Ron sat dejected in the darkness of his room. The sun had not yet fully risen, and he glared at the red streaks that interrupted his dark thoughts. Damn the sunlight. Damn happiness. One month and eleven days. Ron seized a small ornament on his nightstand, and squeezed his fist tight around it until the bones of his knuckles threatened to burst. Slowly, he relaxed, and realised, he had nothing to be angry about. He wasn't mad. He was sad. Downright depressed. One month and eleven days after he told her that he loved her, and still nothing. No "I love you too." No word at all.

Ron leaned back until he was laying with his arms behind his head. He looked up at the ceiling and was briefly blinded by specks of dust snowing on him. Fred and George were making a ruckus again. They had been more chaotic than ever this summer. As if his mum and dad needed any more grief. Ron thought hard. Why would she be doing this? Or rather, not doing this? It was so unlike Hermione in every way. He knew that she was one to be prompt. She was warm. She was polite. Even if she didn't reciprocate his feelings, she still would have said SOMETHING. It would have been so kind and sweet he would have only fallen deeper in love with her, despite the sting of rejection. He knew Hermione should have written back by now. Unless, of course, he didn't know her at all. That thought worried him the most. Ron thought aloud to himself:

"What if I didn't know her at all?"

"Don't think you ever really did, mate." The mirror in the corner coughed out.

"Maybe you're right."

"I always am, aren't i?"

"Well, there WAS that time that you told me that Fred and George didn't do anything to my bed, and I woke up strangled by sheets."

"They bribed me with a clean and fixed my cracks."

"Thanks a lot."

"Anytime."

"I can't believe you. I don't want to. I did know her. She was my best friend. I had to have gotten to know her so well to love her so much."

"You tell yourself that."

"I will."

"Hope always lasts for awhile, at least."

"I could easily throw this book at you right now."

The mirror went quiet, and left Ron to his thoughts. Ron almost wished it were still talking. Now Ron was sinking underneath the tide of disappointment and want. He wanted to see her again. Whatever happened to "soon"? Where was Hermione? They said it would be okay. His mum and dad were sure it would be okay.

Was it okay?

Oh God. Something happened to Hermione. Voldemort. He should have never suggested that she come to Grimmauld Place to help the Order of the Phoenix. He put her in danger. Something must have happened to her. That was the only explanation. Ron got up quickly, knocking over several things in the process and made for the door. Worry plagued him, and he searched the house, but there was no one home, except for Fred and George in the attic, and they couldn't tell him anything. Where was his mum? He needed to know now. Once downstairs in the kitchen, Ron stood in front of the family clock and checked the whereabouts of everyone. Dad was at work, darn. Mum was out buying vegetables at the open-air market. Ginny was at a friend's house. Ron glared at the hands of the clock. If only there were one hand for Hermione.

The rest of the day Ron spent doing absolutely NOTHING. Literally. Time just passed without him knowing. His day was completely empty. During dinner, his mum and dad wouldn't answer his questions, saying it was better that he didn't know. He didn't get any more than five words from them. Ron got so angry that he left the table without asking to be excused, and started to storm up the stairs as his mum and dad exchanged looks and looked as if they were suppressing something. The rest of the family didn't meet Ron's eye. They were all hiding something.

On the way up, Ron trod on something that felt like a dead cat. He bent down to pick it up, and felt something familiarly lumpy. It was a scarf Hermione had made one of the house-elves back at Hogwarts. He had taken it to counteract her S.P.E.W. program because he didn't think that the elves wanted to be freed. Number 111 on the mile-long list of things they never agreed on. Merlin. He was so wrong for her. How on middle-earth did they ever become best friends? How did he ever fall in love with her. He sat there with the ugliest thing on middle-earth in his hand, and thought about how he loved the most beautiful thing. Ron now understood what she meant. He was empty. Without her in his life, he wasn't just sad. This was a deeper feeling than sadness. It was worse. It was nothing at all. He couldn't feel anything. He couldn't even cry. She was the source of his emotions. Without her, he was silly, vapid, incapable of being serious Ronald Weasley. She made him think. She made him want. She made him love.

Ron went up to his room with the scarf tight in his hand, afraid to let go of the only thing he had of her's. He softly shut the door behind him and lay down softly on his bed on his side, with his hand under his cheek, ready to catch stray tears. He couldn't even cry without her though. There was a soft tap tap on his window, and he thought, "Great, and it rains. The perfect ending to this story." He heard his window creak as it swayed open, probably from the wind, and didn't lift his head. Ron just closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Something was itching his eyes though. He lifted his other hand and began to brush it away, but felt parchment instead. Ron sat up quickly and opened his eyes. There was Pig. There was a letter.