Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Jo Rowling.
A/N: This has been in the works since February but put on hold until recently. Ron POV, sixth year, side effect/after math of the Ministry. It's AU (Alternate Universe but only by a few weeks).
Read, enjoy, review.
Some days his head hurts.
It is the sort of hurt that even Madam Pomfrey can't cure, not with any potion or incantation.
It is the type of hurt that starts as a dull ache behind his eyes before traveling to his temples and then to the farthest recesses of his mind, increasing as it spreads.
At its worst it renders him useless, lost to the pain in his head, the sharp pinching in his arms, the pounding of blood in his ears, all creating a maddening rhythm that echoes inside his skull.
At their least, they just hurt.
Today, however, is the worst kind of hurt, the aching so terrible he's afraid his eyes might cross.
He knows better than to get out of bed. Instead he scribbles a note and gives it to Harry who will ensure that McGonagall receives before the end of breakfast. That is all he bothers to do before pulling the curtains shut around his bed and tugging the blankets over his head. He listens to his roommates, Neville who can't find his shoe, Dean who is asking Seamus for some ink, Seamus who complains about not being able to stay in bed himself and Harry who barks something back that makes Ron grin weakly. Then the room falls silent and he wills his eyes open in the warm darkness beneath his mother's quilt. He is alone now and for some reason the silence is slightly more painful than the bustle of his dorm mates.
He lets out a breath and sinks further into the dark.
He knows he will have twice as much work to do tomorrow, and he knows that this will put him behind all week and that he will probably have to miss the Hogsmeade weekend, again, as a result of this. But as the pounding in his head grows he can't quite bring himself to care. Instead he squeezes his eyes shut. 'Sleep,' He says. 'Just sleep.'
He squeezes his eyes so tightly he can see spots of color behind his eyelids and he begins to count every breath that passes through his nose, out his mouth.
One, two, three, four, five…
Inhale
One, two, three, four, five…
Exhale
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…
And he holds his breath until his lungs burn, exhaling in quick gasp. And he continues this erratic rhythm until at last he falls asleep to the sound of blood pounding in his ears and his own breathing.
-
He wakes up to the sound of the door creaking open. He is not sure how much time has passed but he is aware of the steady throbbing in his temples. He hears something being set down nearby, on his desk perhaps, and listens to the swoosh of fabric being pulled back and the soft sigh of the mattress to his back as it sinks slightly under very little weight. He feels the rush of cool air as his blanket is lifted, tucked away from his face and then the barely there touch of soft finger tips that pass from his temple and then into his hair.
If it were not for the tingling in his scalp he would be sure of the fact that he is dreaming this. For a brief moment the pain fades away and he bites back a sigh of relief, but he does not want to scare away this phantom comforter, which he is sure he will should she know he is awake. Too soon the fingers retreat and the bed shifts and everything is replaced.
Ron listens to the retreating footsteps and counts even after they disappear.
-
When he wakes again he manages to sit up.
There is a tray, he discovers, on his desk, with breakfast. There is porridge and toast and tea, with three spoons of sugar, no milk, just how he likes it. He eats in his bed, with the hangings closed, the light bothering him more than he cares to admit. The pain has retreated for now but there is a lingering tightness in his arms, warning him that it'll return before the day is done.
He eats his breakfast slowly, trying to focus solely on chewing and swallowing and breathing. He tries to ignore the ruby lines that run up his arms, trying not to think back to a night he only somewhat remembers.
When he is done he puts the tray away, settles back into bed and waits for sleep to claim him again. This, he has learned, is the best way to handle the pain.
But sleep, it seems, has decided to abandon him for now. Ron tries to read but the letters blur on the yellowed pages and the ache in his head returns. He fiddles with the strings on his blanket, careful not to pull it out, his mind straying back to the summer and the voices and the little girl who used to play hide and seek with him (he hasn't seen her since that one night on rounds when she hid behind a tapestry).
He wonders at them, surely a side effect of the brains, but no research ever turned up anything solid to go on and Dumbledore simply told them to wait for them to disappear on their own. And they had, slowly, fading away until all that remained were the head aches, like the one he suffers from now.
Ron wonders how long it'll be before these go away as well.
If they ever will.
-
He wakes the fourth time to the feeling of being stared at. Immediately he reaches for the wand beneath his pillow but hears his sister's voice. 'It's only me Ron.'
Indeed it is only Ginny who has brought him lunch.
The room is dim and she hands him a bowl of alphabet soup, the sort Mum makes them when their sick at home. Ron thinks back to the time Ginny threw a fit because she couldn't find all the letters needed to spell Ginerva in time to win the little race they'd been having. 'Ron's only three letters! That's it! I'm going to be Gin from now on.' Of course that hadn't taken but still he remembers all the bad jokes the twins made about their alcoholic sister. She sits down at the desk, with a sandwich she doesn't dig onto just yet.
'I remember you saying the light makes it worst—' she motions to the windows, over which the hangings have been drawn.
He nods his thanks and he eats silent, listening to his sister's comings and goings. Too soon lunch time is over and she gets up. ' Maybe you'll be up to dinner in the Great Hall by tonight.' She says trying to be cheerful. Somehow he doubts it but he nods anyway and watches her go. It seems hard to believe that she is the same girl who threw a spoon at him all those years ago.
Once again the silence is deafening and sleep does not come for an hour.
-
The next time he wakes it is to sound of something breaking and muttering. The room is dark now, its night, according to the clock on Dean's night stand, a bit after dinner.
