to do something this weekend?” you asked quickly.

“I always want to do something,” Fred was the first to respond. “But I figured your days were better spent on maintaining appearances with Charlie.”

“No,” you corrected quickly. “I think we’ve done well enough not to require anymore… appearances together.”

“It’s settled then,” Fred proclaimed. “Let’s hop a couple of bars and see where we end up.”

“(Y/N) will be on the floor,” George sang. “Just like before.”

You giggled at George’s lyricism as you propped up a Skiving Snackbox. “I will not!” 

Talking and making plans with Fred and George always took a weight off your shoulders. You went home that night feeling ready for whatever punches and hooks life was going to throw at you. You, however, stalled when you arrived back to an empty apartment again. You walked down the hallway and into the kitchen where you stopped in front of the fridge. Curiously, you peeked in to find your leftovers untouched, and you felt your resolve falter for a moment. Did it taste bad? Or did Charlie have no need for it because he was sustained by something else?

You took a deep breath to ground yourself. You had to stop thinking about this for your own sanity. Charlie and Mallory could move out to the countryside and have their perfect, beautiful academically-gifted, athletic, curly-haired, bright-eyed babies. You swore you’d wish him well when that day came. Maybe you’d even send him a gift basket. 

You were going to be fine.

You didn’t see Charlie until Friday evening after he’d arrived home from the train station. He intercepted you at the door just as you were about to leave for your night out. 

“Hold up, (Y/N). What are you doing next week?” Charlie asked, leaning against the doorframe. 

You felt as if you’d been punched in the gut. He looked so good. 

Composing yourself, you said: “You’re going to have to be more precise.”

“End of the workweek?” Charlie tried again. 

“I’ll be working.”

“Can’t take the time off?”

“I can’t afford to anymore.”

Charlie frowned. “That’s unfortunate.”

You put on a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I don’t have years worth of vacation banked up like you.”

“What about the weekend?”

“I’ll have plans.”

“They’re more important than me?”

“Maybe.”

“I like this new side of you, (Y/N),” Charlie remarked with a smirk. The same smirk that would’ve sent a heart-stopping shockwave through your body last week and left you dreaming the whole night. “I didn’t know you could tease like that.”

You now felt nothing but annoyance. Charlie obviously didn’t care enough to ask who your friends were or why you were blowing him off like this. 

“Thank you, Charlie,” you said amicably. “I’ll see you soon.” 

With that, you slipped out from the gap underneath his arm and hurried to the lift.  

Fred and George were more than ready to go when you joined them on the main floor of their shop. It was pitch-black outside and the shop was long closed, but they’d left a side door open for you. George already had a potent shot prepared for you which you happily accepted. 

“To another one of (Y/N)’s successful schemes!” proclaimed George as he clinked glasses with you and Fred. You threw back the shot with the boys. 

“What was the scheme again?” Fred set his glass down and exhaled in pleasure. “That’s some good stuff.”

”I think it was to throw her bloodhound parents off her scent,” George said. “By using Charlie.”

“Or to seduce our brother.”

George nodded. “We may never know (Y/N)’s true intentions.”

“Hey!” you protested. “That was not the reason.”

“I don’t know,” George tutted. “You seem to rather fancy living with him.”

“He’s not a terrible roommate. I like that he doesn’t talk incessantly like some people. You know, by trying to fill in any quiet gap.”

It was Fred’s turn to protest. “Hey!” 

“It’s true, though!” you laughed. “Charlie said you told him about our adventures in Care of Magical Creatures. Is that any detail you couldn’t have spared?”

“Oh, of course,” Fred stated. “There isn’t a soul in the world who doesn’t know about your failed adventures.”

You went quiet. The rush of bantering with Fred and George was washing out into a muted anger. So, Fred did tell Charlie you’d failed. Your voice was low when you asked: “Is that how you described it? My failed adventures?”

Fred stroked his chin. “Something like that. Maybe not those exact words. I said it was interesting he’d spend so much time around someone the complete opposite of him.”

“No, I reckon those were the exact words you used,” George said with a laugh. Neither men had picked up on the way your jaw tensed. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“How do you do reckon we’re the opposite?” you asked. You had to know.

Fred, still oblivious to the fact you were getting upset, answered honestly. “He’s a natural with beasts and creatures. You’ve no instinct for them—”

“And Quidditch, and the opposite sex,” George added. “Amongst other things.”

