"You could've said so in the first place," I snapped, a little less-snappish compared to my previous remarks.

"No I couldn't, you brainless git," he furrowed his eyebrows and snorted impatiently, "Now it's clear that you don't want the job, then so be it;" he snapped, "it's not like I'm desperate."

I could think of nothing to say at the moment, and am rather feeling as if I've just been slapped across the face.

He turned and left without a word.

"It could've been a lot less complicated if you weren't so snappy," Ron concluded after hearing out my encounter with Malfoy, much to my annoyance. As if I didn't know that.

"Well, since it wasn't my intention to change the course of my career in the first place, don't think that any good manners will make a difference in that, would it?" I pointed out.

"'Could it', you mean; he isn't going to make the offer again."

"I sometimes wonder, Ron," I eyed him suspiciously, "who's side are you on anyway? You make it sound like I'm the one who's desperate!"

"Both," he shrugged, "I'm trying to be non-judgmental over here," with a brief pause—"though I really think you should reconsider." He added finally, with a thoughtful expression. "He doesn't do it often you know, he must've seen something worthwhile in adding you onto his list—otherwise he wouldn't bother."

"Am I supposed to be grateful?" I raised an eyebrow.

"He isn't that bad, Ha--" Ron sighed. "Can I just call you Harry? This name-changing thing is driving me mad,"

It took me a moment to think it through, though I finally settled on the conclusion. "Harry's fine--Won't make much of a difference anyway. I mean, it would've been odd for you to keep calling me James when we both know my real name." I recalled the time when he called me by James, just a while ago. It felt alien, and I was not at all comfy with it. "Just try to avoid calling me in public."

"Seriously, why did you change your name? You never bothered to explain." Ron sat up and looked me in the eye.

"Don't think it's my duty to," I looked away, suddenly becoming tense. "—Just felt like it."

Ron had a way of letting me know that he didn't agree with me, but still accepted my way. Most people simply let the subject drop, acting as if none of this has ever been mentioned; or they'll either smile this ridiculously inscrutable smile, which is even worse. But Ron is different in that special way, which never failed to move me, deep down.

He nodded, resting his head on the fluffy pillow behind him.

I sighed. "I might think about it some time later—just not right now." We both let the subject at that, since nothing of the matter could be more settled than it is at the moment.

"Does your leg still hurt?" I checked his bones.

"They're fine. I'm just not sure when I might need to be here again," he muttered.

"Well, I'll always be here if you need me," I said, flexing his lower-limb slightly.

"Thanks--Ouch! What the hell was that for?"

"Nothing…I see you still have reaction—good sign, you're recovering," I grinned.

"Is that really? I somehow get the impression that I won't be able to make it tomorrow," he continued to wince as if the pain is all over him. "Malfoy wants me back by morning; he mentioned something 'bout training--"

"WHAT!" I nearly jumped; what kind of training session an Auror is supposed to go through, I have no idea. What I have figured, though, is this: No healthy Auror is going to go through Malfoy's training unscathed. "But you've just begun recovering!"

"Apparently, that doesn't seem to bother him." (His pathetic wincing has stopped by now.) "He's a set example you know—he's been aching all over while he was here and he wasn't complaining one word about it."

"Hasn't he gone to a hospital yet?" I furrowed my brows. "I heard you mentioning his wounds while you guys were talking, and I thought he'd already went to one before coming here," It's really hard to link a fuming Malfoy with a wounded figure—

"How bad was it?" Damn the sympathetic nature of us healers, the question slipped out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop myself.

"Probably, but not before just now;" Ron didn't seem to notice my thoughts as he answered to my first question. "He's always a 'business-first' sort of person as far as I know. And as to his injuries—I'm not very sure—he never shows 'em."

This is somewhat disturbing. I've heard of people who suffered from Algolagnia, but never a mentally-healthy person who doesn't want to be treated. Of course, seeing that this is with Malfoy, there is always room enough for exceptions. "How do you know he's hurt then?"

