Daying

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The sky was a perfect sky blue, the kind artists would fret to use on their canvas, and the sunshine was beating down mercilessly; the whole effect was completed by the few dollops of wisps blown lazily across its cradle. Ron Weasley lay besides the great lake, under the harmless muggle species of a Willow. In the shade, he blinked his eyes, looking around finding all things had a hazy glow and omitted all affections.

A wavering patch of daisies surrounding the peaceful green and Ron gingerly picked one up, twisting away the dangling roots to look deeply into the shallow deepness of the lifeless daisy. Slowly, as to make sure no one was around, Ron reddened, but lips tight, he set out to do his job.

¡§She loves me¡K she loves me not¡K she loves me¡K she loves me not¡Kshe¡K¡¨

Our Ronnikins lacked patience ¡V one look at the many-petal daisy, he was sure that fate would forgive him if he * gently * plucked half of the petals off first, before following the rhyme. The mutilated daisy looked reproachfully at Ron, as it lay helplessly in his palm. But Ron, exhilarated that he reached the last few petals, muttered under his breath,

¡§She loves me not, she loves me, she love me not¡Khuh???¡¨

Yes, there was no mistake ¡V the last petal landed on the Dreaded. How could it be? No, of course not, there was a mistake in his counting of course, maybe he shouldn¡¦t have plucked the first half of the petals recklessly¡Kohhh!!! There was his fatal mistake, The Stem. The stem had to count for something right?

¡§She loves me! I knew it!¡¨

Satisfied at last, Ron stretched on the ground, savoring the moment of victory. Yawning, his eyelids felt leaden¡Kbefore he drifted off into another dream of Quidditch (England flattening Bulgaria of course), he decided most impulsively,

¡§We will always have red-headed children, it runs in the family ¡V how am I to break that to Herm?¡¨

The sky above him winked back, innocent as ever.