AN: I realize that there is an extremely small amount of Blaise/Ron going on for a Blaise/Ron story. Get used to that.

The first half of this chapter is completely useless. Really, it's just for me. You can even skip it if you want. . . but if you do, I'll know. Just saying.

There Is No god

Tuesday

Things had gone from bad, to worse, to just short of 'being raped by wild boars' for Ron. It was becoming increasingly clear that this young man needed direction in his life; he needed advice and understanding; he needed…a knowing voice from nowhere to illuminate and spotlight him.

Okay, here we go.

Breakfast this morning was the same hell it had been for the last three days, a dark, fiery hell. Each morning Ron would be forced to watch them: Harry's hand on Hermione's knee, Hermione's head against Harry's shoulder. Sometimes they would be laughing; sometimes they would just be talking; sometimes, their lips would be pressed together (and at those times Ron had to look away).

At this moment, the two love birds were feeding each other a bagel.

'That's right, eat that bagel, you wanker,' Ron thought 'eat it up and maybe then you'll choke and die.'

Yes, yes, it was enraging to see his friends together like this, and he couldn't understand why.

Then again, confusion was not unusual for Ron. He never was one to fully understand his feelings towards any situation. Indeed, one could call Ronald Weasley an emotionally crippled narcissist. But one shouldn't do that to his face. The boy has a good left hook, and isn't afraid to use it.

Anyway, there Ronald sat, slowly stabbing his egg with a fork, imagining, as the yellow yoke stained the egg whites, that it was Harry underneath his deadly utensil and not the ill fated child of some chicken (in the chicken world 'abortion'' is also known as 'breakfast').

It should come as no surprise that Ron wasn't on speaking terms with anyone. The, now infamous, fight in the common room, and the subsequent howler from Mrs. Weasley (full of embarrassing details), made it difficult for Ron to distinguish whether he was ostracizing himself from society, or vice versa. Either way, he was indifferent to the whole situation. Depression and confusion had taken over a craving for recognition.

Poor Ron. Poor, poor Ron.

Later that day…Ron's POV

I'm late for Transfiguration, so I'm running up the staircase, taking two steps at a time (which is never a good idea, even if you're not Neville Longbottom). But hey, if there is a just and loving god, given the week I've had, I'll be able to detect those bloody disappearing steps.

Aaah!

As my ankle catches in the faux stair and my head hurls towards the floor, I find myself asking: Why does god go to the trouble of creating an existence only to shower it with misery? It seems so very mean.

A groan escapes my bloody mouth, and I don't move for a while; hopefully, I'll pass out soon and drown in a pool of my own blood.

Then, a voice says: "Holy fuck! Are you alright?" Yes, yes I'm fine; I often like to acquaint myself with one sharp stone edge, or another, in this very fashion. I guess this dumb fuck is going to 'save me.' Woo.

Gentle hands cup my neck and caress my back as I'm turned over; creating a strange combination of sharp pain from my face and tingling from my back and neck. I raise my eyes to his; they're intense, focused. Zabini. His gaze is always unnerving; as though he is expertly analyzing everything within its range. I could more easily stare into Mad Eye Moody's eyes, err, eye?

I go to get up, but he won't allow it.

"That ankle is broken."

"It feels fine." I say wiping off the blood from the cut on my face.

"Just as your face does, I assume."

"Thanks for all the concern, but if I don't make an appearance in McGonagall's class, my marks are going to be competing with my family's bank account balance." I often find poking fun at my life makes people uncomfortable enough to leave me alone. Also, it was a good line, and I couldn't resist.

"I may not have an extensive knowledge of anatomy, but I'm certain that a human ankle should not be in the shape of a puffy 'S' ." Zabini replies.

I look down and blanch. My pulse quickens as I realize that this smart-ass is right about the ankle. It's amazing how frightening looking at a disfigured body part can be.

"I'll help you to the Infirmary; …it will get me out of charms." He declares as he gathers my scattered belongings. I'm no longer composed enough to care. I just wait until he comes over to carefully lift me up. Zabini's about 2 inches taller than I am, and can easily support my light frame against his fuller one. I'm too shocked ('cus of the ankle) to speak anymore; we make our way in silence.

It is a long walk to the infirmary, and the modern art sculpture posing as my ankle begins throbbing about half way there.

"God!" I increase pressure on Zabini's shoulder to signal that I need to stop. "Can you do anything about the pain?"

"I could sever the spinothalamic pathway in your spinal cord so you will never feel pain or cold again." Any normal person might have taken Zabini's comment, or its Kafkaesque delivery, to be disconcerting; I, however, found this hilarious.

I'm in higher spirits the second half of our trip, now fully aware of the heat radiating from Zabini's body. His gate is relaxed and confident. I'm enjoying his attention (his touch) a little more than I should.

One thing I always loved about Pomfrey, the woman doesn't ask too many questions when there is pain involved. With Zabini's help I'm ushered unto a bead, and relief is mine at last.

"I'll inform McGonagall, and come back with your work." He tells me while placing my bag on the end of the bead.

"Thank you so much." Out of habit my voice is sodden with sarcasm. "You must really hate Charms, or something."

"…or something." I think I here him mutter on his way out the door.

Confidence; the boy is dripping with confidence, and it seems to pour into every bit of his being.

There is another student in the infirmary about two beds down. Her eyes are closed, but her sleep seems restless. The girl's mousy brown hair is soaked with sweat, making it stick to her forehead and noticeably small chin. I can see that her hands are heavily wrapped before Pomfrey goes over to close the curtain. She then walks over to an angry/worried looking Millicent Bulstrode. Brave woman that Pomfrey, brave or stupid; I would sooner walk towards a shit flinging ape on crack.

"It was Kwa Herini; I…well…some Slytherin must have…err…made her touch it." Millicent stammered. She really seemed worried; probably doesn't want to get into trouble, evil troll. They continue their conversation, but I don't listen.

'My hero' is back fifteen minutes later with some parchment in his hand. There is a tense moment before he speaks. Shit, I should have greeted him or something.

I feel like a hobo at a posh gala.

Zabini eyes are fixed with mine as he talks. "Transfiguration was a review of everything covered last week. I also stopped by Sprout," I cringe at this, "She has someone taking care of your bulbs for today."

Wait, WTF I don't have any bulbs. Zabini seems to read the confusion on my face. He doesn't answer my question; instead he places the parchment on the rest of my belongings, picks up his own bag and says: "You were too heavy handed with the bulbs, and the ash was packed much too tightly. Hellebore needs to be able to react with oxygen." His voice sends shivers down my body like fingertips over sensitive skin. "And to prepare hellebore, one must stroke the bulb, gently, yet firmly." Right now, if you asked me the proper procedure on preparing a bulb for an ash bath, I couldn't tell you, my mind fizzled and died somewhere around 'stroke' and 'firm.'

"Nngh…"

Damn! Damn my inappropriate mind; damn my treacherous loins; damn my pale skin (which allows a blush to be seen so readily). I hope he didn't notice anything.

"Mr. Zabini, I believe you should be heading back to class." Saved…

He gives me a small nod, which I return.

Wait, tomorrow I have double potions. . . with the Slytherins. Damn.