After the incident with Hermione, Ron had chosen not to harp on its events. Instead, he pretended nothing happened, even though he very rarely spoke to Hermione and he never looked at her. Still, she took this as some sort of forgiveness and merrily went on as if nothing had happened. Harry, Ron and Hermione were seated at the long lunch table, Harry and Ron facing Hermione. She let out a loud sigh, as if wanting to be noticed. "What's wrong?" Harry asked. Ron kept poking his mashed potatoes with a fork, not looking up from his plate. Hermione gave Ron a glance and then replied, "Nothing. It's just that I haven't heard from," she paused, now a bit concerned, and looked towards Ron who maintained eye contact with his plate, "Viktor." Ron winced silently, but luckily no one noticed. "He's never waited this long to write me. Maybe he's sick, or hurt, or-" "Dead?" Ron said with a smirk. "That's not funny. With, You Know Who lurking about," she paused and sighed again, "I don't know." Harry smiled. "I'm sure he's fine. You never usually over react like this. You must really be, in love." "Well, yes, I am," Hermione smiled back. This was all too much for Ron. He took in a deep breath and said, still staring down, "I'm not very hungry. Think I'll go back to my room and do some reading." He attempted to leave without someone saying anything. "Skipping lunch to read? Now I'm really worried about you Ron," Harry said, half joking. "Really, I'm fine. I'm just not hungry. I think I've been a little sick lately." At this Ron swung around and half ran back up to his room. However, Ron, wasn't fine. Ron, was anything but fine. Still, he did do some reading, or at least, pretended to be reading. Really, he was just staring at the words, not comprehending one of them. Suddenly, an urge came over him. It was an overpowering tingling sensation. He needed it.

Ron pulled another book off the stand beside his bed. It opened to a page that contained, a sharp, silver razor. Ron pulled this out and held it in his right hand, his left arm overturned, and pale, vein filled flesh exposed. His hand trembled slightly, as tears were forming in his eyes. He knew he needed to stop but he couldn't. It was addicting. Resting the blade against his skin, Ron pressed it consistantly harder, eventually piercing the flesh. Closing his eyes, tears burst into streams down his cheeks and he tore into his skin as quick and hard as he could. Upon opening his eyes, seconds later, a pool of crimson had already begun to pour from the wound. He ran into the bathroom, right hand under his arm, to catch the flowing blood. He let his arm fall into the pallid bathroom sink and watched as the scarlet fluid drained from him. It felt wonderful. An indescribable sensation, that made him feel strong, and powerful. Elated. It made him feel happy. He watched the streams that grew a lighter shade of red. The blood almost looked fake. Ron gave a moan as he heard someone coming up the stairs to the bedroom. He reached for the toilet paper and tried to pull as much off as he could as quickly as he could. With an urgent twinkle in his eyes his scrambled to cover the wound and wash the blood in the sink down the drain. He dashed into the corner of the bathroom and hid in the towel closet. Someone came in. It was Neville Longbottom. Ron let out a sigh. He thought it would be Harry. Then his eyes widened. Ron had left the razor out on the sink ledge. Neville spotted it. He eyed it and then picked it up. Twirling it around in his fingers he accedentally pricked his finger. "Ow," he screamed, "Why is it always me?" At this he threw the razor in the trash bin and ran out of the room off to the nurse. Ron sighed with relief and went to collect the razor from the garbage. He placed it back in the book he usually left it in and crawled into bed. He was still tired and he was finding that he could only sleep in the day time. He shut his eyes and drifted off.

Ron saw himself lying on a tattered old bed in the middle of a dark room. He was chained to the bed with metal handcuff that cut into his wrists and ankles. "Help me. Help me, please," he kept saying. He saw Percy, his older brother, walk up to him. "Percy, please, help me." Percy's eyes turned red and he lifted his hand. In it he held a long, sharp butcher's knife. Percy let his hand come down with considerable force and as the blade pierced Ron's shoulder, he screamed in agony. "Percy, why?" He yelled out, terror shaking his voice. Then he saw his mother come out, as Percy silently turned away. "Mum, Percy's gone mad. Mum?" She too, had a glazed look, only her eyes turned a dark yellow. She raised her arm and wacked Ron with a wooden bat. He let out a muffled howl of pain. "Please stop. Someone come and help me, please." He was crying now. Next it was Harry's turn. Only, he came up to the opposite side of Ron's bed. All he held was his wand. His eyes looked normal, but more stern than usual. He rose his wand. "Yes Harry. Thankyou. Thankyou. Please, help me, everyone's gone crazy." Except Harry did not point his wand at Mrs. Weasly or Percy. He pointed it at Ron. He muttered "Crucio" and Ron shivered with unimaginable pain. Finally it stopped and Harry stepped aside. "Why, Harry, why," Ron said between histerical sobs. He was shaking and hiccuping with fear and pain. Finally, Hermione came up to the foot of his bed, with nothing but a pillow clenched between her hands. She smiled, the most awful and terrifying smile Ron had ever seen. He could see her eyes gleam with evil. She rose the pillow and lept onto him. Her knees rested at each of his sides. She rose the pillow higher and then, bam. The pillow came down with a dark swiftness. Hermione held it over his face as tightly as she could. Ron felt dizzy. He began to gasp for breath. She pressed the pillow harder. Ron couldn't breathe, he gasped for breath frantically and vehemently began thrashing his arms and legs about him. Then, suddenly, his eyes began to close and he felt his body relax. He made a last attempt to breathe and then-

"Aaaahhh!" Ron screamed as he flung out of my bed in a hot sweat. His whole body tingled and he began to pinch himself and touch his arms and legs frantically, making sure he was alive. Ron took in a deep and needed breath and crawled back under the covers of his bed. All he did was lie there, on his side, staring at the wall, for twenty minutes. He was contemplating his dream. Why did his loved ones try to kill him? What did it mean? Ron didn't want to know. He didn't care. He was in pain. Psycologial pain. It felt more prominant than ever. It was all because of the dream. At the time, he was terrified. But then, lying there in bed, Ron felt regret. Why did he wake up? Why didn't he just let his breath go? This was all too much for him. Ron lept from his bed and ran out the door and through the school. He soon reached the outside world. Directing his freckled face upward, he embraced the dark purple sky, which was filled will glittering diamonds and a cloud covered ball of pale silver light. He began to walk with his head upturned, each step lying flat on the cold grass. Suddenly, Ron felt a sharp pain in his foot. He looked down. It was the shard of mirror that Ron had left about a week ago. He felt his hand move toward it. The sky had set Ron in a sort of daze, with it's vast beauty. He was enraptured. By the sky, the dream, his ever growing depression. Ron lifting the glittering pieced of reflection. It looked like someone had frozed a river and broken off a piece for him. Without thinking, Ron pulled the glass up to his throat and pressed the glass into it. He took in one last breath and looked upward to the sky. His last thought was that this spot, where he was standing, was the place where he first kissed his true love. At that, Ron pulled the glass across his neck. Immeadiately, an army of blood poured voraciously from his neck. He gasped for breath, clutching his slit open neck. He tried to swallow and choked out a muffled yell. Gasping and gurgling, he fell to the floor and died, staring into the moonlight.