Complicated

CHAPTER FIVE

Ron frowned, as he accidentally blotted the parchment he was writing on. Tossing away his quill, he stared dully as the inkblot spread, becoming larger and larger. "Damn it all!"

With a sweep of an arm, Ron brushed his belongings off the table and into his bag, not caring if the essay he'd been working on got wrecked. Then, glumly, he rested his chin on his hands, staring determinedly at a particular book on a shelf to his right.

Stupid Malfoy. Why did he have to be such an arse all the time? Ron growled. He never should have thought anything good about that Slytherin bastard! There wasn't a pinch of goodness in that stony heart. Ron should've known the wanker would turn around and yell like a bitch before stabbing Ron in the back like he had. I never shoulda trusted him, the slimy, pale-faced little rat. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I HATE him!

There was no point spending energy on Malfoy, Ron decided. The boy had shown the potential of being a good person at nighttime, but as soon as daylight broke, Malfoy was a monster. Why had Ron trusted that Malfoy would treat him differently, respect him, even after all that had happened? Ron was determined to not think about him, talk about him, or even so much as say the name Malfoy.

Ron's chair suddenly tilted forward, causing his chest to slam into the table, winding him. Turning around, breathless, Ron wondered who would decide to play such a stupid joke. Ears flushed red, surprised, the frown slipped from his face as he mumbled, "...Malfoy?"

Malfoy smirked. His hands still rested on the arms of Ron's chair, all evidence pointing to him as the person that had decided to play yet another nasty joke on Ron. Of course, tipping a chair was one of the milder 'jokes', but still, Ron mused, Malfoy was obviously satisfied, judging by that smirk. Growling, Ron shoved Malfoy's hands off of his chair, and standing up, he raised a fist; his only desire was to wipe the smirk off of Malfoy's face as quick as he could.

However, his fist never ended up slamming into Malfoy. Or rather, it never slammed to hit Malfoy's stomach, jaw, or nose (Ron wasn't sure which part he wanted to hit). Instead, his fist slammed into the palm of Malfoy's hand, creating a loud smacking sound. Ron stared at his fist, and then looked at Malfoy. He'd been blocked! Why that little toad and his Seeker reflexes, stopping Ron's blow from hitting!

Ron was about to speak, his mouth open, when IT happened.

One moment, he was about to start yelling at Malfoy, his anger boiling so fast and so much he thought he would burst. The next moment, Malfoy kneed him in the groin. Gasping through the pain, Ron doubled over in shock. Merlin, how it hurt! A million expletives came to mind, but Ron was in too much pain to say any aloud. Squeezing his eyes shut, Ron tried to stop his eyes from watering. He let out a humiliating groan of pain as he fell to the floor on his knees. Trust Malfoy to do this when no one else was in the library to see it. The little coward, striking so dishonorably, at a time no one would have expected, at a spot Ron definitely hadn't expected to be hit at! Goddamn that little shit, he was going to KILL him!

Gritting his teeth, Ron attempted slowly to stand up. His legs felt like they'd had the jelly-legs hex put on them! Crouched low, his every limb wobbly, Ron panted with the effort, one thought in his mind: Kill Malfoy.

Before he could entirely recover and carry out his plan, though, Ron found himself shoved hard against a bookshelf. Spluttering and cursing, he was about to take the advantage away from Malfoy, when Ron noticed a few things. Firstly, those hands were rested on his hips, a place Ron found unusual, since it was obvious Malfoy hadn't the strength or the size to try and wrap his arms around Ron to crush him. Secondly, Malfoy hadn't punched or kneed him yet - not so much as a stomp on the toe! There was no sign of aggressiveness. And thirdly, that look in Malfoy's eyes, Ron noticed with increasing wariness, was not fury! Or hatred, or anything of the like...

