PG is for angst, and because this is a companion to a story with worse language.
…and worse
a companion to "Worse"
by Amy
"Aparecium!"
A puff of smoke, and here I am. Don't you wish all life were that simple?
This is London's biggest wizarding hospital. As I step out of the transport room, doctors and nursing staff part and flow around me like a stream. I stand there. I won't go on, until…until what? Until I know what I'm going to say.
He was there; he saw it; what do you say to that? What on Earth do you say to that? Christ, Ron was bad enough.
"Excuse me."
What? Oh. I didn't even notice her run into me. "No harm done." I smile. It hurts.
"Thanks." A relieved smile, and she's off.
I can't just stand here forever, a stone in the stream. Will I ever know what to say? Probably not.
A quick location spell tells me where he is in this warren. He's only a few corridors over. I could leave now. But I can't, because what would that make me? Fair-weather friend. He doesn't need that, and I couldn't stand it.
My feet are moving now, whether I want them to or not. I'm here, at the door. It's too late.
It's too late for a lot of things, in fact. But we won't get in to that now.
"Harry?" He's a mess. His glasses are half off, and he looks as if he hasn't slept in weeks, though it was only this afternoon that—
"Who is it?"
"Harry, it's me." He knows who me is. It doesn't matter what a mess he's in; I know he knows who me is.
Silence. He stares at the wall, chin in his hands, eyes almost closed. The only sign of recognition is his lip disappearing between his teeth.
"Harry, are you all right?" God, that was a stupid question.
"Fine."
He's plainly not, and I say so.
"I'm fine." 'Fine' comes out like a gasp, painful.
I sit down next to him on the tacky, plastic-cushioned bench. He doesn't seem to notice; I have to resist the urge to put my arm around him. Why? What am I afraid of? Of the past? Of old ghosts? Or of new ones?
"You're not," I tell him. "Harry, look at me."
He doesn't, of course. When did famous Harry Potter ever let anyone order him around?
That would be unfair, even to think, if I didn't admire it in him.
I have to say something. Maybe I can jolt him out of his little cloud of despair; make him look at me. But all I can think of are clichés and platitudes, hollow phrases with no meaning to him or me. I say the best that comes to mind: "Ron's in shock too; we all are. God, Harry, you should see Percy…" It's true, but just now it seems irrelevant.
It jolts him, but God knows this isn't what I meant. He stands up, glasses hanging from one ear, hair wilder than ever and lightning scar exposed. The same Harry I've known since I was eleven, but at the same time different—how different!—than yesterday. "Percy! What the hell does Percy know? He hasn't seen her in years! What the hell does Percy know…" He still won't look at me, curse it!
His voice sounds like it's about to break. He needs to talk to someone, but—but what? But nothing. I open my mouth to speak, but he's a already halfway to the doors, stumbling and stalking by turns.
He pulls his fists out of his pockets with an awkward, jerking motion. Something falls out and rolls toward me, glittering. He leans angrily on the doors, preparing to shove them open, while I look down to peer at the object on the gray linoleum.
I gasp. I can't help it.
It's a ring. It's made of gold, and on it is a single, glittering stone.
Inside the ring is an inscription.
'TILL DEATH DO US PART~G&H, 20--
It just got worse.
***
Disclaimer: Hermione, Harry, the Weasleys, and all other creations of J.K. Rowling used in this story are the property of Ms. Rowling and her publishers etc. The scenario and the angst is mine, goldarnit! Not that J.K.'d want it… (I forgot to put one of these on "Worse," so let's just say this applies to it as well.)
Author's Note: See the A/N to "Worse," I suppose. And—review please! Or send me an owl at chimara.geo@yahoo.com.
~Amy, 5/24/00