The Catastrophist

By: HogwartsBaybee

Genre: Drama/Romance

Rated: R (M) for strong language, as well as sexual and slash (no, not Ron) references

Disclaimer: I wish I owned the Harry Potter franchise – but I don’t – hence me involving myself in the fruitless yet sticky world of fanfiction.

Summary: A would-be one shot told in parts because the author is a bum. It’s all clear to Ronald Weasley now, his failing relationship with her among other things. As if J.K. Rowling at last told him the truth.

Author’s Note: Some aspects (title as well, obviously) are based on the fiction novel The Catastrophist, by Lawrence Douglas. Minor warning: this story is more for the Hermald lovers who are open-minded to a darker dynamic entwining itself with the pairing. Reviews oh so welcome, flames expected but not heeded.

Catastrophism (noun)
The prediction or expectation of cataclysmic upheaval, as in political or social developments.
Catastrophist (noun)
One who holds the theory of catastrophism.

“Since when do you smoke?”

Ronald Weasley let the question from his old friend linger in the air with the release of his last lungful, together fusing into the misty morning as a wisp of thin grey.

“Since my girlfriend fucks other men.”

Harry said nothing, staring at the fag dangling loosely from Ron’s pale, cracked lips. It was a more herbal cigarette, tinged green and smelling strongly of a familiar pungent spice – a scent he had known once in a different time, different place. It burned meekly at the end, as if the glowing orange heat struggled to not distinguish itself fully into bits of desiccated ash. Ron’s own mouth was twisted in a most curious way, drooping in the middle over what he held between his lips and pinched spitefully upwards at the corners.

Ron continued as if pressed by Harry’s silence, “And then I find their pack of fags in her drawers and think myself rather bright to have figured it all out… but then everyone knows Hermione’s not a smoker.” He reached into his trouser pocket and plucked out a small dented carton of Fliggel’s Finest, a discontinued hallucinogenic brand.

“Fuck mate,” Harry began, stopping short and then trying again, “Look, Hermione wouldn’t cheat on you Ron, and an old pack of cigarettes tells us shit to none about it,” Harry’s voice was strained and within his fallacious assurance lay a hint of remorse.

Ron’s watery blue eyes glinted like a murky lake iced over during the depths of winter, and they bore into the unnerved green gaze of his friend. “I should listen to you Harry, since you’re the fucking pro on being unfaithful, considering you cheated on my sister with some fucked-over blonde who you don’t even remember,” Harry opened his mouth to come back but Ron was fixed to finish the thought, “Yeah, you would know all about it then; I reckon you can perhaps sniff out Hermione going down on some other bloke before I could even find fucking evidence you’d deem legitimate.”

Harry pursed his lips into a tight line, though he had known this would predictably be brought up in Ron’s line of fire. It had happened three years ago: five and a half years after he defeated Voldemort at seventeen, two years after he started to date Ginny Weasley again, only a single year after he had given recognition to the fact that he was indeed bisexual, much to his chagrin. But he was the lone owner of that last verity.

Ginny had found a few single blonde hairs on their bed and immediately wrought hell over – her then best friend – Luna Lovegood’s life. When much evidence had obviously led to the fact that Harry had not slept with Luna, her conclusions became more madcap and varied, from Katie Bell (George Weasley’s fiancé) to Seamus Finnigan (who had abandoned the wizarding world on the brink of The War’s final battle day).

She had been closer with Seamus Finnigan, though it had been just some anonymous blonde wizard Harry had gotten piss-drunk with in the Hog’s Head by chance, certainly not his old Gryffindor House mate. Or so Harry hoped, the night was still agonizingly vague in his memory.

They had stumbled a long walk back to the flat Ginny and Harry shared in London with much tripping, fondling, and kisses along the way. Back in his room (Ginny on a short holiday with her mother), Harry had let the faceless male blow him off before he promptly passed out, the platinum-topped stranger gone in the morning.

But his stray hairs had stayed, and Harry’s bleary hangover vision had not allowed him to notice.

Harry had lied a labyrinth to get Ginny to believe it was drunken one night stand and naught more, but she had never trusted him again, really. They dated on and off, if at all between long months. He had come to be forgiven by the Weasley’s and other friends but they did not forget. Or fully know. He now thought it best to leave it that way.

As his mind had strayed to the disastrous event again, Ron just stood watching him, a malignant smirk overtaking his features. Ron didn’t do well with smirking, Harry thought, when he at last looked up from his musings and noticed the expression awkwardly placed into the dull lines of Ron’s face, as it demented his friendly features. Such a look was coined for a Slytherin, someone with a face not as freckled and forbearing as Ron Weasley’s.

But there it was.