Carve Me A Grave With My Name On It

Dawn seemed to arrive too early for Ron's fondness that next morning. It meant he would have to dress for breakfast, enter the Great Hall alone, avoid Harry, Hermione and everyone else for that matter, and attend classes. He decided to wait till classes were off for the day before he'd start writing to his family and then end his existence. But something more had bothered him that early sunrise.

As he had not a single wink of sleep during the night, Ron had took the time to think more, even after Harry's return. He began to feel a determination to do what he had in his mind. The next day would be his last, and nothing would stop him. As guilty and selfish it made him feel, Ron knew everyone would get over it. Ron knew no one had truly cared about him. What would make them change now?

Strangely though, Ron felt a sudden chill in the air around him. Normally he would've thought he was on the edge of insanity, but he had thought he heard voices. His skepticism was conformed as the voices gradually increased in volume. The most unusual thing about it was that it made him feel doubtful. He could feel his wall of willpower starting to crack and crumble till he was again filled with confusion. Good gods, he had remembered thinking.

"Why did he do it?"

It was a female speaking. The voice didn't address Ron, but it sounded so familiar to him.

"I..." The voice faltered. This one was male. "I don't know exactly."

"You don't think he knew... Do you?"

"You don't think it was..." Again the male hesitated.

"No..." It sounded as though the girl was starting to cry. He could even hear the deep breaths she took as she spoke. "Ron, no! You didn't... Please... No... Come back... No... I could've changed... I didn't know..."

The voices were drifting away. The last syllable of the girl's voice seemed to carry on forever. Truthfully, it was the girl's last words that left Ron in a state of anxiety and confusion. He realized whom the voices belonged to; he wasn't a fool. It was Hermione. And Harry, he added to himself as an afterthought. But the voices left him clutching his sheets, eyes wide.

"No," Ron spoke suddenly. He wasn't worried to wake anyone. They were all in deep sleep. "You can't change my mind! I won't let you."

His strength was returning. Perhaps the voices were only his conscience taking swings at his wall of will. Although, they left him wavering between the rights and wrongs of his actions, but he knew that there was one thing to do. He would do it regardless of what his mind was telling him. It was time for him to do what his cold broken heart demanded.

Ron remained in his bed till sun slowly rose from its own bed on the horizon. All he did that night was stare at the insides of his four-poster. All he did was contemplate and allow his conscience to wreak havoc on his sanity. By the morning he decided that he'd not only write to his family, but he'd also leave something little for Hermione. He figured it was the thought of her taking the aftermath that caused his instability that night.

But then again, what does she care? he reminded himself, now she'll have Harry all the time.

"She never cared, and I doubt... No, I know, she'll never change," the boy voiced in a hoarse whisper to himself as he threw his legs over the side of the bed.

After chucking his old robes he never changed out of for the night on the floor ("I'll clean it later," he had promised himself.), the tired red head gathered a fresh new load and drowsily stepped into the bathrooms to shower. No one else was up yet, so he had free reign of the bathroom's perks. Hot water was a new thing for him, since he would usually be up the latest in the morning and his parents didn't have the money for heated water. But it didn't matter; he wasn't in the mood for heat.

Ron let the ice cold water hit like a bucket of knives. Silently, he almost hoped that they really were knives. The urge to see his own blood made him almost hungry for pain. But he could wait. Convincing himself a while ago he would never do something petty like cut himself for a way to vent out hidden emotions, he reminded himself that the real act of self-revenge was only several hours later. He could wait.

The icy shower left Ron feeling fresh, though his emotions were still running on high. Taking his time, he pulled his clothes on and decided to take a good look at himself in the mirror, since the boys still weren't awake. He took out his watch again, and saw that it was only 6:30 AM. He pocketed it and sauntered over to the mirror. One last look before it's over, he told himself.

"Like what you see, do you? Pansy prat," the mirror had said to him.

"Shut up, stupid inanimate object," Ron snapped at it.

As swift as he could, he whirled around and commenced his journey to the Great Hall for breakfast for the last time, alone. He didn't know exactly why he tried to dramatically stride to the large hall. Perhaps it was the fact that it didn't matter to him, how foolish he looked. Hey, Snape does it all the time, his mind reminded him. What am I doing trying to act like Snape? he then mentally scolded himself.

Ron continued his outing to the hall in his Snape-like fashion. Suddenly, it struck him as amusing.

"Look at me, I'm Severus Snape, and I'm a lousy git of a potions master. Watch me as I strut through the corridors with my robes billowing out behind me as though I were an overgrown bat" he laughed out.

Perchance, it was a little too loudly that he laughed for the real potions master rounded the corner that Ron was coming to. He stopped in his tracks, a little nervous as to whether or not the older man had heard Ron mocking him. Snape only walked over to him. He glared at Ron, as though he were shooting daggers at him with only his eyes. I wish he really would, he mused.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," was all the slimy haired man said. In his normal striding fashion, Snape continued walking.

Ron didn't dare, nor care, to look back at him. He had lost twenty points from his house just for having a bit of fun. Starting up his pace again, he too continued walking towards his destination. Unfortunately for Ron, the remaining distance to the Hall was short and uneventful. Such things depressed him, but he was used to it.

