Hullo gentle Readers!
In face of strong adversity, I have overcome the prejudices of mankind!
:blank stares:
I blame it on CallMeArtemis. Her insanity's rubbing off oo ANYWAYS! This ficlet came to me instantly after I watched an AMV called Ron's December.The artist says they didn't make it intentionally slashy, but you know me! I took it in slashily goodness.:;grins: I didn't go according to what they displayed, butinstead took the feel of it and went off of that. I hope they like it :)
Dedicated to: ravengryff ofYOUTUBE
Streaks of light flashed across his vision and he felt his right arm go limp. Hot rivlets of blood spilled down his side, soaking his clothes, but he struggled on, hearing cries of battle coming from inside the Great Hall. Out of his peripheal vision, he saw Dean fall to the ground, wounded but alright. Leaving that thought as his last concern for the ones fighting furiously behind him, he charged onward, pushing aside the broken door.
Blood was splattered everywhere. On the floors, the tables, the walls. Shrieking shouts of spellsechoed off the battered stone as he staggered forward to fall against a destroyed bench.
He felt cold and dirty and so very tired, but he had to continue. He HAD to.
"You'll die and BURN before I let you hurt my friends!"
"Give up Harry! Its futile! Your life--IS MINE!"
He forced his body to listen to him, to MOVE, as the raven-haired 17 year old was growing visibly weaker, his strained face drenched in sweat and blood.
"Harry!"
"Get out of here, Ron!"
"NO!"
"Ron!"
Arms encircled him from behind, tugging him backwards but he refused to budge. Using what felt like the last of his energy, he squirmed and struggled to make it to his friend's side. But those arms held fast, despite his anguished pleads.
The boy gritted his teeth, green eyes never leaving his friend's face, and let the angry light engulf both him and the monster he was battling. His body was thrown like a ragdoll against the wall, a sickening crack resounding in the aftermath of the explosion.
"HARRY!"
He was finally set free and didn't waste a moment as he heaved himself to his feet and scrambled to the boy. Tears fell with a heavy dread as he collapsed to his knees once more, finally at Harry's side. But too late.
He cradled his friend's broken and lifeless body in his embrace, sobbing with deep, wracking gasps into the boy's unmoving throat.
He felt more than saw the survivors of his comrades gather behind him, quiet gasps and shutters of breath circling round them.
His mind blanked and he just sat there in the ruin of the place they oncecalled home, rocking Harry back and forth.
Brown eyes snapped open, tears staining freckled cheeks. Ron slowly sat up in his bed, shoving his long cinnamon hair from his sweaty forehead with his left hand. The right had been lame since that night.
It had been a month and every single night had been plagued by nightmares. He needed sleep, he knew he did, but it was useless. Futile, as Voldemort's last words predicted.
He pushed the thin sheets from his body and swung his legs to the floor.The summer heat was thick and sticky, but it wasn't as unbearable as the cold inside his gut. Not even the humidity penetrating every nook and cranny of his shabby flat could do away with that cold. He shivered and pulled on a pair of cotton pajama pants, plodding onto his balcony.
The midnight air hung heavy on his shoulders, but he perched himself atop the stone railing and lit a fag. Drawing in a long, deep drag he sunk back against the wall, letting his leg dangle over the murmuring street below.
Thoughts and stagnant memories visited him then, as they always did. Smoke circled his ginger head in delicate ringlets and he pondered everything and nothing.
Hedwig fluttered soundlessly onto his knee, her wings droopy and feathers dull. Catching the cigarette between his lips, he reached up and stroked her with a heavy hand. She cooed nonetheless, but he wasn't fooled. She missed those gentle,soft pets her former master used to doll out in spades. She missed his tenderness and doting care. He'd be hard pressed to not admit that...that he did as well.
Ron took another drag, lifeless eyes turning up to the heavens where he supposed the brunette was now. How could he not be? Someone that wonderful and pure and righteous...he belonged in a place of joy and endless sunshine.
The rest of them...they lived out their days, forcing smiles and talking in tentative voices, afraid of certain topics. Voldemort was taboo and the Boy-Who-No-Longer-Lived was unthinkable except in quiet corners where no ears reached. He'd pass by those brave souls from time to time and watch as they paled and fled from his icy look of indifference.
He didn't care. They could talk about him all they wanted. Wouldn't mean he'd stay to listen. Because really, they said anything of worth. Only "he was a good lad" this or "he had so much potential" that. No one really KNEW Harry Potter.
