AN: I wrote this years ago (it was bad, just bad) showed it to a friend year later. Revised heavily. Friend berated me for almost two years. Edited again, and viola!

Disclaimer: Last time I checked, I am an American brunette. Nice try, but I know that I'm not JK Rowling.

Title: A Mysterious Illness Indeed.

Word Count: 1K

Summary: I'm sorry, but we all can't be the Smartest Witch of the Age. Capitalized and all. But all I want to know is what the hell is wrong with Harry?

A Mysterious Illness Indeed.

Love - a wildly misunderstood although highly desirable malfunction of the heart which weakens the brain, causes eyes to sparkle, cheeks to glow, blood pressure to rise and the lips to pucker.

~Author Unknown

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Ron." She said, looking up from her heavier-than-Crookshanks book.

"Is Harry," I waved my hand in front of her face so that she wouldn't go back to reading, "sick?"

Lately, my best mate had been receiving the most amount of injuries during practice (He's the Seeker and bloody captain for Merlin's sake!), staring into open space, and he's been humming! Harry bloody James Potter does not hum for anything. Hermione sighed, as if it was so obvious. I'm sorry, but we all can't be the Smartest Witch of the Age. Capitalized and all.

"Ron, Harry fancies someone."

Now that got my attention.

"He what?"

Hermione gave me that Look. You know, that Look whenever I do something wrong. Like when I talk with my mouthful of food (What can I say, It's great stuff.), Give Crookshanks the Evil Eye (That cat is possessed I tell you), and when I ask her to "revise" my work (Someone has to check it before I hand it to the Greasy Git).

"Ron," this time she said my name is this un-Hermionish tone. I could had sworn she was teasing me. It was unnerving, freaky really. "Harry fancies Ginny."

Well, that makes—What in the name of Merlin's left nostril?

Ginny?

My baby sister!

How the Hell did that happen?

Hermione was now laughing at me expression. Oh, come on, Hermione. If you found out that your best mate, was lusting after your sister! You too would have the face colour of me when we have a "surprise" Potions exam.

"He isn't lusting after her."

Did I said the lusting part out loud?

Oh, great, she was now rolling on the ground with laughter. Can't someone stick up for me? I was just about to make an amazing remark until a first year shouted something from near a window.

"Gross, someone's snogging!"

Quicker then you can say Quidditch, the window was over crowded with numerous firsties.

"Yuck!"

"Blimey, look at 'em go."

"Is that Harry Potter?"

"Lucky bird she is."

No, I refused to believe it. Over my dead body, Potter. I pushed my way through, and it was disturbing. Harry was definitely snogging my innocent sister. Oh, god, it was disgusting. Their hands were—ugh—and in public?

"OI! Potter, stop snogging her!"

Sisters annoy, interfere, criticize. Indulge in monumental sulks, in huffs, in snide remarks. Borrow. Break. Monopolize the bathroom. Are always underfoot. But if catastrophe should strike, sisters are there. Defending you against all comers.

~Pam Brown

You know, I learned something pretty important at the Hospital Wing later that day. The first thing is that my sister can throw a painful jinx. The second is that Harry has the weirdest taste in girls. And the third is that Hermione can be such a great healer.

Don't get me wrong, I love her and all, but when my nails and teeth are growing quicker then I could count...Hermione was too busy scolding me to realize what danger I was in.

Remind me to send Pomfery flowers.

"Apologize," Hermione hissed in my ear, she made a gesture towards Harry and Ginny. Ginny was still fuming, her wand was setting off miniature fireworks.

My wonderful teeth had finally shrunk back to normal size. Hermione knew that, but I would like to pretend that they were too big for me to speak. Chances are that I would do less stupid things when I can't speak.

"Mnsry," I mumbled through closed lips.

"What was that, Ron? I couldn't hear you," Harry said, he put an arm around Ginny's shoulders. The contact imminently calmed her down. It took all of my willpower not to grimace at their lovey-dovey expressions.

"I'm sorry." Hermione prodded my side with her wand. I gulped, feeling afraid for my life. "I mean I'm very, very sorry, Harry and Ginny," Hermione prodded again, "I overreacted," another prod, "it won't happen ever again."

My bloody apology was deemed reasonable by the three. Hermione stopped prodding my side, and the new couple shrugged.

"That's okay, Ron," Harry said, he held out his hand, "are we still friends, even though we're dating?"

I took it, deciding to give Harry the You're-Dating-My-Baby-Sister-You-Wanker speech at a later date. "We're always best mates," I told him, "nothing would ever change that."

"Now Ginny, you too should apologize to Ron," Hermione reminded her, "he did, now it's your turn."

Ginny turned towards me, her hand clasped onto Harry's, "I'm sorry, Ron," she comically sighed, and then grinned in a manner similar to Fred and George's. "Sorry that I used such a pathetic jinx at you. I mean, you deserved better."

Oh, hardy har, har. I'm dying from laughter. "I accept your apology, now can I go back to being freaked out by your relationship?"

"By all means, go ahead."

I pushed myself up in a more comfortable position, realizing that I could use the You're-Dating-My-Baby-Sister-You-Wanker speech, and the Ginny-Why-Are-You-Even-Dating-You're-Too-Young speech at the same time.

"You see, when Ginny was born. Dad gave us all a long talk about we should protect her honor..."

While giving them the speech, I couldn't help think about love myself. That it was a mysterious disease that would indeed catch me. Of course, years later, at my wedding (featuring Hermione as the stunning bride, Ginny as the obnoxious Maid of Honor, Harry as the annoying Best Man, and Mum as the crying...Mum.), Harry just had to stand up and tell the entire story to everyone.

Love, what a mysterious illness indeed.

When love is not madness, it is not love.

~Pedro Calderon de la Barca