A/N : Wow. . . so many reviews, so little time! Thanks to everyone for the encouragement! I don't know if I'll do a sequel - yet - but I'm taking it under serious consideration ;-)

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§ As a conclusion, one can say that the Alatus spell, though it permits living beings to grow wings, must be used with precaution as its effects can be hapazard - haphadarz - §

Ron crossed out the end of his sentence and chewed on his bottom lip anxiously. It was almost eleven o' clock, and he had yet to finish his Transfiguration essay. He was finding it harder and harder to concentrate, despite the growing silence of the common room. Everybody else had gone up to bed, leaving Harry, Hermione and himself alone.

Ron glanced up at his friend who was sitting in an armchair, his green eyes staring into the hearth, and bit back a grin. Harry looked positively dazed, and Ron wouldn't have been surprised to see drool on the corner of his mouth. It was a riot, really, the way one little kiss could affect him. Of course, Ron had never kissed anyone himself, but joking about it with his older brothers, hearing about their own experiences and speculating on the matter made it somewhat less dramatic.

He was happy for Harry, though. Cho was a smart, attractive girl; maybe Harry would start acting like a normal human being again. . .

There was a big blotch of ink on the parchment; Ron realised he'd been pressing the tip of his quill against the paper too hard. Thinking about his best friend's sudden fits of anger and unsteady mood didn't really do it for him; most of the time, he forced all the bitterness and resentment down. There was already enough fighting going on as it was. . .

Yes, Cho would definitely do the trick, Ron thought , erasing the ink blotch distractedly. Now, back to that darn essay. . .

§ - must be used with precaution as its effects can be unpredictable and in some cases, dangerous. One may ask himself if this is the case with every spell that actually interferes with the creature's anatomy - §

Besides, if Harry was with Cho. . . well, there was no doubt left. . . he didn't fancy anyone else. . . who happened to be sitting at the table writing a very long letter. . .

Feeling suddenly extremely grumpy, Ron turned back to his essay.

"Who're you writing the novel to, anyway?" he'd asked Hermione earlier.

"Viktor," she'd answered with an odd expression on her face, nearly leaping to keep the parchment out of his sight.

"Krum?"

An innocent implication, really. But Hermione had shot back angrily: "How many other Viktors do we know?"

Ron hadn't replied; he was too busy trying to cope with the sickly sensation in his stomach. Bloody Viktor Krum. . . who knew how to play Quidditch properly, unlike some people. . . It was no wonder, really, that Hermione fancied him, wonderful, popular, famous Viktor Krum, instead of a freckly little nobody who barely managed to hold on to a Quaffle . . .

Ron often came to wonder why Hermione even bothered hanging out with him; she certainly didn't seem to enjoy it, that much was sure. Always throwing him furious glances for no apparent reason, sighing in exasperation whenever he opened his mouth or telling him to be quiet. . .

The strangest thing about Hermione's behaviour, though, was that it changed radically from time to time. She'd kissed him on the cheek before the Quidditch match; she'd almost jumped at his neck when he'd come back from his long walk under the snow; and the night he'd got Percy's letter, she'd looked at him in a way that had made his heart flutter.

But these were only fleeting moments of relief. Stuck between Harry, who made it clear that nobody understood him and that he didn't want to be understood anyway, and Hermione, who was acting like a banshee at a bad time of the month, Ron generally felt pretty left out.

§ Such spells must therefore occur as last resort, and not be of light or profuse application. §

Ron sighed heavily as he put his quill down. Hermione was standing up, gathering her things; she yawned widely. "Well, night," she said, heading towards the girls' staircase.

Ron watched after her. She was holding Krum's letter in her hand.

"Probably going to slip it under her pillow," he muttered to himself, sitting up and tossing his parchment and quill into his bag.

Harry followed him up the boys' staircase, lost in his own thoughts.

"What does she see in Krum?" Ron asked aloud, more to himself than to his friend.

"Well," Harry replied vaguely, "I s'pose he's older, isn't he. . . and he's an international Quidditch player. ."

"Yeah but apart from that. . ." Ron insisted, expecting a little more support. "I mean, he's a grouchy git, isn't he?"

"A bit grouchy, yeah. . ." Harry said, sounding like Luna Lovegood in the middle of a crossword puzzle.

Ron snorted. The poor bloke was obviously in no state to hold a coherent conversation. Both boys got ready for bed in silence.

Once Ron had pulled the heavy hangings shut, he waited until he was sure Harry was asleep, then quietly took his wand from his bed stand.

"Lumos," he whispered, rummaging under his mattress until he found what he was looking for.

It was a small box, wrapped clumsily with shiny red paper. Ron considered it for a second.

He'd pondered on Hermione's present for days on end. He still remembered wanting to ask Ginny what she'd like Micheal to get her for Christmas, then thinking better of it. His sister would probably have guessed his intentions; she was a shrewd one, Ginny. Asking the twins was also out of the question. Finally, Ron had had to rely on himself.

There was a shop in Hogsmeade called "Bewitching Beauty Buys", a prissy girls' shop if he ever saw one. Ron smirked as he recalled entering the store, practically hiding under his robes in embarrassment, and asking the sales witch which perfume to choose. In the end, he'd had to buy the cheapest they had, having only three Galleons to spend.

And now the gift was in his hands, waiting to be opened by Hermione on Christmas day. Ron sighed. Surely she wouldn't think anything of it. . .

With trembling fingers, he touched the small card he'd glued to the wrapping paper. "For Hermione, from Ron," it read on the outside. Then, inside: "I hope you like it as much as I like you."

What had he been thinking, writing that? It had been before the Quidditch match. . . Ron shook his head slowly. This would never work.

"Bloody Viktor Krum. . . " he murmured, then, pointing his wand at the card: "Delere."

The words disappeared. Ron stuffed the box under his mattress, switched the light off and slipped under the covers. Closing his eyes, he could still picture Hermione writing her letter, with that small, concentrated frown he'd learned to find endearing. . . her face lit by the gentle glow of the fire. . . her curly hair, softly brushing her cheek. . .

*Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon, doesn't mean we all have.*

Ron pulled his quilt over his head. This was going to be a long night.