You kind of hate being a Weasley.
It only happens late at night, when you're in the dorm and you can hear everyone else asleep, when you hear Seamus's mutters, Dean's quiet breathing, even Neville's quiet snores. You hate the inkstains on your hands like you hate the darkness, and you hate the quiet coming from the bed beside you, because Harry doesn't sleep either.
You don't even care about classes anymore. Hermione, just yesterday, copied a potions essay from Harry. Sixth year isn't turning out to be much better than fifth, you think to yourself, but only privately and in the deepest places in your brain, in case one of the many Legilimens teaching at Hogwarts can hear you.
"Ron," Harry whispers.
"You're not asleep?"
You hate being a Weasley between two forty seven and three thirty five in the morning, because it's around that time you're awake, but you can't forget you're awake, you can't just distract yourself with all the other things going on, Hermione and classes and Quidditch and people and noise. You can't even say anything about how anxious or worried or, whatever, because the only people you could say it to are Hermione, who isn't currently speaking to you, or Harry, and he has so much already that to add to the pile just makes you a worse friend than you already are.
"No," you say, and then, "Why're you awake?"
"Dunno," he murmurs.
You think about getting up, but stay in your bed. "Go to sleep," you say, and wish for a moment you could give Harry your last name, like he so desperately wants, and then you could go on with your life without it.