Only he did.
Not even Hermione could lay claim to the treasure trove of secrets Harry left with him. All those late nights staying up until the first bird's twittering song, just...talking. About nothing important and everything important. Only HE knew Harry like the boy was supposed to be known.
Thenervous lookas he asked how to get onto platform nine and three-quarters.The grateful smile as he found his first friend in the world.The look of relief as ahand grasped hisandhauled him back into the car.The quiet resolve as a back pressed against his, spiders encircling them.The shared smile of pride and pleasant shockas Hermione slapped Draco. The pang of hurt flashing across green eyesas a redhead walked away, accusations lingering in the air. The warmth of reassurance flooding his chest as two people believed his sobbing shout of "he's back!Voldemort's back!". The stressed grimace as he realized he was being an irritational asshole about being left in the dark. The look of resigned grief as a hand descended upon his shoulder, knowing he'd never have a REAL family ever again. And a grim smile asa body flanked his, Hogwarts at their back and a dark, dangerous future ahead of them.
He knew Harry in his darkest moments, his most horrifying. When Sirius died and the sadness seemed to settle permanently over them. When the horacruxes were becoming close to impossible to find and they were losing themselves to the frustration. He also knew him in the happiest. When they would laugh over butterbeer and Mum's ginger snaps. When they'd conspire some way to escape Hermione's nagging then give in anyway when they were discovered on the pitch.
Harry was both smiles and tears. He lived for his friends and the possibility of a future of his own. He fought and shed blood not because he HAD to, but because it was the right thing to do. Time and time again, he'd cry on Ron's shoulder, angry tears of frustration accenting his groans of hopelessness. It had been Ron's job to convince him that despite the bleak prospect their lives were becoming, there was hope. There was always hope. So he'd believed and he continued to fight for Ron's words.
Ron looked down, mildly shocked to find tears on his cheeks. He'd thought he'd be all out of tears, but he supposed anything to do with Harry would always be the least expected.
The hollow in his heart reminded him as such. No one else could wrap themselves so tightly round him, then leave such a gaping scar with their absence.
A pang ripped through him and a choked sob escaped into thedense air. It hadn't been until the funeral that Ron began to wonder why he was so irreversibly anguished. He had stared at the black banners, the snowflakes falling in gentle wisps onto thousands of naked heads. He had heard Hermione sniffling to his right, Ginny on the other, but he shed no tears. It seemed almost...inane. He practically heard Harry protesting hotly, a stubborn pout on his young face. So, he hadn't cried. Instead he watched as the casket closed on his dearest friend, an icy hollow settling inside him.
Since then, he'd felt haunted. With everything he did, there was Harry. Instead of withering away in his orange room, he'd moved out and got a flat in Muggle London. Instead of turning into a hermit, he joined the Chudley Canons and went to every single victory party. Instead of isolating himself, he was the best man at Hermione's wedding.
He did it all for Harry and never stopped to ask"...why?"
It had always been so inherent, so instinctive, he'd never needed to dwell on it; Tagging along to play a vigorous game of REAL wizard's chess in first, following into a secret chamber of snakes and lies in 2nd, trying to stand up when the truth of the Potters' deaths came and a brunette faltered in his steps, coming to apoloize (er, sort of) for being a jerk during 4th year, insisting he come along to the Ministry in 5th, taking a stubborn side to Harry's left in 6th and struggling to help his falling friend just a month ago.It had all been done without a moment's hesitation and so, never brought to Ron's attention the reality of his sad situation.
It had taken Ron one long month to work out the puzzle of his feelings, meticulously piecing them together to form a single cohesive truth.
The grins aimed his way, the doting patience, the steadfast loyalty, the secrets entrusted to his care, the desperate hugs, the silent tears, the bright, brilliant green eyes looking upon him with warmth. It all pointed to one thing; Harry Potter...had loved him.
A cool breeze shattered the sickly placidity, ruffling his hair in an affectionate way. A tear plopped quietly onto his useless arm and Hedwig cooed with heartache.
Harry Potter had loved him. And the last piece to the puzzle was...he loved him back.
Now,to waituntil he could finally tell the boy. Until then, he'd suffocate in coldness.
Ron flicked the dying butt off the railing and trekked back inside, curling up beneath his covers to fall into a restless sleep. To dream of green eyes, warm smiles and a forever that would never come to be.