Disclaimer etc.: see Prologue.
Right, from now on updates are probably going to be about a week apart. I'm back at school, and I've hit Year 11. -is scared- GCSEs!
Thanks to all my lovely, amazing reviewers: Voldemorts grl, Ginny Guerra, Conqueror of The Spider George, domslove, the-missing-arm-of-krum, ShatteredTruth, ThruSnape'sEyes, ronniemione, cmanuk, Dreamer758, Talaayn, LostPotterFreak, doks.brucas.happy, MBP, mudhousejunkie224, josephina, TXGator, analternatereview, Kimmilein, Silver Queen, Woollongong Shimmy, maddie, connieewing, scorpiagirl93, Kokoro Onee chan, silent seabreeze, Ceitidh, callernumber16onz100, Gene Kelly, reddishdweeb, Gerbil-san, Autumn Skys, Dwindlingcandle, neville 2.0, Mrs.Hermione J. Weasley, RaeDawq00, LOSTinharrypotter, RonWeasleyismiking, iamsheena, Stargazer777, twouble, keske, crashing-xx, Never Is An Awfully Long Time, Lady Adriane of Katherine and ginnyharryxoxo14. I love you all! Plus, I'm sorry to those of you who said that I made them cry with the last chapter. -tear- I made myself cry...
Anyway. R&R is blessed to the Muse, and enjoy!
To Continue
9 - Upon Waking
The only thing that he could hear was the soft whistle of the wind. He just lay still for a moment, listening, feeling calm ripple through him. Wherever he was, there was an air of calm simplicity in the simple sound of the wind against the windows.
As he lay there he scraped his tongue around the roof of his mouth, wincing at the dryness. Water. The thought came unbidden to his mind, and he immediately latched onto it.
If I open my eyes, do I get water?
He weighed up his options. Opening his eyes would mean getting water, but it would also mean leaving the nice and quiet place he was currently in. And it was very nice here… After a moment's further consideration he settled back into the peaceful semi-trance he'd previously been in.
To hell with water, was the thought meandering through his mind.
Once more he lay in the quiet, drifting between sleeping and waking.
Come on Weasley. Another voice intruded onto his consciousness, a jibing voice that began to prod him into alertness. You just gonna lie there all day?
Why not? he thought back sleepily. It's nice here.
And what about everyone else, huh? the voice poked. What about your friends?
He frowned. What about them?
Can't you see that just lying there like a little selfish bastard is hurting them? A pause. Hurting her?
I… He didn't know what to say – it wasn't every day he was rendered speechless by his own brain. Images ran riot through his mind – faces, voices, names. Harry. Ginny. Hermione.
Hermione.
Ah, so you do remember her.
A soft smile. How could I forget?
There was no forgiveness in the voice; no leniency. The same way you made her cry.
What? He stirred, confused. I… What?
Listen, was the voice's only reply.
So he did. Again it was just the wind at first, whistling and whipping outside the window, but as his silence deepened another sound intruded on the extended solo of the plaintive song of the breeze.
Crying?
Well done, genius. She needs you, and she's not exactly happy about your current reluctance to wake up.
… my fault?
He heard an exasperated sigh in his mind. Not the brightest little wizard in Hogwarts, are we?
Give me a break, he grumbled. It's been a hard few days.
Fair enough, the voice acquiesced. After all, you should be slightly dead.
He jumped. I should be what?!
He could feel incredulity. It wasn't his, but he felt it all the same. Don't tell me you're forgotten everything Fred said to you as well?!
And then Ronald Weasley was spinning awake, throwing himself onto his side as his stomach violently heaved, emptying itself across the white sheets his lanky frame was sprawled over. There were cries of alarm and joy from beside him and he felt hands on his shoulders, trying to roll him onto his back – he gripped the edge of the mattress rebelliously and shook his head as another spasm wracked his protesting gut.
It seemed like an age before his insides righted themselves, and when they did he collapsed onto his back, eyes half-shut but very much awake.
He felt a tentative hand grasp his own. "Ron?" Hermione's voice asked softly. Her thumb traced circles on the back of his hand, and a familiar warmth spread through him.