Ron gulped. What was Malfoy on about? What with all the weird experiences Ron had had with Malfoy recently, Ron wasn't sure what to think of the Slytherin, anymore. Was there a chance that Malfoy wasn't so evil as Ron thought? Seriously, what was with the changes in attitude? Maybe Malfoy's just gone totally bonkers, Ron thought. Assuming that to be the cause of it all, and not wanting to consider any other possibilities, Ron decided he didn't want a madman pinning him to a bookshelf.

But when Ron tried to push Malfoy away, he found the boy had latched onto him like a leech. There was no way the blonde was letting Ron get away! A furious struggle ensued, in which Ron tried every which way to get away from Malfoy, including stomping on toes, tugging hair, choking, attempting to do the same that Malfoy had done to him by kneeing him in the groin, and even biting the Slytherin in the neck! Nothing worked, though. Malfoy, who Ron found to be surprisingly strong, kept Ron pinned. Even worse was that Ron found that a strange result came of him biting the other boy. His teeth were against the other boy's skin digging in enough to draw blood, the smell of sweat, boot polish, and cologne almost sending Ron over the edge - it smelt so strange. Then, as Ron flicked a tongue out to lick a drop of blood away, that was when he heard it: a low moan.

Immediately Ron's head shot up, bumping Malfoy's chin in the process and causing a click of teeth. Eyes wide, Ron leaned away from Malfoy. He knew what kind of moan that was. Heck, he was sixteen; he'd pleasured girls before! Of course, he'd never gone even close to 'all the way', but he was old enough to know what the moan symbolized: arousal. Pleasure. Lust. These were by far NOT feelings Ron wanted to make Malfoy feel!

And yet, when Ron looked down at Malfoy's neck, and saw a few drops of blood left, he couldn't help but hunger to lick them up. It felt wrong to want it; the wrongness of it all made him shudder. But he still wanted to do it. He wanted to lean down and slowly lick the blood away, taste the salty tang rich on his tongue, revel in it, hear another moan come from that throat as a result. Ron shut his eyes tight. What on earth was he thinking? Was he even thinking at all? What did he think he was doing, lusting after Malfoy? Could it get any worse?

Ron sucked in a harsh breath. His arms out, he gripped the books to either side of him for dear life, his head thrown back, eyes shut tight. Yes, it certainly could get worse! If he weren't definitely going out of his mind, he would say he was 100% sure that Malfoy's knee was pressing to his crotch. Repeatedly. The pressure was increasing with each grind. Grinding again. And again. Fuck, could the boy grind any harder? Ron wished he could. Oh, damn! Ron moaned. If Malfoy could grant all the other wishes that flooded into Ron's hormonal mindset at that moment, Ron would die happy. But wait, no...that position was physically impossible, wasn't it?

Finally, after a few moments more grinding, Ron gasped, "Stop." The grinding continued. "I said STOP!"

Malfoy stopped grinding. Exhaling heavily, Ron opened his eyes. He looked down at Malfoy, and opened his mouth to speak, when he suddenly found a pair of soft lips pressed against his. What the...!

Angry, Ron tried repeatedly to shove Malfoy away, with no success. Grumbling at his failure, he instead chose to vent out his anger through the kiss, pressing his lips hard in reply and combing his fingers through the blonde's hair as he did so.

Ron had never experienced a kiss like this. Not only was it from a boy, but also it was passionate. All the girls' kisses he'd ever gotten had been soft, gentle, firm, but never so...so wild! Those lips pressed so hungrily Ron feared being swallowed, that hot tongue begging entrance into his mouth, sliding to press it's heated softness against Ron's firmly clamped closed lips again and again.

Another furious struggle ensued, in which Malfoy tried over and over to get his tongue in Ron's mouth, and Ron refused. However, eventually both boys' lips were so bloodied that someone had to lick, and in doing so Malfoy managed to edge his tongue in Ron's mouth.

It was the strangest, newest sensation. Ron had never dared slip a tongue in or let a tongue slip in before. Malfoy's tongue flitted here and there in his mouth, brushing every area, sliding hot and sensual against Ron's tongue. After less than a moment or two though, it became too much, and Ron pulled away quickly, gasping for breath like a fish out of water.