If this conversation had occurred on any other day, you would’ve belly-laughed yourself into the ground; you knew your faults. But today wasn’t any other day. You still had unresolved pain to contend with. Your mind instantly jumped back to Charlie and Mallory. Mallory was probably great at handling creatures and Quidditch, and if she had Charlie in the bag, then she was great with the opposite sex. 

“Is there anything you can’t keep to yourself?” you snapped. Fred finally picked up on your cues, your question slapping the grin off of his face. “Why do you have to hold the fact I failed that stupid elective over my head?”

“Whoa—what’s this about? You haven’t cared about this in 10 years.” Fred said in defence. 

“What makes you think I don’t care? I don’t go around telling people what you’ve failed!” 

“It’s just Charlie, (Y/N),” Fred rationalized. “He won’t hold it over your head.”

“I’m sorry, you mean the Charlie whom I’ve barely met until this September?” You inched closer to Fred. You wanted to hammer the point home, make him feel sorry for the first time in his life. “How about you give someone a chance to meet me before you give them an opinion of me?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“(Y/N), really,” George stepped in against your wishes, “He’s our brother, we know him. He really doesn’t care.” 

You wanted to scream. “Why do you think it’s just about Charlie?” But it was, it really was. “It’s about how you treat me in front of other people. Do you find it so humorous to take jabs at me?”

“Of course not!” Fred responded hastily, genuine worry in his eyes. “(Y/N), let me—”

You pounded the table with your palm. “Just forget it!” 

The shot glasses rattled. Fred took a step back.

George’s eyebrows furrowed. “(Y/N), let Fred—”

You threw your arms up in the air, exasperated. “Why don’t you talk to me when you’re ready to apologize?” 

You grabbed your coat and stomped out of the shop and out onto the cold, cobbled street. The door swung shut behind you and blocked out any last apologies if any were to be had. You waited for a couple seconds. Fred didn’t bother to follow you out. Of course he wouldn’t. And you weren’t going to look back to confirm it. 

Diagon Alley was afflicted with wintry darkness and a nippy front. It only got worse as you walked on, your face battered by headwinds. The cold winds stung your cheeks and froze the tears that had begun forming in your eyes. Not only was your friendship with Charlie deteriorating right in front of you, but you were letting how you felt about him dictate your feelings towards other people: Fred who unwaveringly had your back, and George who was just trying to help. You lost both of them in the span of one night and it was all your fault. 

As much as you tried to shake off your last name, you were a Malfoy through and through. Pleasant when people served your purpose, cold when you got what you wanted. You deserved to be standing here, shivering as you walked down the street with no one rushing up to put an arm or coat around you. 

Now where were you going to go? You couldn’t find refuge within your family. Hadn’t you worn down your relationship with them because of Charlie, too? You couldn’t go back to the shop with Fred and George—you were sure they resented you. You couldn’t go back to your apartment. But why even consider that? Charlie was probably taking advantage of your outing to escape under the covers with Mallory. 

And Charlie, oh, Charlie. If he wasn’t going to like you because of your poor handling of magical creatures, then he certainly wasn’t going to like you after the way you treated his brothers—his family. You kicked up a patch of dirt in anger and let the loose soil splay over your stockings. 

The thought of being alone and the pain shooting up your toe released the tears you’d been holding back. Once you started, you couldn’t stop. The salty stream trickled down your skin until they caught on the corners of your lips. You pulled your scarf upwards to mute the sob working its way up to your throat. And much like your tears, once the cries started, you couldn’t stop. 

You woke the next morning with a strong ache in your back and a pounding headache. Your lips were chapped, glued in certain spots from the lack of water. You pushed yourself off the scratchy pillowcase, your movement stirring a creak in the bed. The cloth that wrapped around the lamp beside you was mottled, and the gold paint scratched away to reveal the harsh grey base layer. 

Your sense of hearing came back when the pounding of your head retreated, but it was only to make way for the thudding of bodies and moans spilling out on the other side of the thin wall.  Your sense of smell came alive next, picking up on the smell of bacon grease wafting upwards through the floorboards. As if you couldn’t feel sicker.

How the mighty (Y/N) Malfoy had fallen, you thought as you scrunched up the starchy bedsheets. From her canopy bed in her mansion to a paper-thin mattress in a sketchy motel she checked herself into because she had nowhere else to go.

In the washroom, you did your best to comb out your hair with your fingers and wipe off the smudged makeup from under your eyes. You’d figure out the wrinkled clothing later on. At the very least, your topcoat would conceal the fact you slept in last night’s clothes. When you deemed yourself presentable, you walked onto the street and turned towards a different coffee shop.