The hangings around his bed were not closed after Ginny's visit and he can make out the silhouette of Neville Longbottom, hunched over something on the floor.
'I'm sorry.' Neville says standing, 'I didn't want to wake you and look—' he gestures in Ron's direction. 'That's just what I've gone and done.'
'It's 'lright.' Ron croaks leaning up on an elbow.
The truth is it is not alright, he had been having the best dream of his life.
Hermione had just walked into the room and declared she loved him madly and that they should run away together and play for the Cannons. Sick days weren't all bad some times.
'Are you feeling better?' Neville asks shifting from one foot to another.
'Better than this morning.'
'That's good…'
Ron falls back on his bed, his head no longer pounding, his arms no longer pinching. All that remains is the tightness in his chest.
'Where's Harry?'
Neville moves from his spot and grabs something off his own bed. 'Snape's detention.' He replies simply as begins to make his way from the room.
Once Neville is gone Ron finds he can no longer sleep, though his limbs are heavy and his bed warm. He shifts slightly and decides it might just be time to rise.
Swinging his legs over the side of his bed is fights back a wave of dizziness, leaning heavily on the bed post, he stands. He goes to his trunk and picks out a sweater, the outside world much colder than his blankets. He does not care that the sweater is maroon or bother to find his robe or shoes. His hair is probably worst than Harry's but all Ron can really do is wipe the sleep from his eyes before he begins slowly down the stairway to the common room.
The room is full but, thankfully, quiet.
He looks around, ignoring the odd looks he receives from some of the students and sees instead the bobbing ginger tail that darts between tables and chairs and legs, over to a corner table that is hidden behind a pile of books.
He steps off towards the table, padding lightly until he is towering over the hunched over figure of a girl who is completely oblivious to his presence. 'Nice to know I've been missed.' He jokes, smiling as she jumps in her spot, her ink well teetering cautiously at her elbow.
'Ron!' She hurries to move a pile of papers from the armchair next to her, motioning him to sit. 'You shouldn't scare people like that. It's rude and you should know better.' But there is no hardness to her voice and she smiles brightly at him as he sits.
'Harry told me you weren't feeling well this morning.' Her voice is soft and she places a hand on the armrest of his chair, close to his maroon clad arm, he glances down, eyeing the twisted ends of his scars peeking out and pinches the sleeve in his thumb and pointer finger, tugging it down. She has seen them before, of course, has seen his arms when they had first been unwrapped by Madam Pomfrey last summer ('Oh Ron, what happened?' The edge of tears in her voice, already strained with too much worry. 'I don't know.') but something in him does not want her to see them now.
He pinches harder.
'Are you feeling better now?' Her voice shakes him from his thoughts and he glances at her.
'Hm?'
'I asked if you were feeling better.'
He feels his ears burn and is glad that her corner of the common room is dark.
'A bit tired,' he confesses, leaning his head back, 'Stupid don't you think? I've been sleeping all day.'
She frowns at this and shakes her head. 'Maybe you should go to Madam Pomfrey, get checked, make sure you're not coming down with something. Or maybe just a Pepper Up potion, get you feeling more like yourse—'
He shakes his head.
'Well at least dinner. We'll run down to the kitchen, I'm sure Dobby wouldn't mind—'
Another shake, 'Not hungry Hermione' he answers though his voice catches in his throat as her hand actually comes to rest on his arm, so that the 'her' gets lost on the way to his mouth and all that comes out is 'mione.
'Are you sure?'
'Yes.' He is confident in his answer. He does not want to be examined again by the school healer and be told once more there is nothing she can do. He has no real desire to leave the warmth of the common room or her side. He closes his eyes, ready to wait in silence until Harry arrives.
'Oh Ron,' he hears her sigh to his side, and then he feels the hand leave his arm and is momentarily struck by disappointment until he feels her finger tips at the shell of his ear, tucking back a piece of hair that has gotten too long in the months since summer. There is that familiar shortness of breathe and the tingling in his scalp that runs down his spine and this time he breathes out a sigh at her touch.
'Your mum's going to be after you with pruning shears all Christmas,' she says a smile in her voice. He chuckles a little and agrees.
'You know you're allowed to hurt too.' This time the words are barely even whispered and he feels a lump form in his throat. He knows this is true, as she does. How many days has she missed this year because of her own lingering pain, an ache that begins at her the left side of her ribcage and then her heart? He remembers the summer at the Burrow when everyone had to take it easy on her, not walk too quickly or play too rough or get her upset. He remembers how terrible she looked in the moonlight in the hospital wing after the Ministry and again in July when there was a mass attack on muggle-borns.
He is not entirely sure what it is that makes him turn his head at this, what makes him press his lips against the inside of her wrist, but once he does he feels something terrible turn in his stomach as realizes what he's done and who it is and the fact that she's staring at him wide eyed.
He could always say it was a fluke, some side effect of the head aches just newly discovered. But then she gives a startles gasp and he is sure she's going to walk away but instead she's got her mouth, small and warm against the side of his eye, almost his temple and the tingling returns with a vengeance.
How long she stays there he isn't quite sure, seconds inching into hours and he thinks she could very well be the best cure to his illness. 'Typical' he thinks weakly, 'Hermione being the best.'
She moves away and even in the dim light her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are bright. He is not sure whether or not he should talk, if he even wants to.
Harry, with his impeccable timing, walks in just then, grumbling about their greasy git of a potion's master. It takes a few minutes of this grumbling before his dark mood passes and he acknowledges Ron.
'How you feelin' mate?'
He glances at her, the corner of his mouth turning up in a small grin.
'Never better.'
End
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