Ron opened his eyes once he'd recovered. He turned to see Malfoy walking away, hands brushing against immaculately clean robes for imaginary lint. Pulling his hair in frustration, Ron rushed to Malfoy's side. They walked like that for a few moments through the library, neither saying a word. At one moment, Ron realized his long strides were too much for the blonde--Malfoy had to walk quickly to try and match one of his steps. Ron chuckled. This didn't even earn him a glare, but he did notice Malfoy's chin tilt up a bit higher. Pompous prat.

Silent, Ron followed Malfoy out of the library, never turning his head to glance straight at the other boy, just as Malfoy never even spared him a single glance. It was as if he wasn't there.

Too furious to hold it in anymore, and wishing he didn't get so hard just by looking at the other boy for more than five seconds, Ron finally stopped walking. Before Malfoy could walk past, he grabbed the other boy by the shoulders, spinning the blonde around to face him.

Face and ears red as a tomato, Ron growled, "You know what? I like you. I actually like you, all right? When we talked that one night, and you were honest, I liked you. You're really not all that bad. When we talk one on one like that, and you're not around any of the other Slytherins...you're really an okay bloke. Or at least, that's what I thought. But you might just have proved me wrong. Tell me something. Just one thing! Why'd you have to and make things so complicated? I see the way you're acting like you're somebody else. It's really fucking frustrating, you know. What is your problem, Malfoy? One moment you're telling me to accept you as more than an enemy, a Slytherin, and a Malfoy, the next, you're showing all the cruel traits that I've previously attached to those labels, and being nothing but a fucked-up bastard to my face. Why show me who you really are, and then turn around and be a fucking shit head that everyone can't help but hate, including me? How do you switch from one to the other? I don't like this multiple personality game. Stop one, or kill the other, for fuck's sake!"

Frowning, Malfoy shoved past Ron, saying quietly, "Forget about it, Weasley."

Ron turned around, gaping as the other boy walked around the corner. Then, feeling the adrenaline rush through him again in anger, he ran after the other boy. He caught up soon. Standing in front of Malfoy, Ron stood with his arms crossed. He was surprised Malfoy didn't try and get past him. Cracking his knuckles, Ron snarled, "You didn't answer my question, Malfoy! I want an answer. Tell me. Why do you go on with the pretending crap? Why d'you have to go and make things so complicated?"

Sighing, Draco simply said in reply, "It's difficult the other way."

"That's the way it is. Life's like that, okay? You make mistakes, you have people reject you, you feel broken, you hate, your ego gets stomped on...but you keep going. Like dad and me mum say: Take what you get. Don't fake who you are. You don't want to be a fool, do you? You sit there, with everyone else watching you're back, like you can't relax. You're trying to be cool, but you're not. You look like a fool, to me! So tell me...why d'you have to go and make things so complicated?"

For a moment, all was silent. Ron stood completely still, his eyes locked with Malfoy's. Those eyes were oceans Ron felt he would drown in if he stared into them long enough. He found himself riveted to the sight of Malfoy, suddenly noticing every detail. The way Malfoy tilted his head slightly in thoughtfulness. The way the blonde bit a glossy, manicured nail, or moved his head slightly to get a strand of hair out of his vision. The way his hair and eyes seemed to glow ethereal silver in the light. Ron found himself speechless, for a moment.

Then, composing himself, Ron asked, "Well?"

Frowning, Draco looked straight at Ron, saying, "Well, what? Things are complicated for you because I like to take the easy way out for myself. It's easier to pretend than to face the hell I'd face if I told and showed everyone what I told and showed you. I would leave myself vulnerable. I would have to watch my every step, to go about life the hard way. I don't want to do that. I refuse to do it the hard way, and you can't make me!"