A rush of blonde hair suddenly obfuscated your peripheral vision. You stumbled from the impact of two girls grazing your sides. You looked up in confusion at what had just happened.

“Girls, come back here,” a stern voice called out. 

The two girls turned back but caught your eyes first.

“(Y/N)?” the taller one called out.

Okay, now you were even more confused. “Clara?”

“That’s me!” she said. Clara ran over and threw herself in your arms. Still in a state of shock, you returned the hug. 

If this was Clara, then there was only one possibility as to who the other girl was. “Hello, Charlotte,” you greeted. Charlotte came sprinting over in a frenzy and enveloped you from the side. 

You never understood how Clara and Charlotte weren’t twins. They had a whole two years of genetic possibilities separating them, but they still maintained so much likeliness. It was as if Aunt Rosamund and your Uncle Leon copied and imprinted preset genes into their offspring. They both had Aunt Rosamund’s platinum blonde hair though wispier and wavier. They were both small and nimble, fairy-like in their stature. It was impossible to detach either girl from their love of reading fantasy and romance novels. You supposed childish wonder helped preserve their everlasting youth. 

Given that Clara and Charlotte were here, it could only mean one thing. The woman who’d called for them was none other than—

You turned around. “Hello, Aunt Rosamund.”

Aunt Rosamund quirked a pointed eyebrow at you, her inquisitive green eyes sweeping you up and down. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her silver hoop earrings perfectly complemented her white suit and cloak. She twisted her mouth which pulled her cheekbones—looking so much like her older brother, Lucius, in the process—meaning she was ready to pass judgement. You braced yourself. 

”Goodness, you look terrible, (Y/N). Did you sleep on the streets yesterday?”

Ouch. Well, at least it wasn’t your Uncle Theo. Things could be worse. 

“I had a long night. It’s been busy at work,” you responded. 

“You may benefit from a de-puffing potion,” Aunt Rosamund continued, now staring into your eyes. “I have a contact in Luxembourg who is the Chief of Operations at a cosmetic company that carries simply the best line of anti-aging products. I’ll set an appointment up for you.”

You touched your face, fingers grazing swells of your eyelids from all the crying you did last night. “Oh, this is temporary. It’ll fade.”

“Hm,” Aunt Rosamund said, half-believing you as she pressed her red lips together. 

“She doesn’t look like a vagabond, mother. I like it. It’s rather bohemian,” Charlotte commented sweetly as she smoothed out your topcoat for you. “And (Y/N) looks even more youthful with her puffy eyes.” Alright, bohemian and youthful—you’d take it. 

“So, what are you girls doing here?” you asked, trying to move the limelight away from your appearance. 

“We wanted to see Christmas in London!” Charlotte piped up.

Clara sighed wistfully. “There’s a certain sense of romance that lingers in the air here that you can’t find anywhere else.”

You were gobsmacked. These girls had the entirety of Europe in their little hands and they wanted to see Christmas here? “Really?“

“You should know, (Y/N)! You live here,” Charlotte harped. 

Even more puzzled, you stated: “It’s only November.”

Charlotte took your hand. “Sure, but we have to be back in Switzerland in December. And I can’t wait for you to visit us then.”

You squeezed her palm affectionately. “Me neither.”

”Come on, girls,” Aunt Rosamund called. “We have to be on our way to brunch. You can discuss your plans with (Y/N) when we arrive at your uncle Lucius’s at noon.”

“See you later, (Y/N)!” Charlotte said, giving you one last hug, before running off to her mother.

“Bye, (Y/N)!” Clara repeated. 

As the three ladies ambled on, you stood there motionless, wondering what the hell you had missed.

Charlie was on the couch when you ran into your apartment. You huffed as you shut the door, having sprinted here to make the best of the hour you were given before you had to be back at the Manor.

“Hey,” was the first thing out of Charlie’s mouth when he saw you. Were your eyes betraying you, or did he genuinely look concerned? “Where were you last night?”

“Uhm,” you stammered, his question really wedging you in between a rock and a hard place. Should you lie or lie? You didn’t feel like divulging about the night you spent crying in a dirt-cheap inn. “With Fred and George.”

Charlie’s shoulders released in relief. “That’s good. I was a little concerned when you didn’t come home.”

Well, didn’t that make two of you?

“I’m going to freshen up. I have family visiting today.”

Charlie perked up. Begrudgingly, you attempted to read him. Was he excited that you were going to be gone? Your absence would surely afford him more opportunities with Mallory. 

“Which side?” he asked. “Mum, dad?”

“My father’s.”