He forced his eyes open and, fighting a grimace at the foul taste in his mouth, looked up into wide brown eyes framed by bushy hair. His lips moved for a second, mouthing silent words. Finally he managed to croak out, "What'd I miss?"
Hermione's face, tear-stained and tired, broke into a radiant smile. "Nothing much," she replied, her fingers squeezing his so tight he thought they might fall off.
Careful not to upset the annoyingly-delicate balance of his stomach, he pulled himself up on the pillows. Images were running through his mind – images and memories of a conversation that logic and reason told him he couldn't have had but that he remembered in vivid, startling clarity. He rubbed at his eyes.
There was a disgusted noise from beside him. Ron looked over from between his fingers, to be greeted by the sight of George. "You threw up on my jeans," he groused, one eyebrow raised. He wasn't serious – the faintest grin adorned his lips. "If I'd know you were gonna do that when you woke up I'd've wanted you to stay sleeping."
"George!" Hermione exclaimed, her fingers tight around Ron's.
"What?" he shrugged, a roguish grin twitching his lips.
Ron felt his throat contract as the other two laughed.
Tell him that I miss him too.
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Dawn crept through the windows, bathing the hospital wing in glowing light. Ron was alone – when Madam Pomfrey had seen that he'd woken she sent Hermione and George out, saying that they didn't need to be with Ron now he was awake, and that her patient needed his rest. She'd then given them the evillest look Ron had ever seen this side of a Death Eater.
So they'd left – George with a brotherly ruffle of his hair and Hermione with a kiss to his lips and an instruction not to get himself killed again.
He hadn't got a chance to speak to either of them about what happened inside his head while they were guarding his body.
Perhaps understandably, he hadn't been able to sleep for the remainder of the night. He'd sat still, frozen, as Pomfrey bustled around him and his mind whirled. Logically, he knew that he should be thankful – according to an unusually-verbose Madam Pomfrey, she'd thought he was going to die. And coming from her, that was damn near a death sentence. But he couldn't bring himself to be thankful, to be relieved, to be happy.
I'm dead, little brother, and no amount of pleading is going to change that.
His stomach flipped. Did it happen? he asked himself. Or was it just some crazy hallucination?
Common sense insisted that it never happened, that he was just imagining things; his heart, thudding in his chest, told him the complete opposite. He closed his eyes, fighting the tears, and he didn't even know why he had to do that either. He was confused, plain and simple.
"Hey Ron."
Ron opened his eyes, mildly startled. He looked around and frowned when all he saw was Madam Pomfrey disappearing into her curtained office. He tentatively ventured a soft "Hello?"
There was a swish of fabric, and a familiar green-eyed boy appeared next to Ron's bed. The red-head relaxed back against the pillows his body was propped up against. "Harry."
"Hermione said you'd woken up," Potter said softly, glancing over in the direction of Pomfrey's office. "She and Ginny went up to bed, but I came down here." There was a tangle of badly-suppressed emotions in his gaze. "I needed to see you for myself."
Ron managed a small smile. "Fussing?"
Harry looked down at his hands, fiddling with the edge of the Invisibility Cloak that lay in a messy heap in his lap. "More than you know," he admitted.
"Harry, I'm fine," Ron assured him. "Really."
Harry looked up against. "Ron, you nearly died," he whispered. "And I tried to save you, but nothing would work. Nothing." He let out a terse breath, and then met Ron's blue eyes. "I'm so sorry."
But Ron was shaking his head. "There was nothing you could have done, Harry," he said. "Nothing anyone could have done. That spell was dark magic, and it should have killed me stone dead."
His voice as he said this was so calm it sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "How d'you know that?" he asked.
A shadow flitted across Ron's features and he shook his head. "Not the point," he dodged. "The point's that despite being the great and powerful Harry Potter, you couldn't've done a thing."
"Doesn't stop me from thinking it was my fault."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Number one – it wasn't," he began to list. "Number two – the world doesn't revolve around you. And Number three…" Ron smirked. "You'd probably think it was your fault if I got smacked in the head with a Bludger. Doesn't mean it's true."
Harry smiled, unable to help himself.
"Exactly," Ron finished victoriously.
