Oh my darling reviewers, it's been a long time, I know! I'm so sorry; I've been ridiculously busy and have had no time to write. Actually, this chapter was written a LOONG time ago, and it's super short because it was meant to be one fourth of a chapter or so. However, I never had time to write the rest, so I'll post this for you now. Be patient, dear reviewers!

Ugh. Back to hw then. Can you believe that I have a unit's worth of chem hw, a 20 page paper, a French presentation to memorize, and an ethics project AND paper, all due tomorrow?! I'm doomed, I tell ya.

No time for individual thanks. Sorry guys, I'm really pressed for time right now. Thanks for being so understanding!

Ronald Weasley couldn't sleep. It was that damnable conscience of his again, and he almost wanted to cry.

Almost, because boys didn't cry, he reminded himself. Not even when they had made the object of their affections sad. Not even when they wanted to hurl themselves off the North Tower in self-disgust. No, those tears pricking at the corner of his eyes did NOT constitute as crying.

His eyes were merely irritated.

Yes, that was it.

So as he tossed and turned in bed, he rubbed miserably at his irritated eyes, wondering how he was ever going to make it up to his best friend. Flowers? Nah, she'd only scoff and tell him that he was being utterly trite. Food perhaps? Nope, she'd go on and on about house elf labor rights. Maybe he could serenade her outside of her window, like one of those characters in utterly ridiculous romantic movies? He shuddered at the mere thought. She'd probably shut her window in horror at his yowling voice.

So Ron came to a single conclusion.

He was going to be hated by Hermione Granger for the rest of his life.

With this rather depressing thought, Ron gave a loud gasp and hiccupped into his pillow (no, he definitely didn't sob).

"Bloody hell, Ron," a bleary-eyed Harry Potter rolled over in his bed and glared at his friend. "Go to sleep. Or better yet," he added on second thought, "go talk to Hermione. Just stop blubbering, won't you?"

Ron wiped away his tears (from his irritated eyes, of course) and turned over, replying rather crankily, "I'm not crying. And I don't want to talk to Hermione. She hates me enough already."

Harry sighed.

Idiot, he thought tiredly as he glanced at the clock. 2:55. He doesn't know how much she cares at all.

"Hermione would never hate you," he remarked tiredly. "Just go talk to her. Now if you don't mind, I'm exhausted and would really like to get some sleep."

And with that, he turned over and pulled his comforter over his head, leaving no room for discussion.

Ron lay awake in bed for some time more, contemplating over what Harry had just said.

Was he lying? The suspicious side of him asked. Was Harry just saying that she'd never hate me to get me to shut up so he could sleep?

No, no of course not! The secret hopeless romantic side of him protested. This, by the way, was a side of him that he kept very well hidden. Only Ginny had ever been privy to it, and that was only because she had walked in on him bawling his eyes out while reading a heartrending romantic novel titled The Witch's One Love. However, with many bribes involved, she had finally promised to never ever tell of this event to anyone.

Hermione hates you! His inner cynic proclaimed.

Never! The hopeless romantic sobbed. She loves you! That's why she's so upset! Oh poor thing; you must go apologize to her immediately and take her into your arms!

Finally, exhausted by his strange inner battle, he pushed himself out of bed and marched out of the boys' dormitory.

Fine, the inner cynic conceded. Go apologize to her. You win, okay?

The inner hopeless romantic stuck out his tongue gleefully.

Ron shook his head. Staying up late at night was definitely bad for him.

He made his way down to the Common Room, wondering all the while why in the world he was doing so. She wouldn't be down there anyway, he reasoned. He'd just go down, and sit by the fire and sulk. Obviously, it was impossible to sleep now.

He was halfway down the stairs when he noticed a familiar frizzy haired girl sitting on the floor by the fireplace, leaning against one of the armchairs. He froze momentarily, unsure of what to do. It was too late to go back up without being noticed, but he was terrified of talking to her. After several agonizingly silent moments, he tentatively made his way down and sat beside her. She looked up in surprise but quickly turned away.

"Hi Ron," Hermione murmured softly.

"Hi," he replied rather uncomfortably.

They sat for several more minutes.

Suddenly, Ron realized with horror that she was sniffling. Hermione was actually facing away from him, sniffling as quietly as she could, her shoulders shaking slightly.

That meant one of two things: either she had suddenly fallen ill (which he highly doubted), or she was crying.

And he didn't know how to deal with a crying Hermione!

"Are you crying?" he asked incredulously.

She shook her head furiously, her voice breaking as she responded stubbornly, "No, I'm not."

"You are," he argued, craning his neck to try to see her face.

She turned away from him even more. "I'm not," she repeated.

"But you are," he continued, putting a hand on her shoulder to try to get her to face him.

"Don't!" she burst out, shaking off his hand. She stood up, turning to look at him, tears brimming in her eyes. "Just don't," she wiped her tears away angrily. "If you hate me so much, don't try and act like you care, Ronald Weasley," she hissed venomously, "because I don't want to be hurt. I don't want to be brokenhearted. Just leave me alone!"

She spun on her heels and rushed up to the girls' dormitory so quickly that Ron was left simply gaping after her.