Ron frowned. Shaking his head, he growled, "Fine then. You know what? Just forget about it. If you want to go on doing things easy, wasting away your life, then you do that. Whatever makes you comfortable. Just pretend like everything's the way it was between us, and continue being a jackass to the whole world. I don't give a shit, anymore."

With that said, Ron turned around, and walked back the way he'd come.

He felt eyes on his back, but forced himself to not look back. Looking back would be giving Malfoy another chance.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Grumbling to himself, Draco buttoned the last button of his white collared shirt, brushing his hands down it to make sure there were no wrinkles. As far as wearing the deep green overcoat went, he didn't feel like it just now. The tie would be enough. Besides, everyone knew he was Slytherin anyway. Uniform could get quite irritating sometimes, honestly!

Toweling his hair a bit to get it dry, he twisted the shower knob one more time to make sure the water didn't drip, and then tossed the towel away, in the direction of the pile of towels on a shelf by the entrance.

"HEY! What the-"

Draco jumped at the sudden voice. Who would be in the Quidditch shower room at this time? All the Gryffindors were off celebrating their win, and the Slytherins were off to dinner early; he was always the last one out, wanting to be alone during and after his shower. It was relaxing to have solitary peace and quiet after a match.

Turning around in one swift move, Draco swore under his breath. It was Ron. The boy stood a few feet away from Draco, a disgusted look on his face, holding the towel Draco had thrown in front of him, questioning. Draco looked away. He didn't have to give Ron an explanation--so what, he'd thrown a towel? Frowning, Draco turned back around, making sure to put his tie on as slowly as possible. He'd been avoiding Ron ever since their meeting in the library, because no matter how much he tried to forget, his mind eventually went back to the nights they had talked, and the closeness he'd felt to Ron; he wasn't sure if he was able to pretend in front of Ron that none of it mattered to him, when actually it did. It mattered a lot. He'd been rejected thrice now, and it hurt, but he was too proud and too angry to let Ron see it.

Besides, Draco figured, it was pointless trying to develop a relationship with the Gryffindor. Other than the high bias Ron obviously held against Slytherin House, there was their past of being enemies to consider. Draco had given Ron every reason to hate him, so it was perfectly understandable that Ron, who didn't understand him, would reject him, even though Draco had actually shown Ron his true feelings, and talked to the boy one on one, heart to heart. But then he'd been given another two chances, and realized that his words and actions had affected Ron. He'd thrown away those chances though, out of anger and fear.

Draco would never say it aloud, but he feared a lot of things. One of the things he'd once feared had been rejection - now, he needed not fear that, because he'd been through it thrice. Another thing he feared though was rejection from everyone else. He had felt secure and powerful around the Slytherins, his comrades, before Ron. Now, he'd lost that security around them, was always nervous, and knew that if he worked to develop his relationship with Ron like his heart desired, he would lose his power, and everything else he'd worked to achieve for so many years--a reputation, power, prestige, admiration, would be lost. He had everything his father wanted him to have. As for what HE wanted himself to have--Ron--it was hopeless to try and achieve that. Ron hated him. Again.

The truth was, however, that Draco did not want Ron to hate him. Draco did not desire Ron's hatred, but he'd bungled it up far too much in his first and second years, the years he'd tried to deny his feelings towards Ron, to go back. The entire time Draco had taunted and bothered Ron and his friends as much as possible, he had actually wanted to be Ron's friend. But the board was set, and there was no changing it: Weasleys hated Malfoys, and Malfoys hated Weasleys. It had been set in time this way far back in the history books. Ron had hated Draco as soon as he laid eyes on him, even not knowing Draco. And then Draco had fed this hatred by repeatedly proving to Ron that he was exactly who Ron judged him to be. Draco hadn't wanted to, but he hadn't known what else to do, hadn't wanted to go against his father, and had thought he could push his attraction to Ron away.

Draco had found himself unable to do this, though, and after being rejected the first and the second times, and now, after the third time, he figured he might as well continue to feed that hate.