Potter's features darkened again. "But there's something that is my fault that I need to apologise for," he said softly.
Blue eyes met green just for a moment, and then again Ron shook his head in denial. "You don't need to apologise," he countered. He lightly stroked an imaginary beard. "Although grovelling at my feet for the next month would be good…"
But Harry didn't smile. "How can you joke around?" he hissed, leaning closer. "What I said to you—"
"Was not your fault," Ron interrupted. "Cursed broomstick, anyone?"
"But Phil said—"
"Phil was a two-faced bastard who nearly killed me," Ron said firmly. "I'm your best friend of seven years. Who you gonna believe?"
"Ron…"
"Harry."
Harry threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine!" he exclaimed.
"Good." Ron smirked. "Anything else you feel like apologising for?"
"Erm, not trusting you enough to see that you were right, putting you in so much danger over the years, not forcing you to get together with Hermione years ago…"
"The usual then?"
"Yeah."
The pair shared a laugh in the quiet of the hospital wing.
Alerted to the sound of two voices when there should only be one (or preferably none at all), Madam Pomfrey glanced out of her office. She saw only Mr Weasley, sat up in bed, a smile adorning his freckled features. For a moment, she thought she saw the air beside her lone patient swirl and move, but when she blinked, the "movement" was gone.
She shook herself and slipped back into her office.
Ron turned to Harry's now-empty seat, trying not to grin. "Quick thinking," he congratulated.
"Well, yeah," Harry's voice said softly. "I'm Harry Potter – what did you expect?"
Ron laughed again. "Cocky bastard."
Once more, Harry emerged from beneath the Cloak. "Got it in one." The black-haired boy studied Ron's face for a moment and then leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs. "What is it?" he asked softly.
Ron frowned. "What's what?" he asked.
"Something's bothering you," Harry clarified. "What is it?"
Ron looked away. "Doesn't matter," he mumbled.
"Ron." Harry's tone left no room for argument.
He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "You'll think I'm nuts," he mumbled.
"I already know you're nuts. So spill."
Ron didn't smile. He lowered his hands from his eyes and sighed, winding his fingers into the edge of the blanket that covered his legs. "I…" He swallowed, before continuing in a whisper. "I saw Fred."
Harry's eyes went wide. Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it. "As in… your brother?"
"How many Freds do I know?" Ron asked. There was no venom in his tone, just an abrupt tiredness. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. He shook his head. "It's impossible, I know. But I was in the common room and he was there with me and—" He stopped suddenly, looking down. "It felt so real," he completed in a whisper.
"I—" Harry began.
"And I wasn't hallucinating!" Ron interrupted sharply. "I just…" He faltered slightly. "I know it was real," he finished softly.
"I believe you," Harry said simply.
Ron looked up, startled. "You do?"
Harry nodded. He let out a soft sigh and fiddled with the edge of the Cloak. "You're not the first to see such a thing," he said by way of explanation.
Ron's fingers reflexively gripped the edge of the blanket. "Harry?" he asked.
The green-eyed boy leaned back in his chair, weariness flitting across his face. "It was…" He paused. "It was during the battle," he said finally. "Voldemort killed me—well, as near as he could get—and I spoke with Dumbledore in Kings Cross." He smiled gently, a smile full of memory.
"You never said."
"You never asked."
Ron chewed his lip for a moment. "But then that means that it was real!" he said happily. "It wasn't just in my head!"
Harry smiled widely, white teeth glinting in the dimness. "As a wise man once told me, Ron, of course it was in your head. But that doesn't mean it wasn't real." He chuckled to himself, and Ron gave him a decidedly funny look. Harry straightened his face. "What did he say?" he asked, sombre once more.
Ron shrugged, the movement subdued. "Lots of things," he replied. "Why I wasn't dead, for one. Why I was there. All about that bloody spell—"
"What bloody spell?" Harry interrupted.
Ron waved a dismissive hand at him. "The Praeteritum one."
"Praeteritum…?"
Ron gave him a look that screamed exasperation. "The Temporal Reveal Charm!
"Right…" Harry replied slowly, but Ron had frozen.
"Temporal Reveal Charm," he whispered.
"Ron?"
"My wand," Ron demanded abruptly. "Where is it?"
