Ron didn�t know what it was that finally woke up him, but it wasn�t as if he had been in that deep a sleep to begin with.

He�d faded in and out of consciousness for the better part of the last hour or so--not quite awake, but not quite in that heavy slumber one tended to fall into on the weekends, when waking up late was a much-welcome luxury. Each time he�d wake, he�d remember some part of an odd dream he�d been dreaming in pieces throughout the night, one that made no sense whatsoever to someone who was awake, but felt real nevertheless to the person who was dreaming it.

He could only remember bits of it now, of course. There was something about a trial, and a crowd of angry people shouting obscenities at the poor soul who had been at the center of it--and his mum had been wearing one of those ridiculous wigs that judges wore. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, trying to recall some more of the images before they got away from him, but they left him anyway, like water trickling through his fingers.

And that�s when he realized, it had been him. He had been the one on trial in the dream. All those furious people, waving their fists, screaming, �Get �im! Get �im!!� had been screaming about him, and he remembered that it was when they had broken through the stands and began to stampede their way towards him that he jolted awake for the last time.

He gave an involuntary shudder. Blimey, that was the last time he was ever going to eat anything right before going to bed. Indigestion could do strange things, apparently.

The clock on his night table ticked away, and the more he tried to ignore the sound, the louder it seemed to get. He turned his head to look at it, squinting to make out the position of the hands. One o�clock. Great. Just bloody great. It was the middle of the night now, and he was wide awake. More than likely, he wouldn�t be able to get back to sleep anyway; he had had much trouble getting to sleep these last few weeks.

�Oh, just shut up,� he muttered, and set the clock back down.

Now he knew he had really lost it--he was scolding a perfectly inanimate object. Soon he�d be holding conversations with his books or something. Even Hermione would think that was downright lunacy. He rolled over to his other side, determined to tune out the sound of the ticking, but now there was something else that grabbed his attention.

Harry�s bed was empty.

He blinked a few times. Maybe he was just imagining things. After all, it was the middle of the night, and he had just had one of the strangest dreams he�d ever had in his entire life; it was quite possible his eyes had been playing tricks on him.

But after a few more blinks, there was no denying it. Harry was definitely not there, and he would wager a fair sum right about now that Harry�s trunk would be unlocked--and that a rather important item in his possession would be conspicuously missing, too.

Bloody hell, what are you up to now, Potter? What kind of mess have you got yourself into now?

For a split second, his stomach lurched. If he and Harry were talking right now, he would have surely been in on whatever this was that Harry had decided to embark on. And at least Harry would have had someone to look after him.

But they weren�t talking, and now Harry was off by himself, doing who knows what. And if Harry ended up getting in trouble because of it, Ron would never forgive himself.

Time to swallow your ruddy pride, Weasley.

Argh!!

Things would be loads easier right now if he had just gone with his instinct and talked to Harry during that detention a few days ago. Two hours pickling rats� brains, and not one word spoken between them--how bloody unnatural was that? Had this been a fight with any one of his brothers, they�d�ve had it all out over a simple brawl by now, and it would have been over.

But he couldn�t throw a punch at Harry, even if he was angry at him. Or had been.

Oh, hell.

He�d stopped being angry with him weeks ago, to tell the truth. But he just couldn�t bring himself to admit it to anyone, least of all Harry. Hermione knew, of course. They�d had that talk by the lake the morning after the Goblet incident, and as much as he�d wanted to spare her the ugly truth about himself, she�d got him to admit it. He only wished he could have followed her advice right then and there and just talked to Harry. But no, he had to be a stubborn arse and �work through his issues.�

And now, all this time later, what had he accomplished, really? What great epiphany had he had, other than coming to the conclusion he was a prat for being jealous of Harry, even though he knew none of this was Harry�s fault, even though he knew that Harry never deliberately sought any of this attention out?

Hermione had tried to ease his mind before, but he knew the truth. He was so stupid to ever let this get to him--but now it had been so long that he didn�t even know if Harry would want his apology anyway.

Well, he thought, Harry may not appreciate an apology, but he sure as hell was going to get a bodyguard right now, whether he wanted one or not.

Ron kicked off the covers and slipped out of bed, making sure to keep the door from creaking when he opened it to sneak outside. He heard noises as he came down the boys� staircase: a familiar voice, maybe even two. One of them was definitely Harry�s.

Eyes widening, he hurried down the last few steps and came to a halt just at the foot of the staircase. Harry had whipped around, and he did not look too happy. Not one bit.

�Who were you talking to?�

There. At least he�d been the one to speak first. And he even managed to keep his voice free of bitterness or anything of the like. That was something... right?

�What�s that got to do with you?� Harry snarled back at him.

Suddenly, Ron felt that dormant anger rising up inside him again. What the hell was Harry�s problem, anyway? Ron had come all the way down here to check up on him, and...

Bloody hell, this was stupid.

�What are you doing down here at this time of night?�

Looking for you, you prat.

�I just wondered where you...�

This was no use. Harry obviously didn�t want Ron�s help, nor did he even appreciate Ron�s presence. He should have never come down here in the first place.

�Nothing. I�m going back to bed.�

All right, Potter, have it your way. See if I care. Stay down here and get caught.

�Just thought you�d come nosing around, did you?� Harry added. It was the most he�d said to Ron since the start of this stupid fight.

�Sorry about that,� Ron said, half-hoping this would finally be the last straw, and that they could just have one last blow-out and be done with it already. �Should�ve realized you didn�t want to be disturbed. I�ll let you get on with practicing for your next interview in peace.�

He knew the last comment was uncalled for, but he didn�t care. Maybe it would be just the thing to make Harry throw a punch at him anyway--and maybe that wasn�t such a bad idea. Let him get his anger out, and then it would be over.

He was about to turn on his heel to go back upstairs, when Harry seized one of the POTTER REALLY STINKS badges off the table and flung it straight at him. Ron didn�t even duck when he saw it coming his way; he let it hit him in the forehead and bounce off him.

It hurt like hell, but he didn�t make a move.

What hurt a hundred times worse was the look on Harry�s face when he stared at him.

�There you go,� Harry said. �Something for you to wear on Tuesday. You might even have a scar now, if you�re lucky... that�s what you want, isn�t it?�

He crossed the room, clutching his invisibility cloak under his arm, and Ron thought for a split second about stopping him, but decided it would probably be best to stay out of his way for now. He heard Harry�s feet pound on the steps as he climbed up the staircase, and only when he was sure that Harry had gone into the room, did he let out a breath at last.

His eyes went over to the pathetic badge that lay on the floor. He walked over to pick it up, staring hard at it in his hand.

Bloody Malfoy.

Why hadn�t Harry just let him in on whatever was going on just now? He let out a bitter laugh.

Because why would he, you idiot. Why would he, when you�ve been acting like an arse.

He sank down on one of the couches, still clutching the badge without realizing it, until he looked down and saw that the pin had stuck him in his palm, drawing blood. Without a word, he plucked it out, and rose to throw the damn thing into the fire.

He had never hated himself more than he did in that moment.