Draco was sick of it all. He didn't want to pretend to be someone else, didn't want to pretend to hate Ron, to pretend nothing had happened. But he had to. Just the sight of that boy made Draco unknowing of what to do with himself, and he hadn't stopped Ron from concluding that he would not change himself for Ron's sake, so maybe he was better off being, in Ron's eyes, the epitome of evil.

Draco looked up from his tie. How long had he been standing here? Apparently, it was a long time, for he realized as he finishing tying his tie that Ron was not standing behind him anymore. The sound of running water met Draco's ears, and he realized with a shiver that Ron was in the shower, as he glanced to the left and noticed a pile of clothes and a towel sitting beneath the towel rack.

Picking up his belongings, Draco tried to resist the temptation to look to his right, where the sound of the running water came from. Slowly, he picked up his Firebolt, sliding it into its special broom case, gripping the handle hard. He threw his green overcoat over his shoulder, and stuffed his Quidditch uniform in a duffel bag. A smile turned up the corners of his mouth slightly as he heard the distinctive sound of Ron humming something while showering; it sounded like a Celestina Warbeck song.

Hefting his bag over his shoulder, Draco prepared to walk out of the room. He saw a puddle of water in front of him a moment too late, and before he could catch himself, he tripped, sliding across the floor a ways, and finding he had water soaking into his left sock a moment later.

A loud laugh came from the shower stall Ron was occupying, and Draco heard the boy mutter to himself, "Finally someone else trips..."

Trying to ignore this, Draco got up, almost sliding in the water again, causing Ron to laugh even more. Indignant at the roaring laughter, Draco tossed away his things, marching up to the shower stall. Angrily, he yanked back the shower curtain, prepared to chide the other boy for daring to laugh; usually he didn't trip, Seekers were graceful and agile; he had a good sense of balance, unlike some people. He needed to vent out some anger at the other boy, to make Ron mad; it was the only way he would feel better about himself, proving how his continuing to be Ron's enemy brought him satisfaction. Draco prepared to yell.

But Draco never got anything but an asphyxiated breath out, for he found that through the steam he caught glimpses of tanned, bare skin. It felt like a cloth was stuck down his throat; Draco found he couldn't quite breathe properly anymore, all of a sudden. Ron's usually mussed hair was now pressed flat-like against his head, the hair at the nape of his neck wet and curling. Somehow, that red seemed to blare out even more than usual in its wetness, making Draco unable to break his stare at it for a moment.

Freckles were much more interesting, though, really. Starting at the Gryffindor's neck, Draco followed the trail of dots downward with his gaze, taking in every curve and every movement of the other boy's body. The freckle trail swarmed at the tip of Ron's nose (which Draco couldn't see from where he stood behind Ron, but knew to be there), and then crept down his neck in tiny, erratic streams, before dancing out along his back and arms in pairs and threes, forming triangular-shaped spots of brown, and a litter of tiny specks on the top of Ron's hands. Draco found himself gaping open-mouthed at the sight of that surely soft, smooth skin, tight against toned muscles gained from much physical work, covered almost everywhere with the most lovely brown and gold freckles, each of which Draco wished he could cover in soft caresses with his mouth.

Before Draco could look any further, or get more than a glimpse of an appealing and yes, also freckled arse, Ron swore loudly, driving Draco's attention away from the body before him. He realized he'd only been standing there for a moment, too shortly for Ron to realize he was there. He looked down as he heard the clatter of something fall to the floor; whatever it was, it was the cause for Ron's upset now. Bending down, uncaring of the few drops of water that hit him, Draco grabbed the object before it could slide past him across the wet floor. Grabbing it, he lifted it up, and saw it to be a razor. It was simple, dark blue in color. Draco wondered why Ron didn't just bother shaving magically - it was much faster, that way.

