Hidden Thoughts

“What has happened, old friend? We used to be so close. Now it seems you’ve moved away.”

“Perhaps it is you who has moved away, by standing still.”

- Inherit the Wind

I haven’t been myself lately; anyone can tell you that. I argue with Harry, and I go for his weak points. He calls me ‘Malfoy’ now, reminiscent of his arch enemy. And I suppose he should be mine too, yet we seem to be on the same side now. I don’t know why I’m like this. Well…maybe I do. But I can’t tell anyone. Not you, not Harry or Hermione, not anyone. And it’s not my fault.

I was arguing with Harry like I do now. I guess I do push him to that point, he’s relatively mild-tempered, but I get an odd sort of pleasure from seeing him look at me in that way. Cold, fierce hatred. I don’t know why. It lines every bit of his face, and only I and a few select others ever get to see it. Maybe that’s where I get the pleasure from. That expression is reserved for me, and me alone. That intense Potter look. That spreads across his face as if it were glass into his every feature, seeding itself there and growing. And when he’s gotten to that spot, then, and only then, I know to strike. Go for his soft areas; Hermione or his parents. He’s in love with her and she knows it. And he misses his parents with so much love. More than I ever believed possible. And he never even knew them.

When I get him to that point, that cliff, that precipice, and I push him, I see all the hope and despair that he has ever harbored rush into him with lightning speed, see his features crumble, see him sit there, not at a loss for words, but at a loss of a friend. And he doesn’t say anything. He only sits there and stares at me with those piercing green eyes, trying to see all the way to my soul. Sometimes I feel repentant, after that shock wave comes rushing towards him. But I don’t let it on. Harry doesn’t know. I’m not so easily read. He doesn’t know.

Why he even bothers to talk to me, I’ll never know. He won’t lose faith that I’ll change back, but I can’t. I don’t know how. There is so much I don’t know. I can’t let him stand in my way. He so desperately wants me back, but I won’t go. I don’t know why I hate him. He wants this to be a phase. It’s not. This is me. This is who I am. I’m different now. I strike again.

He never strikes back at me, only sits there and stares with that hopeful, yearning look. And I stare back with my cold fire. He always wins though, with those green eyes. As if it were a game. If only you knew, Harry. It’s so much more than a game.

And our arguments; they’re so fierce and cruel; bitter and vicious. They’re always my fault. I’ll pretend to be mad for something minor and I’ll yell at him. He tries to sooth me, though. His soft voice. Always calm, collected. But I push him, no matter how hard he wants to stand up to me. Though lately, he seems to be losing his will. I’m bringing him down. The Boy Who Lived is being murdered alive by his best friend. Ex-best friend. I might as well be his worst fear; a dementor. Or perhaps me being this way is his worst fear. I don’t know that. But I do know he is slowly crumbling. He’s coming down by my hand and he doesn’t try to resist it. He accepts it, as if his life is worthless now that I’m like this, the way I am.

I look at him now, his dark hair falling softly over his eyes, brow furrowed in concentration. He glances up at me, inquires if I could help him, though he knows I won’t, knows I hate him. He persists. I get touchy about that. Ask him why he always wants me to help him. He doesn’t care about me. I’m like a tool to him. Something to be used to better his own life.

He tells me that it’s not true, and I know it’s not, but I don’t care. I want to see his face crumble the way it does; see him fall into that pit.

I ask him about his parents. Why they’re not here to protect him. Why he couldn’t save them. He knows I’m trying to set him off, and he resists, but I find that weak spot, and I go for it. I ask him if he couldn’t protect his parents, how can he expect to protect her; Hermione. His face crumbles familiarly, like I know it to do so often these days and he looks at me; doesn’t say a word. Only this time I think he might cry. She sees it too and begs and pleads with him to leave. No wonder he loves her. He finally relents and I make another jeer at him.

He turns, slowly, and stares back at me. He hasn’t said a word yet. His head cocks to the side as if curious, though one silent tear makes its way down his cheek. He looks at me for a moment longer, all the while backing away as he is led. And says one thing; just one thing that shattered me.

“Who are you?”

It was entirely unexpected. I had no response. Then I get my footing and I sneer, though it’s not what he means, and I know it. I’m not sure what he means.

“Ronald Weasley.”

He looks at me, and for once I can’t read his face, though I know he can read mine. I try to hide it, but I know it’s useless.

“I know what your name is,” he says softly, without the usual anger. “Who are you?” he repeats.

I’m not sure what to say. But he knows. He always does; and he knows silence, better than anyone else I‘ve met. Knows when it is appropriate and when it is wholly unnecessary. And he uses it now, waiting for me to respond, deaf to the girl clinging to his arm and her pleading. I open my mouth, though I’m not sure what I’m going to say.

He stops me.

“Don’t answer that. You don’t know.”

“But you do?”

“Do you, or I, or anybody really know anyone else? But I was hoping that you would at least know yourself.” He turns and walks out with his girl, though he doesn’t say a word after that. Not even to her.

I’m standing there, thinking about what he has just said. I’m not sure if that’s what he wanted me to do or not, but I look up and everyone is staring at me. They all stop to watch us fight now. It’s always memorable, though never in a good way. And one can always learn something from our spats. Although they’re much more than spats now.

But I’m thinking of none of this. Only what he has just said and I need time to think. I stalked out the door, out the front doors entirely and to our tree. It was our tree. He and I used to come there, and nobody else knew about it. He wouldn’t tell anyone about it, nor would I, even with our differences. We would just sit and talk, or not talk. He’s stopped coming, though, since our first fight. No. Since the first time I hurt him, purposely, just for the feeling I get when I see him in pain. I want to blame it all on him. It’s all his fault, though he doesn’t know what he did.

