What are you?

A Dance

   Ron sat on his bed, his head ringing, his hands feeling as if there was no possibility of them ever being warm again. He wasn't sure what to do, did he work on past charms assignments? Did he write a letter? Did he read? Definitely Not, he thought to himself.

The air outside was gloomy, the usual snowy blueness of the sky washed out with yesterday's rainfall. His bed creaked under his weight, and his thick sweater felt strange against the pallid air. Harry was in Dumbledore's office. With Draco. What was it about the git?

It was the only thing that he could seem to think of, his face, his eyes, his hands. He had gone daffy, he knew it. It was the only thing that made sense. Yet, Merlin, why couldn't he function. It was like, whenever Draco wasn't around he was the only thing he could think about, nothing else seemed worthy of his attention.

And, honestly, it was becoming a bit of a problem. Ron nudged his pillow, lying his head down against it. It wasn't, and never would be as comfortable as the couch. He stared at the stark ceiling, the little divots and scratches. He thought he could stare at it for the rest of eternity and never grow bored.

That the never-ending plume of internal debate would keep him in stasis forever. It has to stop, he thought to himself. Did it? Did he even want it to, whatever exactly it was? He was dying to ask Hagrid, or Hermione, or his Mom, or literally anyone who had some form of wisdom.

But he feared, if he did, that . . . he didn't know. He didn't know anything.

"Ron!? Where in the hell are you?" Harry screamed, practically throwing the door open.

It smacked against the wall, leaving a small but noticeable welt. Ron jumped off of the bed, his butt hitting the floor (that was the second time today). "Yes . . .? What's wrong?" He asked, too fearful to say anything above three words.

Harry looked flushing, his cheeks red with anger, his brows furrowed, his glasses hanging a little too far down his nose. Ron couldn't quite tell if he was angry or had just run up twenty flights of stairs. "What did he do?" He asked plainly, looking around the room as if it was foreign. "What?

Who?" Ron gulped, he couldn't help but play with the cuffs of his sweater. "You know who," he said, he stature so aggressive that Ron felt like he wasn't actually awake. "You think I'm going to buy that story? That you two miraculously got stuck in the rain and found yourselves back at Hogwarts?

Do you think I'm that stupid?"

"Look, Harry, It's the truth. We captured our creature . . . and, I thought I knew where I was going, but, in hindsight I guess I didn't." Harry looked at him expectantly. He didn't like lying, especially not to Harry, but what was there to do?

"We got completely lost and then got into argument," he took a breath, "it started raining, terribly raining, so we went back to the cave where we got the camazotz and fell asleep there." Ron was surprised that he was able to say those words with such a straight face. "That's it? He didn't threaten you?"

"No, we didn't speak to each other, I refuse to speak civilly to a git like Malfoy.

But, he didn't do anything, not anything out of the ordinary anyway." Harry pondered this, his face clearing a bit. "So then . . . how did you get back?"

"We followed north, like my Mom said,"

"How on earth did you convince him to do that?"

"I-well, I didn't, he just sort of . . . followed me."

"Right . . ." Harry looked twenty times less angry than when he first walked in. Ron took a mental sigh, wondering how he got off so easily. "And what about the letters?" He asked, still standing in front of the door. There it was.