Draco was about to get up from his crouch, when he froze. Ron had turned around to retrieve his razor, only to find Draco crouching in front of him. Breath held, razor gripped so tight in his hand he thought he would break it, Draco didn't dare move an inch, knowing that he was the closest to a nude Ron, and a nude Ron showing frontal assets, he'd probably ever be. He also realized that a slight movement of his head upward and to the right would cause his lips to touch a part of Ron that the touching of would probably be dangerous. But the act following such a touch, if the touch was accepted, would be an act of lust that Draco had imagined a surprisingly few amount of times. His tongue became restless just at the combined thoughts of sucking off, and of Ron.

Ron, too, had obviously also realized the implications of the positions both he and Draco were in, for he immediately jumped backward in shock. The razor almost fell from Draco's hands when Ron began yelling, yelling with an anger that Draco hated for the way it stung and for the way it torturously made him more aware of the growing fire burning in his groin.

"Malfoy, what-what...WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

Draco forced himself to smirk, and stood up. Dangling the razor in front of the other boy, he drawled, "Don't flatter yourself, Weasley. I was just picking up your razor."

Reaching out, Draco offered the other boy the razor. Looking up into the other boy's eyes (and forcing himself not to look anywhere south), he was surprised to see not hatred in Ron's eyes, but fear. Those blue eyes were wide, radiating emotions Draco recognized as not only fear, but also curiosity, shock, and questioning. It was with elation that Draco realized he was not being treated with hatred, or worse, and that he faced not a person who had reveled in rejecting him, but rather a person who was just as confused, and maybe even as scared, as he was. Smiling, Draco gently took hold of the other boy's wrist, pulling it forward, and turned that hand palm upwards. His fingers trembling at the contact with the other boy's skin--which he found to be soft, wet, and warm--Draco placed the razor in Ron's palm, and curled those fingers around it.

When he was sure Ron had a good grip on the razor, Draco stepped away, and turning around, he picked up his belongings, and walked out of the room, just as he'd originally planned. He said not a single word, and didn't look back. He noticed, as he closed the door, that the sound of shower water had stopped.

There was no evidence that anything unusual had happened, except for a new puddle of water on the floor, and a redheaded adolescent who felt more like a child slumping to sit down on the shower floor. Shaking his head of a few water drops, Ron dropped the razor, staring at both his palms, and the red mark left on one. And then, not quite knowing why, except maybe it was because he was confused, he began to cry.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Ron didn't look up as Harry sat beside him. It was dinnertime, and Hermione was at the library--or at least, that's where Ron guessed she was, because she wasn't here at lunch, and if she were going to be, she would be. Stuffing another forkful of pasta into his mouth, Ron began to chew, staring down at his plate, refusing to look up at anyone. A few people called his name, but he ignored them. Ginny gave him a pat on his shoulder as she passed by, and for a moment, Ron succumbed to emotion and reached back to place his hand over hers. But then she walked away, and Ron moved his hand back to his fork, blinking back tears.

He hated crying. He'd been doing it way too much the past few days. But he couldn't help it. Every time he walked into Potions class, it was like a fist clenched at his stomach, and every night under the covers, he couldn't help but remember his meetings with Malfoy--no, Draco, because he couldn't stand calling the boy Malfoy anymore, it made it seem as if everything was normal between them--in the library, hospital wing, and Quidditch showering room. He had tried to deny the existence of their talk in the classroom the days after it happened, but it had been too hard, and he had finally given in and admitted that he couldn't forget it.

After all his stewing over their talk, Ron never had really come to any conclusions, except that that talk had changed the way he thought about Malfoy, and that he couldn't ignore that their talk had happened. He still hated Malfoy, in a way, for being an annoying git, but he didn't hate Draco Malfoy for being a Slytherin, or for being a Malfoy, because he'd realized that there was more to both of those, and that Draco was more than any label you could give him. Ron had banished his fear, and simply tried not to think about Draco Malfoy at all, and when he did see the other boy, he looked at him with a glance that held no hate, and said nothing in reply to the other boy's taunts and continued game of pretend. Apparently, Draco had not noticed this, or didn't give a damn, because he continued pretending that all was the same, that a relationship of hatred still formed the wall between them. Actually though, Ron had realized, it was not a wall of hatred that stood between them, but rather, a wall of other emotions that he knew he, for one, felt (he didn't know if Draco felt them, too), as well as the continued game of pretend Draco wouldn't stop.

