The living room greeted the boy with its usual chaos—after all, Gryffindors were still kids, and even the "older ones" made no effort to impose any semblance of order, which was the norm outside of house gatherings. Everyone spoke loudly, constantly shouting over each other, laughing uncontrollably or arguing, calling each other names that would earn more than a stern look in polite society. Among Gryffindors, words like "Hey, you're an idiot!" or "Wanker" were the mildest insults, to say nothing of the rest of the foul language that was commonplace and heard daily. In the first few days, hearing such talk left Harry stunned—in his primary school, parents were swiftly called for a one-on-one meeting with the headmaster over such liberties. And some parents were firm believers in more physical discipline, ensuring that any mischief was knocked out of kids, at least until they could barely sit. Whatever the Dursleys were like, Vernon had never called him such names.
After the initial shock, Harry accepted these rules of the game, viewing it as the most fun adventure of his life, a sign of maturity, freedom, and house camaraderie. But Ron's shout from the other end of the room now grated on the dark-haired boy's ears with its "traditional" tone:
"Hey, Harry, what the h— were you doing, sleeping in the Hospital Wing for two days?" The redhead's face was flushed with obvious impatience and unhidden curiosity. Ron's desire to hear the whole story immediately filled Harry with disgust.
On one hand, Ron was a friend, his first and only friend. He was always around, though how could he not be when he slept on the bed right next to Harry's?
He was fun and energetic, but for some reason, it was always Harry who had to pay for Ron's mischief.
Ron always stood by Harry, but after reevaluating his behavior, Harry realized that Ron only helped in the troubles he caused himself. That duel with Draco Malfoy, or the first flying lesson when the redhead got into it with the blond Slytherin—those ended with Harry having to defend himself. Counting the whole string of such "little things," Harry concluded that all his problems at Hogwarts stemmed from Ron's recklessness.
Thinking about this puzzle a bit more, the dark-haired boy didn't respond to his red-haired friend. He merely waved his hand in the direction of the noisy group of first-years and headed upstairs toward the boys' dormitory.
Hermione Granger, a bushy-haired, brown-eyed girl and Harry's best friend, ran after him, calling his name several times, but received no answer. Stopping midway up the stairs, she paused in thought. It seemed to her that what had happened to her friend down there, in the room where the Philosopher's Stone had been hidden, wasn't so simple. She had waited for him for two whole days, and today, he hadn't even shown up for lunch, though Madam Pomfrey had told her that she had discharged him before breakfast. Hermione didn't blame herself for missing breakfast, but now it seemed he had been wandering around alone and only just now appeared, before dinner. Harry looked rather gloomy and silent—he glanced in their direction for just a few seconds, waved, and headed straight to bed. Should she wait for him to come to dinner or go without him? Should she wait for his story or ask directly?
Then it hit her—she had never seen such an expression on her friend's face before: disgust, bordering on revulsion. Who had pushed him so far that he ignored all his friends without saying a word?
Suddenly, her cheeks flushed red—she remembered Ron's recent outburst and felt ashamed.
Harry's blatant disregard had deeply hurt Ronald, the youngest of the Weasley sons and the self-proclaimed best friend of the Boy Who Lived. After his triumphant victory in chess, where the red-haired boy had employed his new genius tactic to beat Dumbledore's own challenge, and after acquiring numerous heroic scars, he had returned to the Gryffindor tower and eagerly awaited the bespectacled boy's arrival, so that Ron's star would never again fade from the horizon.
That evening, after a speedy release from the Hospital Wing, where they hadn't appreciated his terrifying wounds, he spent his time alone, without even hinting at the adventure of the century that had happened with the Golden Trio, in which he—Ronald Weasley—had played a very important role. Confirmation from the Boy Who Lived would elevate his status to the skies. The twins, Percy, Charlie, and even Bill would be impressed by the bravery and valor of their youngest, "clumsy" brother. No one would call him "little Ron" anymore! No one would tease him or brush aside his desires. Mom would no longer scrimp on him, and he'd get a new wand, new clothes, and maybe, if Harry didn't forget to highlight his role in protecting the Philosopher's Stone from the Dungeon Horror, Professor Snape, by second year, Ron would return to Hogwarts with his very own brand-new broomstick! Just to be sure, he should make a note about that.
Indulging in these rosy dreams and wonderful visions, the red-haired boy fell asleep in the common room, never waiting for his friend, who would be his ticket to a wonderland and a better life.
In the morning, when Ron was awakened by the noise of the others getting up, he slipped into his dormitory, hoping to find his partner there—but he didn't. Harry's bed was empty, and it seemed no one had touched it.
On one hand, this puzzled Ron greatly, but on the other, it filled him with frustration. Worrying thoughts and expectations clouded his mind. His plans, hopes, and dreams seemed to be slipping from his grasp. The magic of first impressions would fade with time, without ever creating the image he needed.
Hermione didn't know Harry's whereabouts either and eventually just waved her hand and ran off to her studies. Ron didn't chase after her—why bother, when she'd tell him everything eventually, whether they wanted to know or not. So the red-haired boy joined the other Gryffindors and headed to breakfast.
Ron spent the whole day in the Gryffindor common room, restless, playing with carefree Dean and Seamus at Exploding Snap, Gobstones, or chess, only leaving to eat.