A few minutes of hushed sobbing and snotty sniffles had passed before Ron realized that he had been late to charms. He didn't care. And, as he stumbled through the halls to find the damned room he still didn't care. Merlin, what was wrong with him? He felt like a zombie, like the walking dead.

His brain was completely shot, he didn't know what to say, or do, or even how to function as a normal human being. Draco. Nothing. Everything. That was all he could seem to think about.

Even as he received his scolding from the teacher and sat next to Harry blankly. He knew his face was flushed, and his eyes were puffy, and his skin a deathly color of grey, but he pushed those thoughts off. Numbness, that was all he could feel. Well, that and the feeling of utter, searing, blinding betrayal. "What in the hell is wrong with you?"

Harry asked in a tone of concern that hardly phased Ron. Hermione's eyes focused on him, Neville turned in his chair, Ginny leered peculiarly. They all looked at him. He didn't answer, he didn't know what to say. What did he say?

What lie was he supposed to tell this time? No, he couldn't lie, not when the fate at Hogwarts was at stake. "I don't-" He cut himself off, not sure if he was really talking or if the conversation was taking place in his mind. He just wanted to leave, he wanted to go back in time. To make things different.

"Ron . . . what's wrong? You look terrible," Hermione whispered, tapping her quill nervously.

"I'm . . ." he gulped "fine." He stared around the room, suddenly feeling dizzy. "I think the food was off," he said, trying his hardest not to meet anyone's eyes. Merlin, what was he doing?

"I ate just as much as you and I'm not sick," Ginny said, trying her hardest to be nice but making him mad anyways. "Yeah, I thought it was good," Neville chimed in, causing Ron to ball his fists. He was in the middle of something, couldn't everyone tell that? It was bad enough that he had just found out that Draco was supposed to kill Dumbledore, but being bombarded with questions and random statements from people in his house was making it that much worse. "Well, I guess it only affected me then, must have gotten a bad egg or something," he said, clearly becoming less sick and more frustrated.

"There's no eggs in-"

"I don't care if there are no eggs Hermione!" He shouted a bit louder than he wanted to. Everyone looked at him. Including a certain blood someone who (just at the sight of) made him want to pitch himself off of the astronomy tower. They locked eyes for a moment, and suddenly two simple facts had become clear. He had been crying.

They had both been crying. "Mr. Weasley, Have you something to say?" Flitwick asked, brandishing his wand as if it were a trophy. "I-" he had to swallow the bile rising in his throat in order to get the words out, "No, professor."

"Good, then let me continue with the lecture.

So in order to-" he continued on, and Ron tuned out. Draco was still looking at him. His skin was pale, his lips drawn into a thin frown, eyes puffy. He looked him up and down a few times, something suddenly dawning on him. It didn't seem to occur to Draco that Ron was seething with rage. I

it took every bone in his body for Ron not to Crucio him, to make him feel every ounce of pain that he felt. Funny how things came full circle, isn't it?

___

Ron sat by the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, trying his hardest to warm up while he scribbled down his DADA essay. He was supposed to have met Draco, in the library, like he always did. But the very thought of that made him want to puke, and he enjoyed the silence. The sound of writing, of a crackling fire, and the sight of snow piling up on the windows was enough for him to feel slightly okay about what his life had become. The rest of the day had gone by in a blur, he talked when he needed to, did his work, ate a normal amount of dinner, then came to his room.

He decided that it was best to clean up the mess that he left scattered amongst the floor before Harry came back. But the scarf, he didn't know what to do with the bloody, revolting thing. So, he put it back under his pillow, figuring that he would find some probable way to dispose of it that didn't catch anyone's attention. With that he wound up in the common room, doing homework. And, regardless of every feeble attempt that he made, his heart felt completely lost.

Ripped straight out of his chest. It sounded ridiculous, as most things that he thought were, but it was the only legitimate way he could think off to describe how he felt. Ripped. Ha, how stupid he felt. But, his inner war with himself was cut short by Harry and Hermione's voice screaming "RON!"

