What are you?

Something Amazing

"Something amazing isn't always something we like, or care for. It just is, and always will be."

Ron felt sick to his stomach the days after he had stolen Draco's paper. He had trespassed on something vulnerable and all too delicate, he knew that. It wasn't his place, it wasn't him. And, the only thing he could think about was how he could properly apologize. The letter was the first step, and he hoped that with time (as they trudged through the mire that was their project) he would forgive him. He had no idea why he so craved for Malfoy to forgive him, but he just did.

It was something that he couldn't exactly put into words. A buzzing in his skin that told him that it was certainly the right thing to do. Or maybe he had just gone daffy. Yeah, that had to be it. But, as he sat next to his desk, staring at the wonders of the snowy Hogwarts scene, he kept reviewing the same thing over and over again in his mind.

Maybe Malfoy wasn't actually that bad. It was becoming a highly probable idea, to him anyways. After all, he wrote poetry, Ron would have never thought something like that in a zillion years. So, what else was he hiding? Was everything that he did, every ounce of pain that he caused, just an act? He was dying to ask Hermione those questions, seeing as she would likely have all of the answers (and more).

But he couldn't, he would likely be disowned from Gryffindor as a whole if he voiced his opinions on Malfoy's character. Or, lack there of. Could it be that it was all joke? And Malfoy was really scheming his downfall by luring him in? A part of Ron thought it was the most real and true idea in the world, that Malfoy was really as twisted and terrible as he once thought.

Yet, another part of him said otherwise. He felt, everyday after the parchment-incident, that he was having a mental war within himself. That everything he once thought true was falling on it's head. It was really quite exhausting. He was disrupted by the swish of his curtains, and the flash of white cascading through his open window. An owl sat on his desk, one as white as the snow outside.

It reminded him almost alarmingly of Hedwig, but once he looked closer he noticed that the black spots on it were much larger, and the feathers on the side of it's head were turned up instead of down. It's yellow eyes pierced his own, and he noticed with astonishment that it held a small, fine piece of black parchment in it's mouth. He had never seen anything like it, and thought for a minute, that he was dreaming. He took it out of the creature's beak, making sure to give it a scratch around the neck and a small piece of a biscuit that Harry had left. It flew away instantly, disappearing into the blocks of white and cold air of the outside world.

It would have been a perfect day to go to Hogsmeade, he thought to himself, staring at the forlorn towers. The parchment had been folded into the shape of an envelope, and, when he so much as touched it, it feel apart. The writing was a silky white color, scrawled beautifully, curving and waving as if it had been written by professor Dumbledore himself. The rest of the paper was decorated at the corners, frilly tasseled like things almost caught his eye more than that of the writing. It read:

I must say, I am rather taken aback by how profound you're writing is, it's something worthy of being read in the ministry! I would also like to express my confusion as to why you think I am so hurt. I will say this once, and one time only because it brings me unadulterated revulsion to write. I forgive you, plain and simply. So, if you say "I'm sorry," one more time, I shall give you something to be sorry for.

Yours,"Malfoy"

P.s. If you are late to todays session I will surely come to the Gryffindor table and drag you there.

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