Ron opened the door to his tiny room. He turned on his bedside table's lamp, then went over to sit on his bed. The next thing he knew- bam! He had tripped over a mound of magazines and had a face full of dusty rug.
This had been happening recently- him coming to his room and then tripping on the clutter that layered the floor.
It's time, Ron decided. He would be moving to a new home with Hermione soon, anyway. Might as well get it over with.
Ron was going to clean his room. He couldn't even remember the last time that he had sifted through all the stuff crowding his space.
He started with his dresser. He swept rocks, candy wrappers, old socks, and other junk into his trash bin, things he didn't need. He stuffed a few knuts that he found into his pocket.
After tidying everything else, Ron came to his bed. Underneath his bed had literally never been touched. It was the deep, dark hole that he shoved everything down whenever his mum had asked him to clean his roon and he had felt too lazy.
Ron knelt down. His head swirled with ideas of what he could possibly find under there. The redhead reached under the sheets that hid everything from his view and his heart beat quickened, not knowing what he would find.
He groped around, and pulled out a scroll of parchment that he unfurled. It was a potions essay from his sixth year. How had it ended up under his bed? He threw it in the bin. No longer needed.
Some more old socks, broken quills, dust bunnies. Ron grabbed another trash can. It was beginning to become a sort of game for him. Reach under the bed and pull out a surprise.
The Gryffindor stuck his hand under the bed again, and brought out a pile of pictures of Harry that he had taken from Collin Creevey. Trash.
He brought out a pack of letter that Hermione and Harry had sent him during the third year at Hogwarts. He put them into his pocket to read later.
Next, his fingers brushed something cool and metallic. He slid it out from under the sheets. It was his slinky, a muggle toy his dad had brought home to him when he was little. It seemed that the farther back under the bed he went, the older things got.
As soon as he saw it, the memories had come rushing back. He had had such a happy childhood. But it was just a piece of metal. Ron was about to toss it in the trash, then hesitated. He fingered the toy. Shouldn't you hold onto your memories, your past? He couldn't just leave it all behind. It didn't seem right to throw it away.
Ron set the slinky aside and reached under the bed again. This time he pulled out a small bowl full of something jiggly, and covered in dust. He sniffed it. Pudding. Ron stuck his finger in, then stuck his finger in his mouth.
Not bad, he thought. Considering how old it probably is. Ron pushed the bowl aside. He would save it for later.
He reached under the bed for the last time. He felt around, then cringed when he touched something... hairy. He pulled it out slowly. It was dead. A dead rat.
Then it hit him. Isn't that how things always ended? Dead?
His whole life was set out for him and nothing could ever change. People were always saying things like, 'only you can control your future!' but none of that was really true. You're born, you live, you die. You can't control that.
Ron layed down on his bed looking up at the ceiling, the rat in his hands. What was the point of life on earth if it always ended? He looked down at the limp rodent in his hands. What had the point of that rat's life been? To eat other animals? To be eaten? For enjoyment of its life? Or, for something better? Was it in Rat Heaven? He hoped so.
Then what was the point of his own life? Ron looked around his room, and spotted his slinky. He already knew what life was about! Ron felt his pocket where the letters still rested. It was about love and friendship, creating memories, and making a differerence in the world.
Ron got off his bed and tromped down the staircase, still carrying the rat. He went out into his backyard, and found a big rock. He used his wand to dig a hole that he carefully placed the rat in, then covered it back up. On top he placed the rock, which he carved as a gravestone.
He said a silent prayer.
Isn't that how things always ended? Dead?
Please comment! This is a first draft so it is not at its best. I will accept constructive criticism to help improve this piece!