Confused, Harry faltered. "Ron, what's—"
Ron shushed him, frantically running his hand over the bedside table, muttering to himself. "Can't be long 'til seven… Hermione and Ginny'll've been too messed up to nick my wand and perform the damn spell… Hang on – what about the soul-loss bit? Oh, who cares! We need to figure this out… Where's my damn wand?!"
"Here," Harry answered. He'd drawn Ron's wand from his pocket where it'd been nestled beside his own. He held it out and Ron snatched it from eagerly.
The red-head paused for a moment. He glanced up at the ceiling. "Please let this work," he muttered.
"Let what work?" Harry asked.
Ron ignored the bemused Potter. Raising his wand and screwing his face up in concentration, he muttered the spell that had caused such a fuss. "Praeteritum tempus spectare."
Harry watched, mildly open-mouthed, as the air just over Ron's knees fuzzed and thickened. The Boy-Who-Lived was, for once, totally out of the loop, and he was discovering he didn't like it all that much. "What is that?" he demanded.
Ron shushed him once again, beckoning him over at the same time. Bemused, Harry complied. He barely suppressed a startled gasp as he saw the image appearing in the air. He spluttered as Ron heaved a sigh of relief. "Not too late," he muttered to himself.
"That's me!" Harry exclaimed.
"Well done, genius," Ron congratulated absently. "Now ssshh!"
In the air, the black-haired woman was kneeling beside Harry, her fingertips pressed to the pounding of the unconscious Image-Harry's pulse. The view of the image swooped down, following her as she lowered her head to hover above Harry's throat.
The two boys watched, transfixed, as a smile slid across the pale woman's lips. She raised her finger from Harry's pulse and slipped it beneath her upper lip, running the crimson nailed digit over her top row of teeth. First one pointed canine then another was displayed: teeth far more pointed than they should be.
"Is that…?" Ron asked faintly.
"That is…" Harry answered, just as faintly.
"Bloody hell…" Ron sniffed. "Well, that explains the bite marks."
"Bite marks?"
"On your neck," Ron clarified.
Harry frowned at him. "I don't have any bite marks on my neck."
"Yes you do."
"No I don't!"
"Yes you do!"
"No I don't!"
Ron looked over at Harry, ready to point out the white marks on his neck, but faltered as he came up against unblemished skin. "Huh." He frowned, but any further questioned were cut short as Harry's eyes widened and he pointed at the misty image in the air.
The view had changed again, offering a wider image of the classroom – candles burnt on every surface. But it was what lay on the desk in the image that drew their attention. "That's my Firebolt!" Harry exclaimed.
"And what is that above it?" Ron demanded, leaning forward.
It was mist – black, choking mist, hovering in the air like an aura around the broomstick. The pale woman was gazing at this strange occurrence, satisfaction written in her pale eyes. The fog flowed down off the desk, swirling into the vague shape of a man. It thickened.
"Look!" Ron exclaimed, jabbing his finger at the image. "You're waking up."
True to the red-head's words, Image-Harry was stirring blearily on the ground. He raised one hand to his head wearily, the familiarly distinctive scar peeking out from between his fingers. The pale woman didn't look at him – her attention was reserved solely for the figure of a man that had just coalesced into being.
A gasp tore itself free from Harry. "Moody?" he asked in a whisper.
Ron was shaking his head. "That's not possible."
In the air before them, the woman rose to her feet. She spoke, but the two boys heard nothing. A sneer curled across Moody's features, and he said something back.
And then, without warning, he snapped one finger up straight at the half-conscious Image-Harry, shooting a bolt of black lightning through the air and into the centre of his scarred forehead.
Image-Harry collapsed once more. The pale woman looked back at him, what might be actual concern on her features. Again, she turned to Moody. Who are you? was the question her lips framed, slowly, clearly.
All Moody did was smile, and raise his palm.
The pale woman was blasted back against the stone wall, sliding into a heap on the floor in the candlelight. She raised her crimson-nailed hand to the back of her head – her fingers came away red. As the two watching boys sat in stunned silence, the woman's hand dropped to her lap and her eyes rolled back in her head.
The image faded away, and the air cleared.
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