"Oh bugger," he said to himself as he entered the Great Hall. The place was completely empty, except for the High Table. The only occupants there at the time were McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor, and Flitwick. They looked at Ron questioningly as he entered, alone and silent. Their gazes never left him until he sat down at Gryffindor table, where Ron sat with his back toward them, only so he couldn't tell if they looked at him or not. Perhaps they cared to watch him because it was quite unusual for Ron to be seen without accompanying Harry and Hermione, let alone for a student to be up at such an early hour. Perhaps they'd even seen the look of defeat and sadness on his face. As though they'd care, he thought.

Alone and cold Ron sat in the large hall. There wasn't much to eat at the time; the house elves had probably only begun to prepare breakfast. He helped himself to a glass of pumpkin juice. Taking a long drink from his glass, he decided to get a start on his letters to Mum and Hermione. No one would notice him writing a letter about his own death, for it seemed like he was only finishing the last of his assignments. But then again, he thought bitterly, no one would notice period. And so, taking out some parchment, a quill and ink, Ron began his letter.

Dear Mum,

I don't know when you'll get this and I don't know if you've already gotten word...

Bloody stupid way to start a letter to your mum, now isn't it Weasley? he mused. He ignored his thoughts and continued on.

... Don't be upset and don't worry about me. I'll be fine where I'm going. Wherever it is that I'm going. Heck, maybe I'm not going anywhere! Maybe I'll stay here, be a ghost and share the first floor girls' toilet with Moaning Myrtle...

Ugh, forget it, Weasley. Ron threw his quill aside, packed his ink away and took another gulp of pumpkin juice. He read over what he wrote and laughed at his own inanity. His letter could've been written by a five year old and still it could've been written better. He set the parchment down on the table and took a good look around at the Great Hall. The windows were giant and arched, he noticed, and let sunlight pour inside the chamber like a waterfall would water. The enchanted ceiling gave the impression of the outside sky, bright with the sun, and blue with hints of pink and orange. One would think such a morning was too brilliant, but little did it know about the suicidal plans forming in the mind of Ron Weasley.

There was a medley of giggling, laughter and conversation heard coming from the corridors outside of the Great Hall. The rest of school was finally awake to seize the day and attend their classes. They didn't enter all at once, the students. Slowly they surged into the hall and sat at their appropriate tables. It took nearly an hour and half for the whole school to sit down for breakfast. Ron hadn't noticed his surroundings before. Nor hadn't he noticed that his two former best friends had just arrived.

"Hey Ron," greeted Harry. Ron avoided eye contact, but gave him a nod of the head. Harry looked down at the parchment Ron had been writing on. "What have you got there?"

Panicking, Ron realized he had left his letter clear in sight. Harry was about to grab it, but Ron snatched it away before he could have the chance to read one word of it. He shoved it into his bag, making sure it wouldn't ever fall out, or be found. Relieved that he had almost given away his plans, he saw it fit to answer the scarred boy as casually as possible.

"Just some last minute writing assignments...."

Harry and Hermione gave him strange looks.

"You know, the essay from Professor Binns..." Ron started to panic. They sat there, in front of him, looking at him as though they could see right through him. "The one about the muggle religions and how wizards helped carve their beliefs... You know, that one."

He almost pleaded for them to believe him. But it was true that they had such an essay.

"Ron, that essay was due 2 weeks ago," stated Hermione, matter-of-factly.

"Well, I handed it in, but dead and decayed Binns wanted to me to rewrite... And so I have," he replied as suavely as he could.

"Oh," she said, piling some pancakes onto her plate. Never would she truly look at him. The action was one that broke away at his heart consistently. "Would you like me to check it over for you?"

"No!" Ron almost yelled. Hermione finally looked at him directly in the eyes. Or at least she tried. Ron wouldn't permit her to see the sadness in his eyes. He wouldn't allow himself to look at her either. He wouldn't let her see the tears form in his eyes as he thought about how much he had loved her, and she'd brushed him off. Tears were burning his sockets that were already in pain from lack of sleep. There was no way he could let his so-called friends see him in his state of pain. "I have to go to the library."

"But, you haven't eaten anything!" Hermione called at his back, as he raised from the table to go.

"I had juice before you came," he spoke softy. Funny for you to care, a voice roared in the back of his head. Not even taking one last look at the breakfasting bunch of students, Ron headed for the door.

"Since when did you ever go to the library" Harry's voice yelled.

He chose to ignore it and kept walking further, hanging his sleepless, tiresome head. At the door, Ron stumbled into someone. Without even apologizing, or looking back, he continued walking.

"Mr. Weasley," came a voice. It petrified Ron only because that voice belonged to the headmaster. He had walked into Dumbledore, hadn't noticed nor apologized. Bloody git, Ron yelled at himself. "Not staying for breakfast, young man?"

"No, sir," he kept his head down, "I'm not really in the mood for it."

"Ah, I see. Carry on then, but please, do hold you head up and watch where you're going." He looked thoughtful for a second, and the old man gazed down slightly to glance at the boy in front of him. "If ever you need anything... You know where I am."

For the first time, Ron looked up at him. The old man's eyes seemed to lack in something. Fire, Ron told himself. But he knew it was because of the ongoing war with the Dark Lord. He was sure his own eyes, too, were missing something. Perhaps Dumbledore could read his eyes and his heart. Maybe he could tell what Ron had planned for himself. No, a voice called, no, Weasley, he doesn't know. For all the man knew, he probably thought that Harry and he had only been in a fight, and Dumbledore would only tell Ron to give the boy break. Just like everything, no one cared about him, they only worried for Harry.

With that, Ron left the hall, and continued his walk. But it wasn't not to the library, but to the Astronomy Tower.