"Hullo--I was there—he shoved me away before I fell…the Death Eater must've harmed him one way or the other. Before I knew, I was sent here."

My heart nearly skipped a beat when I heard the mentioning of Death Eaters.

"Why didn't you tell me about it?" My concern grew.

"He told me not to," Ron replied with a dismissive tone, "he does it all the time, though I never knew why."

I acknowledged with a half-nod, trying to persuade myself that the variety of insanities have certainly evolved over the years, and that I was just a little behind the times. Psychology was never one of my favorite majors.

"Would you be annoyed if you couldn't go?" I changed the subject.

"Bleh, wrong question; Correction: would my commander be annoyed if I couldn't make it tomorrow, you mean."

"I doubt it; you have my permission to stay. I am the authority here in this case and I insist that you do as told." I declared that as a final and ignored all his protests about how damned he'll be if he can't make it tomorrow.

"Whatever, mate, you can't make me change my mind," I said on my way out. "Ring the bell if you need anything, alright?" I raised my voice over his continuous objections. "—I'll be in my office," I nearly yelled before closing the door behind me.

"Wait up—hey!" He finally stopped the babbling.

"What?"

"You don't have to stay here overnight," he said. The sudden change in his tone caught me quite off-guard.

"What's up?"

"Nothing—it's just that you don't have to stay for me," Ron's voice wafted across the empty room. He yawned and motioned for me to go home.

"Is that all?"

"Uh-huh," he muttered, eyes closed by now.

"Goodnight, then," I clicked the door shut as quietly as I could and went back upstairs. What I said I'd do, I'd do. Just because he told me to go home is no reason for me to break my word.

I tucked my hands back into my pockets as I walked along the empty corridor. It makes me feel lonely sometimes, and I thought more about Hermione nowadays. Where is she right now? I should've asked Ron about her whereabouts earlier; but then again, he might not know either.

Just as I pushed open the door leading to my office, though, an eerie shimmer caught my eye. Tracing its source, my absent gaze landed on the supposedly silver doorknob, had it not been for the smear of a dark crimson substance over it. I was stunned for at least half a minute before I could switch myself back to the present and get a proper look. The knob had a crispy touch to it instead of its usually smooth consistency. My first instinct that followed was to smell it out. I lifted my palm and inhaled.

--Blood.

Switching on the lights, I briefly scanned the surroundings. "Accio wand!" I murmured.

Nothing. No one, no movement, no misplaced objects, no sound—nothing. I wheeled around for anything I might've missed. I was either too late or mistaken—then I remembered.

Staring through the portico, I seemed to see Malfoy seizing back his hand in a quick movement. As the scene played over and over again in my head, it became more obvious that Malfoy was injured but was trying to cover it up for one reason or the other. Either way, it must've been a crap excuse.

I observed the smear on the doorknob once again. It looked like quite a serious wound to me, considering the amount of blood it left behind.

I quickly cleansed my hands and the stain on the knob. Shutting the door, I went to my desk, and stared into space.

Something flickered in front of me. Magic may be useful most of the time, but the electronic device from the muggle world called 'computer' is always useful when it comes to dealing with mass information. MSN is also a wonderful thing. The panel hummed to life with the press of a button. Something labeled Laura winked at me. I blinked my foggy eyes several times before the moving icon came into view, revealing a brunette.

Her hair bundled up into a bushy strand down one side, Laura tilted her head, shaking off drops of water and started drying her hair with a towel. She smiled.

I sat up, "Laura."

"Hey," her voice surrounded me.

"What's up? It's very late already…aren't you tired?" I checked the time—12:30.

"I'm ok, just wanted to make sure they treated you alright over there," her smile dissolved into a frown. "Not coming back tonight, I guess?"

"No, I don't think so."

She sighed. "Whatever," her expression suddenly dimmed, overcast by something unfathomable, like storm clouds over sunshine.

