He was cold. Would someone turn down the AC, he said. And no one did. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an old woman, walk over to that thing he was trying not to look at, and went into it. If he had known better, he would have seen the Prefect's badge, glinting in the light. The room was dark but for the dim glow cast by the thing. Which he'd seen, but did not wish to set his eyes upon ever again. But it seemed that Fate had woven her snake-vines about his neck, and tonight for his lack of caution, he would have to act by her. He moved his wide open eyes toward the other end from where the thing was.

Why had he come here tonight, anyway? The thing was supposed to have been destroyed, its wicked handle along with it. Why had he chosen to walk here where he had not tread for years past, tonight? But had he walked? Of course, it was the only way to get to a place in the school. Or maybe...

He closed his eyes tightly, like a little boy afraid of the dark, but it did no good. The image of the room was filling even the backs of his eyelids, as if he weren't seeing it because it was to be seen, but because he could not avoid it. It was stitched in his eyes, not floating as it should outside of it. So unavoidably his eyes strayed again to the thing. With the Prefect's Badge glinting unnaturally, and the broomstick, aching to fly, even as he held it down with his own hands. He moaned a defiant "No," for No, he would not look, the eager broom feeling like an unquenchable itch in his gloved fingers. Wood's Quidditch uniform stuck to his clammy, fear-drenched body. But "Yes," insisted she who then controlled him. For "Yes, you will." Just once, and then I'm running out, he considered bargaining, but that was so stupid the words would not come out of his mouth.

He tried screaming many times, but he was voiceless. The only one who he could address was that evil woman in his head, and even she ignored everything he said. "I will not look," he told her again.

"Just once."

The blood rushed to his head, as he giddily turned (not of his own will). His head seemed to be limp, like his house-ghost's, nearly falling off his neck. He moved his shoulders to steady himself, but set off balance by the impatient hands, and his neck wrenched and he floated like slow-motion above ground, his heart filled with terror, and before he could feel any other sensation, he fell, landing on his head, and the blood leaked.

Ron fought desperately to open his eyes, trying to turn away from his maniacal reflection in the Mirror of Erised, he thrashed and hit the soft, solid masses that struggled to constrain him. The image gave a happy laugh, as if to say that it won, as if to say...I'll come back again, now that you have seen me, and recognized me. With a final scream Ron opened his eyes, stinging with the blood oozed into it to see a cursing Seamus Finnigan, holding his head in his hand, and Dean Thomas, who was holding both of his (Ron's) hands in a straitjacket pose against his shoulders.

"Alright, alright, pipe down. What's going on here?" There was a dark figure in the entryway of the sixth year boys' dormitory, which they all recognized as Head of House McGonagall, cranky and clad in a short pink robe, her hair tied loose at the edge of her neck.

"Mr. Weasley, what in the world are you doing?" she said, alarmed.

"I--" he began, confused by the complete reversal of scenery.

"Reckon he had a dream, like Harry's."

"That's impossible."

Ron felt like a frog in transfig, pinned down on the table and waiting to be turned into a tea cozy.

"Erm--" he started again, but a grumbling Seamus caught his attention.

"Come with me all three of you. Where is Longbottom?" Ron did not hear what Dean replied, but dazedly followed McGonagall out. He squirmed, keeping his eyes steadily on over-sized pajama legs to keep himself from looking at all the whispering Gryffindors surrounding him. He knew Hermione was saying something to McGonagall, or himself, maybe, but unable (or maybe unwilling) to concentrate, he struggled with the image in his mind.

If she asked what the nightmare was about, should he? Could he tell her? He could barely even make a noise, but if he didn't tell her, McGonagall would assume the worst. An Imperious Charm or something, and he couldn't consider how much that would complicate matters. He felt stupid, quite like a full-grown adult who'd just had a tantrum on a muggle Road in the glaring daylight. How bad was it, anyway? He should just tell her.

The woman's voice said in his head, sounding just as it had echoing off the walls of the Room which held the Mirror of Erised. "Just once." And then Harry laughed a crazy laugh, his brows thick and his sunken eyes glinting with an evil light. The Prefect's Badge twinkled beckoningly on his chest right beneath the bright embroidery on his Gryffindor robes.

~*~*~
HARRY POTTER
CAPTAIN
~*~*~

Harry's laughter echoed off the walls, and Ron squirmed fearfully under its piercing sound.