Together as loud as they possibly could. He jumped up immediately, his materials falling in a heap onto the ground. His heart sped, his quill left a streak of black ink on his palm. And, it must have been because his hands were trembling, because they had been all day. As soon as Ron turned around he was met with the fuming faces of Harry and Hermione, both scowling, looking as if someone had just delivered them the worst news in the history of Hogwarts.

Also, Harry was holding up his wand, pointing it at his chest. Oh no, Ron thought to himself, suddenly knowing exactly what their frustration was about. "DATING Ron? I mean honestly, you couldn't have come up with a better lie?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms.

"I-"

"No, you don't get to speak," Harry said, gripping his wand with a strength that made Ron want to run for the hills.

What was he going to do, kill him? "Ron, you're my best friend, were I should say. How could you do something like this? And, use Hermione. You're sick," he spat, taking a violent step closer.

"And what about Lavender? I'm sure she's entirely put off that you've been using me to cover up whatever it is that you're doing." She said, her face in a scowl. The common room was still empty, but Ron had a sickly feeling that it wasn't going to be soon enough. He didn't answer Hermione, because, well, he didn't know what to say.

He hadn't thought about Lavender since the piano thing, and he sure as hell didn't want to start. Harry shook his head, face red with fury. "Who were the letters from?" He said with a finality that made Ron's stomach do summersaults. He shook his head, trying to wrack his brain for something coherent to say.

"I'm sorry . . . I can't tell you Harry," his voice was barely audible, a whisper almost. Harry dropped his wand, seeing that his friend was in agony. "And why not?"

"I just, you'd hate me if I did. You would never speak to me.

And I can't . . . I can't lose the both of you," he said, almost rambling. "Ron, if you don't tell us then you already have. Has someone put you up to this? Are you cursed? I don't understand."

Hermione said, her face clearly less hostile then before. "No I'm not bloody cursed. I just . . ."

"What is it? Please, just tell us," Harry said, entirely too confused to be angry any longer. "I . . ." Ron decided to split the difference.

"Earlier today, I followed Dr-Malfoy when I saw him leaving at lunch." He kept his head down, taking a seat on the couch beside the fire. "And, he went to the room of requirement. There was this cabinet, and his father came through it somehow," Hermione gasped, Harry remained silent. "He's going to kill Dumbledore," he said, taking a breath.

His words felt like the most freeing thing to be uttered while simultaneously being the worst. A weight was lifted from his shoulders, one that made no effort in taking away his thoughts of Draco. Maybe they would never go away. "What? Are you sure that's what you saw?"

Hermione said, cupping her hand around her mouth in terror. Harry stood up, pacing about the room a few times. "Yes I'm positive, he's going to kill him, he has three months. That's what his father said."

"Merlin," she said, and then even she was at a loss for words.

"I'm going to find him," Harry said, gripping his wand and hurrying towards the nonexistent door. "Harry, wait!" Hermione said, bounding after him in an attempt to stop him. But it wouldn't happen. Harry would find him.

____

Ron came to a stop when he was inside his room, setting down his bag on his bed, tossing off his constrictive shoes. He had no idea what would happen to Draco. And maybe, just maybe he didn't care. Maybe he wanted Harry to Crucio him, or to punch him, or generally do anything that would cause him intense pain. Maybe he wanted that.

So, he let Harry go. He didn't follow either of them, he couldn't. Because seeing Draco felt like being shot with a million, tiny, poisoned arrows in the chest. And Maybe that was too poetic. And Maybe everything was just bound to be a bloody maybe.

But, seeing a small, crumpled piece of black parchment on his desk, Ron felt as if his heart jolted to life. He ran his hands along it's dark edges, picking it questioningly. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, to smile or to frown. How did it even get there? The window wasn't open, nor was there some latch for owls to come through.

He opened up the paper, his eyes immediately catching the crumpled, glow-less petals of moonlace on the inside. He must have dropped the flower the night before. Draco kept it, of course he did. He let the petals fall on his desk, nearly reducing themselves to blue dust. With reluctance he read the swirly handwriting:

Dear Ron,

I'm Sorry.

Please, please talk to me.

I can't go another minute without hearing your voice.

Love,

Draco.

He set the letter down, feeling his heart break a little more with each forlorn word. Part of him wanted to tear it up and throw it out his window. The other part didn't know what to do. So he just stood there, thinking.