The day went by quietly. Classes were as they usually were, breakfast was good, well, it was really quite delicious (judging by the two massive plates of food that Ron had scarfed down). He slept well, actually, he slept amazingly (but he didn't want to admit that to himself). Part of him thought it was because of the scarf, the tenderness of it, the smooth knit edges. It felt like a dream, in fact, it was a dream.

Ron spent his night tossing and turning in bed, trying his hardest not to think about the piece of forbidden cloth under his pillow. He couldn't stop wondering about what Harry and Hermione would have said if they saw it. Probably something along the lines of "are you mad?" Or "that's repulsive!" Either way Ron knew it would be something gut wrenchingly similar.

The very idea of it made his stomach turn. That's why when the snowy sky of the morning peaked through his window he shoved the thing into his bag. Almost as soon as he acquired the object he intended on giving it back. He didn't want to, not at all. Something in the way it made his heart skip a beat and his cheeks grow hot was just too terrible to pass up.

But, he had to. Ron knew that Draco would question him, and, after the fiasco the night before he couldn't handle anymore questions. So, he sat in divination, waiting for class to end so he could corner Draco into some empty class and give him his scarf back. It was the right thing to do after all. But, something felt strangely off that day. Every time Ron stole a glance at Draco, he looked down, staring at his hands intertwined pensively.

He hardly even looked at him. Yet, he talked to Crabbe, and Goyle, and worst of bloody all . . . Pansy. He was fine with them, peachy. Ron felt a twinge of annoyance deep in his chest, something so raw and painful that he just wanted to hide in his dorm room. "Uh hello, Ron?"

Ron was caught off guard by Harry's voice, and realized suddenly that he was gripping his quill a little too hard. He felt ashamed. "Yes, sorry. I'm just . . . tired." He said, focusing back on his parchment. He had no idea what they were doing.

He hadn't for a while honestly, because all he could seem to think about was Draco and the fact that he had a certain Slytherin scarf in his bag. "Me too, but could you help me with this maybe? It makes no sense." He asked, tapping his finger on the top of the paper. Ron found it hilarious that Harry would ask HIM of all people to help with charms work.

He was terrible at it. But, he couldn't let him down, he guessed. "Yeah of course Mate," he said, focusing somewhat reluctantly on the paper. He decided that maybe it wasn't the best time to give his scarf back. 

___

Ron sat at lunch, barely touching his rather big piece of shepherd's pie. He couldn't stop watching Draco. And, for a fleeting, infantile moment, he didn't care if anyone noticed him. But that moment left as quick as it came, and he decided it would be best to take a few bites. "What's gotten into you Ron?

You've hardly touched your food," Hermione asked, staring at him with genuine concern. He felt like everyone was asking him that, like it was a question especially brewed for him. What's wrong Ron? What's the matter with you? Are you daft?

He knew they said it because they cared, but, it felt like the question just made him more "wrong," if that's what you could call it. He just couldn't seem to stop . . . thinking. Maybe that's what was wrong. But then he looked up at where Draco was sitting, refusing to eat his food, staring off into nothingness. And his brain was scrambled.

"Oh I had a huge breakfast. I'm not that hungry," he said, tapping his fork against the food. "Well that's surprising, I think that's the first time I've heard you say you're not hungry,"

"Yeah, weird hearing that from you," Harry said accusatory, his eyes bouncing between him and Hermione. Ron could not handle anymore questions from Harry. And that's when he saw Draco stand up. He looked disheveled; face caught in a frown, skin a sickly gray, hands practically quivering.

He moved without haste out of the hall, turning a random corner. Ron's heart dropped at the very sight of it. Every atom, every thought in his brain all sang the same tune then. Follow him. Go after him. He stood up abruptly, too abruptly to seem like a normal human being.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, looking confused at Ron's gloomy face. "I-well" he tugged at his shirt, suddenly feeling like it was constricting him. He needed to go, and fast. "I have to use the loo, drank too much, you know?" His voice was shaking, and he didn't quite know why.

"Oh, well hurry back, class starts soon." She said, smiling at him with motherly glee. Harry just looked at him, saying nothing. With that, he hurried off, following behind Draco at a distance. He staggered as he was walking, galloping about like that of a wounded centaur.

What was wrong with him? Ron had to find out, he had to. And so, when Draco ducked into what was undoubtedly the room of requirement, Ron followed him. He hid behind a grouping of well, everything, Ron couldn't make out anything specific in the room. It was just a blind jumble, a mess of entirely random things.

