Why me? or The Real Midnight Duel

Ron woke at dawn the next day at the hospital wing, feeling confused and desperately aware that his head hurt like mad. Why was he here? He tried to remember last night's events, but it seemed impossible to concentrate because of the continuous hammering inside his head. He put a hand on his forehead, this easing the pain only slightly, and tried to think straight.

It started to come to him reluctantly and slowly, as if the pieces of the puzzle didn't want to fit but knew they eventually would. He and a friend had been walking near the forest late at night- it was Harry with him; his companion was Harry- and it was cold out, so Ron had suggested they bring cloaks. They both did, but Ron's cloak was older, too short for his height and all worn- no, Ron thought, I'm veering off track- and they had argued about bringing the invisibility cloak because the moon was out - Why am I always remembering the things I don't want to, like arguments and information I don't need? What does it matter what kind of cloaks we had with us? Now then, let's try and remember: what happened that night?

He determinedly struggled against the terrible headache, concentrating on their scene in the forest.

We found something. But I don't remember what . . . Very annoyed by now, Ron fought back inside his mind. But I do know, now what was it?! WHAT EXACTLY DID WE FIND? The inner voice seemed to sneer at him in delight at having made him angry again as it replied, ah yes. You know. Just try and figure out for yourself, why don't you.

Ron blinked in surprise. Was there someone in his head, hammering away and jeering at him? Either way, criticizing or even somehow helping, the voice at that moment disappeared- and Ron felt it go, along with his headache. Had Peeves somehow flown into his mind? NO, thought Ron, that most certainly wasn't Peeves. And if it were anyone at all, I'd rather believe it was me.

The trouble was, he was right. He never recalled having the strange feelings before. Now where could he have learned something like that, feelings of low self-worth? Certainly not from Malfoy.

And then it clicked. In his own way, Ron had found the answer. Now what mattered was what he had to do with the information. Ron groaned. Hermione was always better at this kind of stuff. But she was busy studying for exams (they were only nine months away) and wouldn't be bothered in another unimportant fight of Ron's. It was therefore obvious he had to ask Harry what happened, but somehow he didn't think that Harry would tell him the whole truth.

And he was right, as he found out afterwards...

***

Still very embarrassed about the night before, Harry didn't get much sleep. He had tried to carry Ron half the way back, accidentally dropping him several times before realizing his own stupidity. Later (after a long while of unsatisfactory results), he conjured up a stretcher and levitated Ron onto it.

When they finally reached the deserted Hospital Wing (Quidditch matches hadn't started yet and no one got colds this time of year), he recognized his poorly planned thought of what he was supposed to say to Madame Pomfrey. Ron, unconscious with leaves in his hair and a dirty footprint on his face, along with some scratches, didn't match Harry's hasty explanation of his friend falling down the marble staircase. Madame Pomfrey obviously noticed the footprint, asking him whether he thought Ron could've done that with his own foot when he "fell down the stairs", and Harry was then resigned to his other, more believable excuse- that he and Ron had gotten into a fight. Actually, this was true; they had gotten into a fight- just not against each other. Ron was the only one hurt, and since he was usually the one who won in fistfights, this was also highly unlikely for her to believe.

All the same, she asked no more questions, and after a muttered thank you for bringing Ron, told him to go back to bed.

Malfoy had caused more trouble than he was worth, and Harry had a suspicion that it would get even worse. His idea was confirmed when he met Ron in the evening and they had their talk.

***

They were in the common room, Harry sitting in an armchair much too big for him and staring blankly into the fire. Ron was sitting in his own, much smaller armchair, frowning at Harry in the shadows of many dancing flames. Was Harry avoiding him?

"Malfoy," Ron repeated. "What did he do to you?"

He betrayed me. We were supposed to snog.

There was a long pause, and Ron was getting impatient.

Silence again. Why won't he say anything?

"Harry?" Ron asked, a little cautiously, wondering if the Slytherin had obliviated his friend. That nasty little-

"Nothing. Draco didn't do anything."

Ron jumped in his chair as Harry suddenly spoke into the silence. Why was he acting so weird?

"Oh, so he just ran off, did he?" said Ron sourly, determined to know the truth so he had an honest reason to kill Malfoy later on.

Harry's answer once again startled him.

"Exactly," Harry replied, and there was complete truth in his eyes, as well as a kind of... sadness?

What was going on? And why in the world had he called Malfoy by his first name?

As Harry continued to say nothing, his strangely glazed eyes closed now, Ron truly started to worry about him. What had that prat Malfoy done to him in the forest after he got Ron out of his way?

A muffled snore to his left told him Harry had fallen asleep. Ron felt a mixed emotion of pity and disgust despite himself. It wasn't fair to think of his best friend that way. It would be acting the part of Draco Malfoy to start disliking him. Ron sighed. The reason no one liked or noticed him was because he had such a temper and a sarcastic nature, but also because he hated the blond boy no matter what anyone else said about him.

Another problem was that he wanted to keep it that way.

He ran a shaking hand through his fiery red hair, his face sketched with noticeable dislike and the ill temper boiling up that everyone knew him by. Everyone always wanted him out of the way. He tried his best to be a good friend, a good enough protector and companion, but not as everyone's enemy and just a useless "sidekick". Why wouldn't Harry, his best friend for many years, trust him? It didn't make sense, but these days he felt more and more like a tagalong with the famous boy who lived. A stalker!

Once again, Ron's large hands curled themselves into fists.

Malfoy...I'll get you for this...

***

It was cold as usual in the Slytherin dorm and Draco, shivering, reminded himself absently to complain to his father about it. Climbing out of his silky silver and green patterned quilt, Draco was abruptly reminded that Potter's eyes were the exact same color. He straightened in surprise of thinking that, and wondered what time it was. If it were six, he would still have time to perfectly lay down his beautiful hair. If it were seven, then he would have to settle for a light procedure. And if it was eight, then to hell with it; his hair was beautiful all the same.

Accustomed to not looking down at the pitiful house elf as it put his slippers on his feet, Draco glanced around the room in a resigned manner, carefully keeping his expression of usual arrogance without revealing his inner feelings. That Potter. He was always complicating things. Draco knew everyone served himself out of fear, but this was something else. Potter was really the victim of doing the exact things it was better not to do, and mixing up in things that it would have been best to leave alone.

That look in his eyes . . . what did it mean, exactly?

He wondered, distracted, as a pair of house elves, darting this way and that in their effort of not to be noticed, prepared his outfit for the day.

***

The embers in the grate of the Common Room long dead, it became noticeably chillier when Harry, slumped in his armchair, woke up the next day. The room was deserted, and not even Ron was there to greet him.

Trying to recall why he had felt so uncomfortable last night, Harry sank farther into his chair, looking more like an old rag doll than a person because of his odd position. Why had his life taken such an abrupt turn downwards?

Harry then remembered the events of the night before and shivered. Now he felt the combined embarrassment of the evening and the ugly feeling of fresh guilt that he had lied to his best friend upon him once more. Harry had gotten used to the loneliness and misery in his life that he had to deal with many times before, but he hated the times he and Ron fought. He at least felt a little better if Ron did not suddenly decide to abandon him when everyone else had already done it a million years before.

But, he thought, this situation was his own fault. Might as well forget about it and go down to breakfast, if they were still serving it so late in the afternoon.

Harry Potter got up out of his strange position, walked slowly across the room in low spirits, and climbed through the portrait hole, nearly tripping over his feet. A sixth year girl entering the room from breakfast heard him muttering vaguely and decided to ignore the young boy's strangeness. Harry Potter, after all, was known for it.

***