"Hey, Ron! Come on, wake up," Harry shouted through the door to their bedroom. "Wake up sleepy head," One of the other boys chanted. Ron glanced up, and, through a blurry vision, saw them standing in the doorway, fully dressed. He rubbed his eyes and lazily rolled out of bed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm comin', gimme a minute of privacy will ya'?" "Yeah okay, but hurry, we're all going into Hogsmeade for the carnival. We'll meet you down stairs." They all turned to go, but Ron stopped them. "Wait a second. Um, I don't think I'll be going." Harry came into the room, a very concerned look on his face. Ron turned away, to look out the window. "Are you feeling okay, Ron?" "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. I just, well I don't really feel like going out today. I haven't been sleeping too well lately, and I'm a bit tired." The other boys accepted this explaination and ran to the common room shouting, "Suit yourself!" and "Hey, more candy and prizes for us!" and "See ya later", but Harry stuck behind a second, worry spread across his face. "Are you sure you're-" "I'm fine," Ron said abruptly and rather aggressively. He quickly changed his tone and turned to face Harry. "I'm fine. Really. You go on and have fun. I'll be fine here." This was slightly more convincing. Harry reluctantly turned and then said, "Well, if you change your mind, you know were to find us." And at that Harry left, closing the door behing him. Ron looked down at the ground. He then lifted his head and stumbled sleepily into the bathroom. Still rubbing his eyes and scratching the back of his neck, Ron took off his pajamas and slipped into the shower. He turned the dial as cold as it would go and shivered as the icy water hit him with great force. He closed his eyes and embraced the water spraying against his face. Blindly, he reached for the shampoo, but it slipped and fell onto the wet tile floor. Ron reached down for it, and winced as he caught a glimpse of his arm. It was covered in gashes and scars. He grabbed the bottle of shampoo and replaced it on the shelf. A saddened look in his eyes, he now looked down at both of his arms, which matched, grotesquely filled with scars, that Ron had made himself. For a few years now Ron had been very depressed. It was consuming. He didn't feel his life was worth living. He was poor, unpopular, stupid, ugly and no one loved him. Ron had convinced himself that these were facts. The scars only further proved this. He'd begun cutting himself a year ago. He would sit up in his bed at night, or out on the grass on Hogwart's grounds, and hold his sharpened silver razor, which sparkled in the moonlight, and cut into his pale skin, watching the crimson liquid pour from his veins. This filled him with a sadistic kind of happiness that was the greatest feeling he had felt since the times when he was a child, blissfully ignorant to the wicked ways of the world. He did this often, and it showed. Now, he could have magically made the scars go away, but he had kept them in the hopes someone would notice, that someone would care. Yet no one had noticed. For a whole year no one saw the product of the emmense pain Ron had suffered. Pushing these memories and thoughts from his mind, Ron reached for the shampoo and began to lather his thick orange hair.