"Laura--" but she was gone.

I slouched in my chair, trying to recall just how many times this same scene repeated itself in the past few weeks. I just didn't get why she cares so much about it. Just because I'm a busy person doesn't mean that I don't care about her. Well, maybe I'm a workaholic; but still, one's life has got more to it than promising to be together with someone until the end of time, right?

Head buried in hands, I thought about sleeping again. The urge to go home has long since gone. Just as I was about to flick off the computer though, Ron's schedule suddenly flicked into mind.

Contacting the RIA was easier than communicating with Malfoy. All I had to do was type up a terse and formal shit, and they have got to accept it whether they like it or not. By the time they deliver it into Malfoy's hands, it'll be long past the training deadline. It is always important that we stamp the hospital's health-first-issue at the bottom of our mail, as the bottom card to those we care about.

Just as I was about to switch off the screen after having typed up the message concerning Ron's stay at the hospital, the screen flickered and something new lighted up at the bottom. I clicked to see what it was, only to find that it was sent from a completely new identity. Well, at least to my computer. It is a name, in fact, that I knew only too damn well.

Do I happen to know a certain term called Murphy's Law? Let me recall. Definition no. 1: anything that can go wrong will go wrong. Point two: If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause the most damage will be the one to go wrong. Corollary: If there is a worse time for something to go wrong, it will happen then.

The name Draco Malfoy would be erased from my computer once I finish the letter. Having it seen in my email account bothers me in a very unique way. We are different people, leading different lives. What his reply contains is of no—

Potter,

Due to the disciplined training in our institution, I believe Ronald would take no time to recover from the relatively insignificant wounds he suffered. I expect him at 6 o'clock sharp in the morning.

Make it.

I snorted. This is nonsense. The deleting would have to wait a bit. I'll deal with it later on.

Malfoy,

I won't allow that to happen. I'm the authority here as long as Ron is concerned and I say no. N.O.

What is wrong with the RIA? I don't see any good in people joining the training with you in command.

The reply came much quicker than I thought. I could almost add his email address into my 'bothersome' list in my msn account and just spit those words of annoyance as much as I like, all at once. But the thought never occurred to me twice. We can only convey our loathing for each other through concentrated forms of hate-spelt words in short mails rather than communicate through instant messaging.

Unless you think you can do any better, I don't think you deserve to have a say in this. We need discipline.

He didn't even bother with the titling this time. And except for his extended opinion of how little I have to say in this, not much of an interpretation can be made from this relatively vague reply. I was determined to stay on my ground no matter what, so I might as well stay quiet.

No more mails. Start deleting. Sleep.

"One last chance?" a chucking noise that sounded like tens of thousands of serpents hissing in the dark sounded maliciously in the dark. "Of course, Fiddle…take down the both of them…make it."

I woke up again, disturbed like I have never been before. My head ached like hell, the tightness of an invisible loop squeezing the capacity of my consciousness into an infinitesimally tight knot, causing me to gasp. I wander whether I'll be able to sleep again. Looking up, I tapped, without thinking, on the dimmed LED.

The screen flicked on again. Something flashed amidst the blinding dazzle of the electronic device.

You heard what the Dark Lord said, Potter. Check on Weasley. Now.

This time, things were clearer. There was even an order. I eyed the signature at the bottom right-hand corner that read 'Commander Malfoy'. I thought my heart had missed a beat. Something made me clench my stomach. How could he have known about my dream?

My breath became ragged and my voice was hoarse in the cold and empty chamber.

"WHO'S RESPONSIBLE FOR ROOM NO. 208? WHO WAS IT?!" I yelled. None of the owners of the pairs of frightened faces have ever seen me angry before, let alone yell at someone. That impression would be no more. A small voice quivered to meet my question, a near whisper in the bunch of staff before me, "I…I am."

"SO EXPLAIN WHY RONALD WEASLEY IS GONE!" I roared, despite the eerie quiet in the room.