That was his best friend.
Harry did not look at him.
His shoulders hunched and his head lowered, he kept his eyes fixed on the empty plate before him, as though it held the mysteries of the entire universe.
He was avoiding him.
Avoiding his gaze in the most cowardly, most shameful way.
No accusation, no comfort, not even a single question.
Only silence.
A deadly silence that signaled which side he had chosen.
It was a wordless betrayal.
More deadly than any accusation.
Ron felt the air inside his chest drain away in an instant.
What crushed him was not Pheobe's rejection or his classmates' mockery.
It was this collective cutting of ties by those closest to him.
He stood, his chair toppling behind him with a dull crash.
But he could no longer hear it.
Like a walking corpse, his eyes hollow and his steps stiff, he passed through those sympathetic or contemptuous gazes and walked out of the Great Hall.
He had made his exit.
Under the table, Harry's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging deep into his palms.
It was not that he had failed to hear Ron's chair fall, or failed to sense the despair in that departing figure.
Anger, hurt, and a sting of pain at being doubted by his best friend tangled in his throat, leaving him unsure what to say.
Explain?
Amid the uproar of the entire Great Hall, his explanations would be so feeble.
Go after him?
He was equally stubborn in believing that he, the one who had not been trusted, had done nothing wrong.
So he could only remain silent, waging a wordless confrontation in this most hurtful way.
The forcibly suppressed chatter erupted like floodwaters bursting through a dam.
"Oh, Merlin's beard, did you see that? His