Ron did, in fact, feel very much like an idiot as he hauled himself up off of his bed - where he'd been slumped over dutifully writing a mind-numbing essay, and since when had homework become a break from anything, anyway? - and stuffed his pen in one of his books to mark his place. The very last thing he should have been doing was encouraging her in thinking she could just say jump. And if there was anything he was more sick of than being bossed around and snapped at, it was the bloody locket. The intelligent thing to do would have been to ignore her and keep on writing.
He trudged down the staircase, looking sour. It wasn't too late, of course. He could walk past - pretend he'd come down to see someone else, or that he'd forgotten something. He could turn right back around, in fact; except now he was standing in full view of the common room, and there was no going back without a decent excuse. He was still trying to formulate one when he stopped in front of where she was sitting, looking blankly down at her.
... Hopeless. A moment later he flopped down on the sofa beside her, looking at the fire. "Well?" he asked peevishly. "What do you want?" As though he hadn't just jumped to it.