“Is it your Uncle Theo or Aunt Rosamund?”

You raised your eyebrows. “You remember?”

“I couldn’t forget your fantastic descriptions. So, who is it?”

“My Aunt Rosamund.”

“Do you need me to accompany you?”

Sharply, you said: “No.”

“Alright then,” Charlie said, falling back on the couch. “Don’t forget about me.”

“I’ll try my best, Charlie, no promises.”

You opened the door to your room and rummaged through the closet for an outfit that wouldn’t suffer the scrutiny of Aunt Rosamund. You heard the thud of footsteps drawing closer and stopped. 

“Before you go, (Y/N), can you think over one thing for me?” Charlie asked.

You almost laughed when you spun around. Charlie’s head looked like it was decapitated and hanging from the way he positioned himself at the door. “Depends on what it is.”

“Is there any Thursday and Friday you could take off?”

You frowned. 

Like how Alicia’s stories usually went, this was the part where the guy (Charlie) would try to win your affections back after realising you’d turned cold. Shower you with praise and compliments and his undivided attention. Charlie was about to feed and rescue you from the famine he started. And when you thought you were safe in his arms, he was sure to starve you for good. 

You weren’t going to let that happen. You weren’t going to be a crumpled mess on the floor again. 

“Sure,” you said coolly. “I’ll think about it.”

However deflated you sounded, it didn’t impact Charlie in the slightest. He looked as gleeful as the day he’d gotten his Hogwarts acceptance letter. “Aren’t you going to ask why?”

You placed a hand on your hip, willing to humour him one last time. “Alright, why, Charlie?”

When the response spilled from Charlie’s lips, you realised you had no playbook to navigate the question he’d just posed.  

>> NEXT CHAPTER

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

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[blorger]

The Great Longbottom Bully chronicles: friendly fire edition

What started as a humble Draco stan's attempt to re-evaluate his involvement with the oft-bullied Neville has quickly become a sentient behemoth of epic proportions (see: pt.1 & pt.2).

In this section, I will examine the unkind ways in which Neville is treated, both by the narration and by his own friends.

It came from inside the house (if by "house" we mean the author)

I always felt like, in the first books, Neville is treated rather callously in order to fit the stereotype of the go-to comic relief guy, but I was never able to articulate just why I felt this way. As I went though the books for the purpose of this exercise, I paid close attention the language used to portray him, starting with his physical description.

It's well documented that JKR uses fatness as a visual shorthand for a character's failings: from Vernon and Dudley Dursley all the way to Peter Pettigrew, her fat characters are portrayed as either comedically evil or somewhat pathetic (and sometimes both). The plus-size character she is perhaps kindest to is Molly Weasley and even then her fatness is used to place her in the archetype of the Mama Bear. In keeping with this theme - wherein a character can't just be fat because sometimes people are fat - one of the characters that gets this treatment is Neville, and it's done in order for him to better fit the stereotype of the clumsy oaf.

Up until the sixth book Neville is described as round faced and pudgy. He doesn't sit, he heaves himself, and in doing so he squashes things, often to comedic effect. Neville is clumsy and uncoordinated and his fatness is used in conjunction with that to really drive the point that he's not to be taken seriously home.

We can also see the role Neville is meant to play in the story by the way his emotions are portrayed: Neville spends his first 4 years at Hogwarts in a constant state of comically exaggerated fear.

I tried cataloguing all the descriptors used to indicate Neville's tone and I had to give up in shame because JKR seems to have gone ham on the thesaurus in order to signal Neville's anxiousness and timidity in increasingly creative ways; nevertheless here's some interesting factoids:

the verb used most often to describe Neville's tone is squeak (by a large margin) followed by choke, sob and moan.

Neville's most common state of mind is frightened - he speaks fearfully, he cowers, he is terrified - followed closely by sad - he speaks miserably, tearfully, unhappily - and anxious - he is jumpy, nervous, tremulous; he is twice "close to a nervous collapse".

When the narrative shifts to a more serious tone, around book 4, we see a sudden drop in the usage of these descriptors. As Neville's role in the story becomes more important, we notice the disappearance of what were once the hallmarks of his personality. All of a sudden, Neville is no longer forgetful and clumsy as apparently those traits cannot coexist with his new heroic persona (Neville 2.0. if you will). I would call this character growth if Neville retained at least some if his previous mannerisms; as it stands Neville's growth ends up reading more like a personality transplant (not unlike what happens to Ginny).

We can also observe this shift in character by the way his friends and peers interact with him, which brings me to the next section:

With friends like these, who needs enemies?

