I disclaim Harry Potter? I do I really need to?

Hanging in the balance of a choice between punching a whole through the wall or dropping to the floor in frustration, Ron Weasley gripped tightly onto a small, tattered booklet, and pressed it onto his forehead. He squinted hard, and then released to a sudden knock at his bedroom door.

'What?' He mumbled, hastily shoving the booklet into his pocket.

Ginny's dark red hair emerged through the opening of the door; her look was fierce and instigating.

'Are you coming down for dinner?' asked Ginny as she entered, already knowing the answer that she would receive. She slipped in and firmly shut the door behind her, waiting for an answer.

Ron shook his head uninterestedly, and layed back on his bed, pulling the covers over him.

'Not hungry right now ... little tired,' said Ron into the edge of his pillow.

For no more than an instant, there was silence, and then -

'GINNY WHAT THE -'

In a pull so forceful, Ginny tore the blankets from Ron's bed, causing him to roll off onto the floor.

'OUCH!' He bellowed, landing face-first.

Ginny grimaced.

'WHY IN THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU DO THAT?' Ron yelled, waving a fist frantically in the air. ' I TOLD YOU I'M -'

'SHUT UP,' said Ginny, in her most dangerous voice. 'I'm so tired of you acting all woe-is-me! Stop being such an old flubberworm and buck up.'

Ron opened his mouth in utter rage but, to his ultimate displeasure, the sounds failed to issue from his mouth.

'That's what I thought,' said Ginny. She turned and headed back to the door. 'Just because things are difficult right now, it doesn't mean that you have to curl up and die. No one else is.'

She slammed the door behind her, which was shortly followed by muffled arguing coming from downstairs.

Ron remained on the floor, staring angrily at the door.

The crisp morning air managed to seep through a crack in Ron's window. The rooster cocked, the sun had risen, and a tiny owl landed on his window sill. It rat-a-tatted on the glass, awakening Ron, who was still on the floor, beneath a heap of blankets.

'Pig,' Ron croaked from under the blankets, 'shove off, will you?'

Pigwidgeon persisted.

'Right ... ok ... enough.'

The pecking continued.

'OK. OK, ALRIGHT. HOLD ON.'

Ron unravelled himself from the cacoon of blankets and scrambled for his wand, which was lying somewhere underneath his bed, accompanied by a colony of dust bunnies.

He felt the shape of his wand, grasped it, pointed it at the window, and muttered: 'Alohomora.'

The latch unclasped, and Pigwidgeon fluttered in happily, hooting and making a mighty ruckus.

Ron's door opened.

'May I suggest,' said a stern voice that belonged to Mrs. Weasley, 'that you use magic for other purposes than sheer laziness.'

Ron crawled off the floor and onto his bed with a groan.

Mrs. Weasley observed the state of Ron's room with pressed lips, contracting disapprovingly.

'Breakfast is ready downstairs,' she said, picking up several items of Ron's dirty clothing from off the floor. 'Actually, it's leftovers of the dinner you didn't eat last night.'

'Actually,' said Ron, grasping for the blankets on the floor, 'I'm really not -'

'Don't you start,' said Mrs. Weasley, pointing a motherly finger at him. 'You will come downstairs and eat. I won't hear another word of it. Besides, your father and I would like to speak to you about something.

And with that, Mrs. Weasley left the room, leaving Ron's door wide open.

Ron sighed heavily, and got up to follow his mother down the winding stairs.

The house smelt of freshly picked flowers and bacon and eggs. Mr. Weasley was sitting at the head of the table, Daily Prophet in hand, sipping tea from an old McDonald's cup he'd found at the 2000 Quidditch World Cup. Naturally, it was bewitched to sing 'McDonald's! Food, folks, and fun!' every two minutes.

Ron sat at the seat where there was a plate of roast accompanying it, while Mrs. Weasley refilled her husband's cup with tea.

'Now,' said Mrs. Weasley, placing the teapot down, and sitting beside Mr. Weasley, who then folded up his newspaper, and put his cup down as well, 'We received a message from the Grangers this morning.'

Ron shook his head and made to get up and leave.

"Don't you dare,' said Mrs. Weasley in a chilling voice, almost getting up herself. 'You will sit down and listen.'

Ron considered for a moment, then thought it would be best to sit back down.

'McDonald's! Food, folks, and fun!' the cup cried.

'Good,' said Mrs. Weasley, though "good" hardly seemed the word to describe the atmosphere. 'The Grangers wanted us to know that Hermione was moved to St. Mungo's last night. That muggle hospital that she was at was hardly adequate enough to amount to her needs. Regardless if her condition is muggle related,' she added.

Ron stared at the roast. 'Is that it?' He said coldly.

'It sure as hell is not it,' intercepted Mr. Weasley before his wife could say anything. 'Do you know why they moved Hermione, Ron? Do you have any idea?'

Ron shook his head, still staring.

'Logically,' said Mr. Weasley, 'when it comes to a point when a muggle hospital, who sticks needles full of morphine into their patients's arms just to ease their pain, is longer working, then things are serious, Ron. Things are dangerously serious.'

Ron thought that his roast was turning greenish.

'Look at me, Ron,' said Mr. Weasley. And he did. 'Your mother and I - we know. We know how difficult this is for you. We know that the thought of losing your best friend is hard for you to deal with ... harder for you, more than anyone.'

Ron fought the all-too-familiar stinging that was working it' way up his throat.

'I-' Ron swallowed, ' -I can't listen to this.' He then pushed his chair out, got up, and headed for the doorway.

'Colloportus,' said Mr. Weasley in a very calm voice, pointing his wand at the door.

Ron approached the door and pulled and banged at it for it to open. 'Let me out,' he said, breathing heavily.

'Ron, please,' said Mrs. Weasley in a shaky voice.

Ron stopped pulling at the door, and stood with his backed to his parents.

'She will die, Ron,' said Mr. Weasley. 'Sr. Mungo's is doing all that they can but there are limits even to magic.'

'You think I don't know that?' said Ron coldly, still facing the door, his fists tightly clenched. He then turned to face them. 'You think I don't know that my best friend is in that damned hospital room, gripping onto any trance of life she has left?'

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged concerned glances.

Ron scoffed hysterically. 'That's it, isn't it? You think I'm some eight year old who won't come to terms with his friend dying? You - you think I'm in denial?'

'Of course not, Ron,' said Mrs. Weasley, reaching out to him. 'Never. We just thought that maybe -'

'No,' said Ron, trying to regain his composure. 'No. Don't even. Just - Don't even.'

Tears were now gleaming in Mrs. Weasley's eyes; Mr. Weasley was forlorn.

'I can tell you why I haven't been to see Hermione,' said Ron. 'I can tell you why I've exiled myself to my room for the past two months. I just - I can't stand it. I -'

'- McDonald's! Food, folks, and fun! -'

'I can't stand the thought that my best friend, of nine goddamn years, is - is going to-'

'- McDonald's! Food, folks, and fun!'

Ron lost it. He strode over to the wailing cup, tore it away from the table, and with a mighty wrench, wailed it across the room, crashing it against the wall; the tea splattered all over.

The Burrow was quiet that day.

Author's Note: Chapter Two will be coming soon, thanks for reading!