Disclaimer: Everything in this story is MINE!!!!! Well... in another dimension. In this one, all Harry Potter characters belong to JK Rowling. Damn her. :)

Erm... R, I think. Lust, snogs, cursing, and cruel words.

NOTES: angsty, mopey Ron :) Haven't seen many angsty Ron ones, so... TA-DA!



THIRD BANANA~

Ron Weasley, age seventeen, was cold.

Your fault, He thought. Your fault you left Hogwarts on Christmas vacation, first time ever. Your fault you were being all moody and freakish and left. And his fault he spent all his chess tournament winnings on Dungbombs so his parents couldn't pay the General Wizlectric for heat. Everything was his fault. And he was downright miserable. What was the point of coming home? The only thing was nice was the silence, and you could get that almost everywhere in Hogwarts.

He knew why he had came home. To get away from being part os the Dream Team... namely Harry, Hermione, and him. And to decide what he wanted to be doing with his life, which was crap, because the only thing he could do properly was play chess. Chess! That was downright pathetic. Hermione was the brainy one. Harry was the brave one. What was he, the Chess-y one? The dorky one? He looked darkly at the mirror in the bathroom. The ugly one? The poor one, for god's sake?

He wandered outside. He was already wearing his array of homemade sweaters, his dad's old cloak, and a hat. And Ginny's scarf. The temperature difference wasn't much.

He returned to his angry thoughts. He never seemed to stand out. Everything he did was a team effort and he was always that sidekick that had one-liners and red hair. He was sick of being the stupid sidekick. It wasn't particulary Harry's fault, but he was sick of it. He was sick of being addressed as Harry's friend, Hermione's friend, or Weasel number nine hundred and eighty three. The latter, of course being, Malfoy's choice.

Ron kicked the fence surrounding the the Burrow, and it shook. He said. He yelled. He was sick of being poor. That stupid git Malfoy, he probably had no problems at all- Ron could could just picture him strutting around the gigantic Malfoy Manor with a hundred simpering pretty debutantes following, striving to get a peice of the Malfoys's considerable fortune. His ears felt red hot. Another comical feature Malfoy enjoyed tormenting about, the stupid albino prat.

Ron started walking blindly, thinking furiously about Malfoy. After a while, he stopped. Where had he gone? Figures. He got himself lost thinking . Pathetic, that was. He stopped by a sign that lettered in peeling letters, LADTRA TOWN. He cursed himself. He was right in Ladtra Town (well, what else), the town famous for witch hysteria and tortures. And hangings. You could get out of burnings, but not hangings. It was a small inbred town filled to the brim of fierce Puritans (a thing of the past, of course, for most Muggles, he knew) and they still had gallows. Gallows! He thought incredulously. Without a single doubt, he turned away. Even though he was busy moping, he wasn't stupid.

And tripped over something. Well, not completely stupid, though his brothers could challenge that. He flooked behind and he realized nothing was there. Nothing he could see, to be truthful. His stomach clenched. An Invisibility Cloak? A spell? Who would be wandering around Ladtra, anyway? Anyone magical knew that Ladtra was not the place to be- indeed, it was high on the list of Dangerous Muggle-Areas that the Ministry updated every week. He had seen it hanging from his dad's study wall, next to the collection of AA batteries and a broken telephone. It didn't make sense for anyone to be here- anyone invisible, to be certain.

He considered investigating.

Of course, he decided not to. First, he was cold. Second, he didn't wish to hang around Ladtra anymore than he had to. He concluded his thoughts logically and left. Well. As logical as he would ever be, he thought wryly. And scowled again. He had to stop with the self-depravity thing. It showed too much . Though through Percy's WQ (Wizard's Quarters) magazines, chicks dug sensitive boy acts, he knew that was pure crap. Padma'd just laugh if he cried about a sunset, and so would many other people. Like Hermione, and the rest of those Slytherins. He felt his stomach squirm. Lately, he had been having very strange feelings about her. Jealousy, mostly, and he felt that the feeling was replicated. He felt obliged to threaten bodily harm to anyone who tried to hex her, for god's sake. He wouldn't admit it to himself, but-

You're a bloody coward, Weasley. Spit it out. He grumbled to himself for while about Hermione, then grumbled about how talking to oneself didn't do any good, then stopped. He could shout out his for all he cared, and still nobody would hear him. Since when did anyone really hear him out, for god's sake? Last time was in... fourth year, and he felt so guilty for making the Great Harry sad, he apologized. Not that it was particulary his fault. But still, he was the always the great one, the wonderful one, and he was the sidekick.

Well, it wasn't much, he had to admit with himself. The feelings. Jealousy, mostly, and loyalty, and, he paused. Was there anything more? He really had to think about that one. It seemed nothing but jealousy, and a bit I want to be more than friend-ish feeling. He stopped thinking about it. He knew perfectly well that Harry was very interested in Hermione, and they were probably snogging in Library now. Who knew? Or cared, for that matter. He didn't, not now, anyway.

He arrived home to find that the heat had been turned on. Fred and George's cheque from Ye Olde Joke Shoppe had come in. His mum fussed with him for a while, and made him set the table and fold the laundry, while she clucked her toungue disapprovingly at Ron's Muggle-wear: it was obvious she didn't like sandblasted Diesel jeans. Not like it mattered; It was his money.