HARRY POTTER

Harry is generally kind to Neville but the way his kindness is presented often reads like condescension:

(PS, Neville tries to do Harry a solid and ends up joining him in detention)

Prior to OotP, their conversations are often superficial in nature and very short. Additionally, Harry does not seem to want to hang out with Neville a whole lot and often goes out of his way to avoid him.

(PS, Harry would like to learn wingardium leviosa without Neville, thanks)

It must be noted that, since the books are mostly told from Harry's point of view, many of the uncharitable descriptors used for Neville could also be attributed to Harry. It's an assessment I somewhat disagree with since the language Harry uses in his (explicitly stated and delineated) thoughts is often less harsh than the narration's.

BONUS HARRY WTF:

(from PoA, Harry is imagining how Sirius must have killed poor poor Peter)

This is one of those Harry remarks that kind of straddles the line between genuine character assessment and authorial dickishness. At this point in the story Harry doesn't know that Peter is a traitor and a murderer so, by imagining him to be Neville-like, Harry lets us infer that they are both to be seen as hapless and bumbling individuals. JKR does know who Peter really is, though, and she makes the deliberate choice of comparing the two.

RON WEASLEY

Ronald Bilius Weasley is not exactly known for his tact, there's no two ways about it. Furthermore, as our everyman character, it often falls on him to illustrate the status quo with his observations. From Ron we get gems such as:

(from PS)

+ BONUS HARRY

(Harry's corresponding nightmare in PoA)

The thought of Neville Longbottom on a broom strikes fear in the hearts of many, it seems. Neville's accident in PS's flying lesson and the ensuing chaos seem to be a core memory for the Gryffindors.

(CoS, Ron tries to make Hermione feel better about her muggleborn status by putting Neville down)

This sentence is important because it helps establish Neville's role among his peers. Not only it seems to be a universally acknowledged fact that Neville is hopeless at magic, it is socially acceptable for his classmates to say so.

and

(GoF, Ron makes sure we're aware that Neville is on the lowest rung of the Hogwarts social ladder)

This scene serves a dual purpose: yes, Ron is once again indicating that we're supposed to infer that Neville is an uggo and a loser, but he's doing so because he's secretly miffed that Hermione has someone to go to the Yule Ball with that isn't him. Ron contains multitudes.

(PS, Neville tries to enforce curfew, the golden trio has no time for rules, Snape is up to evil!)

I put this scene last, despite it occurring during PS, because it perfectly encapsulates what seems to be the general Gryffindor attitude towards Neville during the first books: Neville may be a hopeless dullard but he's their hopeless dullard, as such Gryffindors are the only people allowed to dunk on him (because they're Gryffindors and therefore inherently Good). Speaking of which:

GRYFFINDORS

Here's more excerpts that plainly show just what Neville's place among his fellow Gryffindors is:

(PS, Draco just cursed Neville)

This incident is treated as funny by everyone except Hermione (you go girl). The only problem Harry & co. seem to really have with what happened is that it's Malfoy who did the cursing, again letting us know that when a malicious act comes from a Gryffindor it's funny and also a prank but when it comes from a Slytherin it's bullying (here's a novel idea: why not both?).

and

(OotP, the twins are such pranksters LOL ROFLMAO)

See? It's ok if the mean-spirited joke comes from a Good Guy, why, Neville even joins in the laughter! How often must have this happened to Neville for him to have learned to laugh the embarrassment away? I wouldn't put such a big emphasis on this type of friendly fire if it happened in the context of a solid friendship based on mutual respect, but what we actually see in the books is that these "pranks" happen to Neville whilst he's still treated as somewhat of an outsider. These instances happen before the introduction of Neville 2.0 (now with more courage!), not after.

Just like with his gran's (and Snape's) bullying, both the language used to describe Neville and the opinion of his peers change completely once Neville 2.0 drops. From book 6 onward Neville is part of the hero squad and thus he can no longer be subject to ridicule. Up until then, though, we are clearly meant to laugh at Neville's expense and call me a party pooper but I find this to be rather mean spirited.

To cleanse our palates, I'd like to add a bonus section:

⭐️ The congratulatory gold star award for being a Decent Person ⭐️

This award goes to Hermione Jean Granger who, despite not being exactly known for her tact and delicacy, manages to constantly treat Neville with kindness and compassion, especially when he needs it the most:

and

(GoF, Barty Crouch jr. has just traumatized Neville by showing him the curse that ruined his parents' minds forever)

You go girl, and thank you for your service.