His words reverberate through my mind. Who are you? Do I know who I am? I’m not sure. Not sure of anything. I was somebody and now I’m completely different. I don’t know how it happened or why. I know the reason. But not what drove me to be this person. This person that I am now. I don’t even know who this person is. Is that what he meant? This cruel, dark force that lives inside of me, festering itself in everything I do. It makes me indifferent to everybody and everything around me. And I don’t cark; don’t care about anything it’s doing to me. Why? Who is this person? How did they come to be? I blame it on him in my mind. But deep down I know it’s my own. He tries to understand, and I don’t tell him. He’s frustrated by it, and he tells me so, but he won’t press me. He knows my new temperament.

All I want is him. My friend. And he won’t, can’t accept me like this. I want him. I want to be like him too. So cant, strong, courageous. I want my own self back. I want him. I want things to be like they were. When we first met. So carefree; we didn‘t cark at all.. Both alive and ready. And now we’ve drifted. It’s all my fault. How could I let this happen? I grind my teeth in unhappiness and despair. Then I can’t take it anymore and I scream.

“GOD, HARRY! I’M SORRY!” I actually mean it. I listen to the words echoing away across the grounds. And then another voice, soft again. Even so, I jump in surprise.

“I know.”

How did I not notice him? He’s right above me. I look up, and he’s staring down at me, evenly, expression unreadable. He’s lost the girl. He’s the only person I’ve ever heard of who can tell a girl to get lost in such a way that she’ll willingly do it. I’m not sure how he does it. It must be the eyes. Those eyes that are now boring into me. God, I hate those eyes. Yet I love them.

He’s doing that silence thing again. It’s making me worry, now that he knows that I’m weak. What if he uses it against me, like I do to him? Though I know he won’t. And he just keeps staring at me. I can’t stand it anymore. I get up and run. Away, as fast as I can. To the forest. He can’t find me there. I can always find him, though. But this is about me. This is my life, and mine alone. I’m not letting anyone have any sort of control over me. None at all. Not even the kind that he has, unwillingly over me, with just his eyes. Those eyes that make me tremble in anticipation. In fear and hatred. And love. That’s why I’m who I am. Because I love Harry Potter. That’s right. I, Ronald Weasley, am in love with my best friend, Harry Potter. The only thing I really want, I can’t have. Because he doesn’t love me like that; never will. He loves Hermione. And if I can’t have him, I will destroy him. Like I do now. And he won’t ever understand. Not ever. And if he can’t be happy with me, he won’t be happy with anyone.

I’ve found another tree and I climb up into it. I go higher and higher until I can see the sky in the midst of the dark forest. A wind is blowing up here and it knocks me off-balance for a moment, but I cling on and sit down comfortably, back to the trunk.

Do you, or I, or anybody really know anyone else?

I shake my head, though I know no one can see it. He’s right. Like usual. I don’t know anybody else. Not even him, and he is my best friend in the world. He still does things that amaze and astound me; surprise me. He is completely unpredictable. I don’t know him, not completely. I thought I could always tell what he is thinking, but he can be subtle when he chooses, as I recently learned. I know so much about him. We share things that neither of us have ever told another soul before. But not everything. I haven’t told him that I love him. So no. I don’t really know him. And I don’t really know myself. I don’t really know anybody. Even if I try, my own mind is as far as I can go, and even that has still to be explored.

I don’t know anyone. It scares me in a way. I’m scared. If only he were here to comfort me, tell me it would be all right. But he’s not coming. He won’t chase after me. It’s not like him, yet in lieu of these past thoughts, I scan the ground anxiously, hoping, praying for him to be there. He’s not. I knew that, but something inside me still falls. I was hoping. Just another point of how I don’t know myself. I’m sorry Harry. I tried, I really did. But it didn’t work for me. I hope you have a good life.

Looking down, I can just make out patches of the ground in between the branches. It would be easier for all of us if I just jumped. If I did it. I want to, but I can’t. Jump. I can’t. Jump. I can’t. Jump. I can’t. But I can. Taking a deep breath, I slowly slide off the branch. Madam Pomfrey could probably fix me up, though I’m not thinking of that now. If I’m gone, he’ll realize how much he missed me. Then he’ll be mine. And we can be happy together.

The wind rushes by my ears as I fall faster and faster, every so often hitting a branch, gashing myself, but I’ve already fallen past it by the time I can think to react. The ground is rushing nearer and nearer to me. I begin to wonder if this was a bad idea, but it’s too late now. At this point, I’m not sure if I want to be healed. I can never be fully healed, not as long as there is this emptiness inside of me, waiting to be filled by the one person who will never come. He’s all I wanted. Goodbye, Harry. I really did love you, you know that?

I can almost hear his mind answering back, though perhaps it’s only the memory.

I know.

And then I see the ground. With a sudden burst of speed, it comes up to meet me. I hit, and then I think no more.

I know this was a little weird, but it popped into my head and I was in a dark mood so I wrote it. It doesn’t usually come to me that easily; it took me less than an hour to write, so I figured I ought to take advantage of the situation. Please read and review it. That’s the only way I can tell how much you hated…er…loved this. Thanks.

And I know I use ‘I know’ and ‘and’ a lot, but oh, well.

I did feel a bit guilty about killing off Ron, though, so if you’re a fan of his, pretend Madam Pomfrey fixed him right up. If you’re a sadist, picture the end as you wish.