He crouched there, breathing steadily, watching as Draco made his way to some giant, cloaked object. He ripped off the curtain, revealing an old looking wardrobe. Had that always been there? Ron asked himself, completely at a loss with what was going on. There was a knocking at the cabinet, a subtle yet noticeable pushing.

Ron gulped, Draco gulped, and for a moment their scattered breathing was completely in sync. Then, all too suddenly, Lucius Malfoy popped out, studded cane in hand. He looked terrible, his hair was stringy and frayed, there were puffy dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was covered in a thick gloss of sweat. He looked around for a minute, then smiled a large, wolfish, maddened grin. Draco just stood there quietly, and stayed as rigid as a board when his father laid his hand on his shoulder.

"You've done it," he said, surveying his surroundings, "I must say Draco, I am quite amazed. The Dark lord will be pleased with your endeavor." Draco looked up,

"Of course father, anything for the Dark Lord," he said, his voice shaking slightly. Ron had to hold back a gasp. "But, I didn't come to admire your genius.

Why isn't he dead yet?" His voice grew bitter, scary.

"I-well, I had plans but . . . it fell threw, I have to-"

"What have I told you about stuttering? The Dark Lord will not accept it, and neither will I." He grew closer, a threatening stance. "I'm sorry,"

"You're sorry what?"

" I'm sorry, Father."

Mr. Malfoy stood there, just waiting, then finally decided to say. "Dumbledore shall be dead in three months, if he isn't, well, you know what will happen." Draco's eyes flicked about the room, "I will do it, don't worry, I'll kill him."

"Good, and I do hope-" Ron didn't hear the last part, because he ran out of the room so quickly that sound itself didn't make sense. He felt like everything was dark, like he couldn't breath, he could hardly walk.

His brain was entirely jumbled, and he was seeing stars, everything was in black and white. Where was he again? What day was it?

What was his name? He couldn't remember any of it, it felt like his heart had just been ripped right out of his chest. Torn out and stomped on repeatedly.

Somehow he found himself in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, heaving to the point of tears. He couldn't even recognize himself. The man standing before him shaking profusely with tears streaming down his pink cheeks was foreign, a shadow of what he once was. It was all a lie, everything. He kept thinking that mantra over and over again.

Their friendship was a lie, their sessions were a lie, hell, Draco himself was a bloody lie. Ron punched down at the side of the sink, a jolt ringing through his knuckles. Merlin, he lied to everyone he cared about. And for what? Draco, lying, deceiving, terrible, Malfoy.

He had to tell Harry, he just had too. Not saying anything would mean that he was just as bad as him. He nodded to himself, about to turn around and hurry back to the great hall when he heard an all too familiar voice say "Ron?" He turned around completely distraught, staring at the boy in front of him. It was Draco.

He breathed in, "you," he said, voice filled with unadulterated fury. Draco ran to him, looking concerned, and terrified, and confused all the same time. Ron hated the sight of him, even his gray eyes. "Ron, what's wrong?" He asked, coming close enough to hug him.

"You know what's wrong," he said, tears continuing to bubble at his eyes.

"What? I don't-"

"I SAW YOU!" He screamed, trying his hardest to hold himself back. "In the room of requirement. I saw you with your father.

I know what you're planning." Draco stared, completely stunned. "No Ron . . . you don't understand, I don't have a choi-"

"What don't I bloody understand!? You want to kill Dumbledore, you're working for him." Ron took a step away, distancing himself from Draco.

He whipped out his wand, aiming it at him for good measure. "Ron, you know that I would never hurt you,"

"Do I know that? I thought-merlin, I thought you were different Draco, I thought we were friends,"

"We are Ron! I just-"

"Stop talking! I can't listen to you!"

He looked at him, eyes landing on his cloak. "Lift up your sleeve," he said, breathing heavily.

"What? Why?"

"Just lift it up!"

He said, pointing his wand with even more viciousness. Draco did as he asked, revealing a small, black tattoo on his pale wrist. It was a skull, with snakes slithering around it. Ron's blood turned to ice. "You're a death eater," he said, so shocked at his words that he had to steady himself.

Draco forced his sleeve down, "It doesn't change-"

"Just, leave me alone, say away from me," he started backing away towards the door, nearly tripping over his feet. "Ron . . . don't go," he reached out, showing that he wasn't afraid.

"I said stay away!" He said, he was shaking, convulsing as if he had just received the news that he was going to Azkaban. And maybe he was.

It certainly seemed possible with the way that things were going. He ran out the door, trudging with a sickly speed to his dorm room. Once he was there he slammed the door as hard as he possibly could, throwing his wand and his bag across the floor. And, when he saw the faint mat of green and silver peeking out from it, the material of the scarf, all he could do was sink to the floor and cry.