What are you?

I'm Nervous

Ron was scarfing breakfast down that morning, taking heaping spoonful's of egg and thick pieces of bacon. He slurped down pumpkin juice and grabbed handfuls of fruit tarts, all the while he was staring down at the table, doing anything and everything in his power not to look up. "Ronald! Can't you breath? Stop eating for a moment and take a breath."

Hermione squealed, appalled by his behavior.

"Jeez mate, haven't you eaten?" Harry said, cutting his sausage with a delicacy that Ron wanted to laugh at. "Yesh, Ima jus very hungry," he let out, avoiding the real reason for his soon to be self-induced food coma. The fact was, he refused to look up at Draco, to meet his foggy grey eyes or his pointed features.

He was sure that if he did (especially after yesterday's events) his heart would jitter to bits. It was hard enough, having their sessions with this awkward, wanting-to-say-something-but-not-really-knowing-what silence. It was painful, and Ron couldn't stop thinking about how they had their field trip to capture their creature the next day. It wasn't anything new, in fact, they had been planning it for days. They knew what spell to use, where to travel to, and even how to look after the creature once it was in their care.

But, regardless, Ron was terrified, for multiple reasons. The idea of being in the forest for hours with Draco Malfoy was both astonishing and uncomfortable, not to mention the fact that they had to legitimately capture a DEMON BAT. How in the bloody hell would that even be possible? It's a DEMON, Ron thought to himself sullenly. It plagued his thoughts all day, and, being nearly ten feet away from Draco at lunch was definitely not helping.

"Is it the project? Are you stressed because of working with Malfoy? You know, stress-eating is a perfectly plausible explanation for your situation. But I hate to inform you that it is a project, and Malfoy is only person, there is no-"

"I'm not stresfed," he said, cutting Hermione off while shoveling a fork-full of buttered and syruped French toast into his mouth. "Look, I know you Ron, and I know you like food, but not that much.

What's wrong?" Harry asked, staring at Ron with intent. He kept silent, which, in retrospect, probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, but it made sense to him then. "It's something to do with that letter, isn't it?" Harry prodded, getting that familiar, devious look in his eyes.

"What!? No! I told you it was my Aunt Tessie . . . She's going to be at home for thanksgiving," he said.

"It was Christmas,"

"What?" Ron said, stopping eating with a fearful pang in his chest.

He felt so stupid, how could he say that?

"Last time, you said she was coming over for Christmas . . . now it's thanksgiving?" He said, causing Ron to sweat.

"Um, well, she's coming for both, seems I was mistaken last time," he gulped, growing too sick to so much as think about the pile of breakfast food on his plate. "Seriously Ron?

Is there something you're not telling me?" Harry asked, his tone sounding dumbfounded and somewhat hurt. Hermione observed from afar, calculating Ron's movements, keeping her arms crossed. "No, actually, why would I lie to you Harry?" He felt abominably guilty, like he was withholding some life or death truth.

Something that, once said, would brand him as deranged, mad even. He refused to see the looks on their faces, the disgust with which they would leer at him. It was simply impossible. Harry deflated a little at that, looking as if he had just gotten reprimanded. "You're right, sorry," he said, going back to his sausage.