10
Ron Weasley stumbled through the heavily wooded pass towards the place where he and the others had set up camp. Walking almost blindly in the dark, the deluminator clasped tightly in his fist as he knocked branches away from him. He ran on and on, groaning when branches snagged the shoulders of his home-made sweater, the seventeen year old let out an annoyed 'oof' when he fell flat on his face. Spitting out the dirt that came into his open mouth he swore and got to his feet. Darkness was creeping up on him faster and faster still as the night sped through him like a blinding swirling mist.
Dust flew in his eyes and made them burn, anxiously he blinked trying to focus, the crackle of leaves pounded his eardrums. It was an agonizing feeling as though the tunneling trees would never end; indeed there was no light at the end of the tunnel. The moon was fading fast behind the large curtain of snow clouds looming forbiddingly over his head. The red-head stopped running, panting in his tracks, sweat dribbled down his forehead to linger in salty sticky droplets. A dark shadow seeped through the moonlight to fade away, leaving an eerily relaxed light gleaming on his damp red-brown hair.
The Wizard let out a loud and rather impolite yawn, not bothering to cover his mouth as there seemed to be no one close enough so as to become offended. Slumping down near a tree his heavy eyelids drooped, he tried to force them open but found that he just did not have the strength. After all one could only stay awake for so long before their biological clock chimed their inner bedtime. So he picked up his wand and placed it just in front of his lips so that its wooden tip brushed their rims ever-so-slightly.
"Quietus," He muttered.
A jet of dull, goldenrod light jutted from his wand, it tickled his lips. He opened his mouth, trying to swallow its hotness without too much gagging. It stung him and burned his taste buds so startlingly that he had to cover his mouth to muffle a harsh hack. The magic knocked the wind out of him so fast that his head was rocked slightly.
The spell he'd just cast would mute his snore; something that he hoped would keep him safe for the night. And a good thing too, because if he did his, 'Buzz-saw Imitation' as Hermione had told him one night, the Death-Eaters would find him for sure. That was all he needed, confrontations with those bloody gits. No thanks, he had enough problems as it was: the girl he loved being one of them. Hermione, what had he done? It was that Horcrux that's what had made him do it, but she did not care anymore, did she?
Probably not, he had been an asshole to her recently and it was only right that she would be angry with him still. He released a deep sigh and shivered, pulling his knees up to his chest to try and ward off some of the freeze that was sure to give him frostbite.
The night was quiet and still, but cold and bitter so he got up and gathered some thick branches and piled them one atop the other. "LarcarnumInflamarae." He whispered. A jet of fire flashed on the kindling and began to crackle pleasantly. Ron closed his eyes and drifted off.
When he woke up the next morning he resumed thinking about what to do with Hermione and how to ask her for forgiveness. Should he try the classic, I'm sorry?' no too overdone. Maybe groveling might work, no, too over-the-top. Ron sighed and sat down heavily and whacked his head against the tree trying to joggle his mind into thinking ideas that could be useful in his endeavors. Coming up empty-handed once more he got up.
"Hermione, I love you and…no," he paced back and forth. "Hermione I just want you to know that I'm sorry for…no," He held his chin in thought, "Hermione…you know how mean I can get sometimes but that's just how I am." He shook his head that would be as much help as a muggle gun leaving a ginormous hole in a vital part of him.
"Hermione I…UGH!" he slapped himself hard on the forehead, "Bloody Hell!" he mumbled rubbing his aching temple as an afterthought. What to do! What to do! Ron looked up at a tree and caught eyes with the yellow green pupil of an owl refusing to obey its nocturnal instincts. "What d'you think mate?"
The owl cocked its brown head, "Hoot." It said.
"Thought ye'd say that…" he muttered, feeling incredibly stupid for asking an owl for romantic council or of any kind for that matter. He sat down again and thought about his mother and, grinning when he remembered what a lovesick git she was when his Dad recited poetry on silly Muggle holidays like Valentine's Day. Maybe that might work for him? Yes, he would try poetry! Now the only trouble was where to find Hermione.
Sorry for the wait I went out of town for Christmas!