In the Quidditch room, that day though, Ron's fear had returned. He had been interrupted in a moment and on a day when all felt like it was going well. But then he had felt eyes on the back of his head, eyes raking down the sight of his bare skin. And it felt like his heart had stopped, for a moment, and he'd known exactly who it was. In his nervousness, he'd dropped his razor, and that was what had started the turmoil Ron was currently going through. If only he hadn't dropped that blasted razor! But he had, and then Draco had not left as Ron had hoped, but had picked up the razor! Ron had turned around, and lost his breath in a single moment. For Draco knelt before him, the razor in his hands, and the implications of their positions had become all too clear.

Never had lust filled Ron so much. Ideas had flown to mind, spreading like wildfire. His breath hitching, for a few moments, all he had done was stare. That lithe body, with its pale skin, trousers fitting all too snugly, the top button of that shirt undone, sleeves pulled up to reveal milky white wrists, the white-blonde hair falling to shadow one eye - for a moment, the image of Draco Malfoy had become all too appealing. Ron had wanted to reach out, touch that soft skin, stare into the eyes beneath those girlishly long lashes and communicate what he felt, communicate it all not just through words, but through the touching of his mouth to Draco's. Ron's ears turned red just at the thought.

Ron shook his head, turning his mind away from the swirl of confusion, and looked up as Harry said his name. For a moment, all Ron could see was Harry mouthing his name, but then the real world returned in full force, and he heard Harry saying over and over, "Ron. RON. RON!"

Putting down his fork, suddenly not hungry anymore, Ron turned to look at his friend. Then, his gaze veered away, and his head drooped, as he asked quietly, "What? What is it, Harry?" This was it. It was THE moment. It was the either the moment Harry told Ron that he knew what was going on between he and Draco, or the moment that Harry said he wouldn't let Ron out of his sight, Ron's loss of appetite was worrying him so much.

To Ron's surprise, though, Harry didn't say either of those things. Instead, smiling in such a way that Ron had to look at him, Harry said, "Ron, I think you should go to the hospital wing. You look a bit peaky."

Nodding, Ron dropped his fork, suddenly feeling actually a bit nauseous. As people stared at him as he walked out of the Great Hall, he wondered if his face was a bit green. Not wanting to actually go to the Hospital Wing, Ron instead rushed to the common room. Once there, he knew his stomach was definitely upset, and saying the password as quick as he could, he rushed into the common room. There was no way he was going to be able to rush up the stairs to the boys' dormitory and to the bathroom! Turning to his left, Ron tried to rush up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. But, as he'd experienced last year, the stairway did not accept males. With a jolt that almost made him throw up his pasta then and there, the stairway jumped up, forming a hill, and throwing Ron into the air to slide slowly down it.

The ceiling was spinning, and Ron was sure that his face was now green. Holding his hand to his stomach, he closed his eyes tight, pursed his lips, trying to ignore the rumblings of his disturbed stomach, and the nasty taste growing in his mouth. Oh, if only he'd learned to conjure a toilet from Fred and George! He hadn't known he'd ever need the spell, but if he ever did need that spell, now was it!

Surely, Ron thought, he was going to die. There was no point in living anymore, right? He felt awful--physically and mentally--he had no goals in life, and would never achieve any of his dreams. Really, he should die. His body should just fail him, right now, at this very second.

But it didn't. Instead, Hermione rushed down the stairs, babbling words of concern that Ron didn't hear, and helped him up the stairs. Then, before Hermione could say another word, Ron rushed to the nearest door, hoping it was to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was. He quickly pushed the door shut with a foot, and then leant toward the toilet.

Out came the pasta, and all the green that had been coloring his face earlier.