Ron sighed. Or, he tried to sigh. It really came out more as a pathetic sounding wheeze. He set down the mirror he'd been looking in. "Hermione, my skin is green and I'm developing boils on my neck. And I keep sneezing sparks." For emphasis, he sneezed again, and though he felt miserable, he couldn't help thinking that the sparks were rather neat. "And Ginny hates me now. And you hate me. And everyone hates me. And I think I'm dying."
He knew that Hermione's capacity for sympathy was low, that she'd probably hex him and then leave him to die. He was ready for it, and probably deserved it. He reached for his bottle of firewhiskey. This could probably all be solved by being more drunk.