Ron Weasley leaned back into one of the couches, gripping the arm so hard that his knuckles were turning white. He had been looking down at his lap determined, angry, having fits inside his head. This was the year that Hermione had finally started to notice him, but the thing was, now that this was finally happening, Ron wasn't sure how he felt about it. Over the years, he had waited and waited and waited for her. They had both known that Ron had emotions that hid under the surface of their friendship, but any time he showed her any affection or gave out hints, she backed off. His feelings of rejection and jealousy had only fueled their endless, redundant arguments. He had often lain in bed at night, viciously wondering how he could love and hate her. Honestly, it had had scared him to death. But he had gotten tired of the arguing and the seemingly endless waiting. He had moved on a while ago. It had been hard seeing her every day in classes- watching her sweep her hair off to the side when she was writing, or looking at a hole in the shoulder of her shirt. It nearly drove him mad. But it had gotten easier when they left that summer, though she had written him often. Her evasive nature over the years also came through in her letters. In the midst of previous summers, he would sit on his floor on hot summer nights, studying the letters she had written him over and over, longing to run to her and make her explain herself. He would crumple them up, only to smooth them out again for a seventeenth reading. She never wrote about what she felt, but about ideas or events. But this summer, instead of poring over them, he had just skimmed them and stuck them in his desk drawer to avoid emotion.

Ron shook his head, coming back to the present as he felt Hermione's gaze on him. Abandoning the book in her lap, she had been staring at him uncertainly for the past five minutes. Ron let his eyes dart nervously over in her direction. She was staring at his knuckles. He loosened them and let his hand hang idly over the edge of the arm of the couch. Had he really changed that much over the summer? He thought for a minute. He had gotten even taller and lankier, but it suited him, he thought. He had grown his hair out a little. His mother had often teased him over the summer about the way it curled up slightly at the back of his neck. "Your father's used to do that, too. At least before he started losing it," she had giggled. His face had also changed a lot. His features had begun to protrude more, characteristic of growing into an adult. He did look a lot older compared to the few recent pictures of him that his mother kept around the house. He wasn't much for the muscle department, but he had never really cared much about that kind of stuff anyway. Overall, Ron didn't think he was anything to admire, but he figured he didn't look so bad. 'Well, so much for my bloody personality, Hermione,' he thought bitterly. Ron glanced over at Harry, who was sitting opposite them in one of the chairs. Harry looked up and shook his head as if to say, "Oh, just get it over with already." Ron glared back vengefully. All the tension was only making the vibrant fire in the hearth in front of him seem hotter. "Ron, you really ought to be doing your Potions," Hermione chided, abruptly shattering the silence.
"You're not," he pointed out.
"And that would be because I finished it yesterday, when it was assigned"
Ron rolled his eyes and said, "Of course," under his breath.
Hermione just giggled. This was unlike her. Usually, she would have made some snide remark about his study habits. Ron raised his eyebrows at her. She held his gaze for a few seconds, blushed, and looked back down at her book. She must really have a thing for him if she wasn't spending her leisure time in the library. Harry just rolled his eyes and let his head fall into the back of his chair. "Well, it's been loads of fun, kids, but it's really hot in here and I'm going for a walk," Ron said, standing up and stretching.
"Ron, it's about 58 degrees outside," Hermione replied.

He just shrugged and walked away indifferently. Walking out of the portrait hole, he could still feel Hermione's burning eyes and he shivered. He walked the corridors, purposefully making his shoes squeak against the polished stone floor and wondering where he was taking himself. He listened to his shoes squeaking and vaguely wondered if anyone was even paying attention to it. Attention was all he had ever wanted, but it wasn't easy to come by in his family. He had realized with horror recently that he was slowly becoming the dreaded stereotype that was the middle child. He had become unruly, rageful, quiet, and anxious. He often went out of his way to do stupid things to get in trouble so that he could prove to himself that his parents really did care about him. All he ever got was negative attention, but it was better than being ignored. Ginny was the baby, and so she was babied by his parents; George and Fred were twins, so they understood each other completely and shared that special connection that came with the job; Percy was the ambitious one that would surely change the world and make his parents proud; Bill and Charlie were already successful adults, with actual futures. Ron was nothing. Had nothing to show for. So he revelled in getting any attention he could.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he glanced up at the flowing portraits and flickering candles dripping wax in the brackets as he walked until he came to one of the pairs of giant oak doors that led out of the castle. The handle was wrought of iron and had a huge gryphon head. The gryphon stared at Ron with beady eyes and a malicious looking beak. Still staring at the strange obstacle, Ron abruptly pushed at the menacing handle until it started to give way. The door creaked in protest and Ron felt his knuckles pushing up against the wood uncomfortably as he gripped the cold handle. He felt the chilling air hit him and closed his eyes as a breeze flew over him. He stood for a moment, savoring the sensation of his hot blood finally cooling down. He felt his heart and pulsing veins slow. Goosebumps rose instantly on his arms and Ron rolled his sleeves down and made his way down the stone steps, eager to get away.
It seemed as if the grounds themselves were silently dead except for the tall green grass. He fancied he could see the fog moving to swallow him as he walked. He looked up at the night sky, still feeling the fog enveloping his body, and watched the clouds pillow and roll across the moon. Closing his mind down and letting his feet lead him, he slowly continued to walk throught the dewy grass towards the north side of the castle, watching his world go black as the graying clouds completely covered the moon. He could barely see the path leading down to the lake through the thick cover of the trees, and it was somewhat overgrown since not many people, if any, had been down it yet. He meandered slowly down the path as best he could, watching out for thorn bushes and tree roots. He kicked at a shrub and finally reeled into the clearing that was the lake's residence. The bank was somewhat frosty, and the water seemed too still.

Everything was silent. Ron just stood and listened to the silence, then realized that it wasn't silence at all. In his mind, he created sounds of dew falling off leaves, of trees breathing, of water seeping into the ground. He moved to sit on a flat rock that overhung the the lake, scattering the rocks lining the shore as he went. The rock was wide, and not as rough as it seemed. It felt flat and smooth from years of wind and water as he sat at the edge, letting his feet hang over. The water below him rippled and lapped at the shore silently.