THC Round 7
Hufflepuff
Astronomy
Drabble
[Emotion] Regret
WC: 987 (google docs)
x
Era: DH
Rating: K+
Alive
Ron has a run-in with snatchers after he leaves the Horcrux Hunt
There is something dangerous in these woods, and he needs to leave.
It's an instinct, a gut feeling, a heavy, foreboding rock in his stomach that tells him that staying put could be lethal.
Closing his eyes, he imagines his brother's cottage on the beach. He pictures it so vividly that it feels like he's already there. The smell of the salty air quells the stench of the decaying forest floor, the rhythmic waves fill the soundless woods with a melody, and the kitchen lights — his stomach grumbles at the thought of a kitchen — burst from the cottage's windows. It taunts him with warmth and hospitality in an otherwise dark and unkind thicket. Destination.
An inexplicable panic is rising within him. He has to leave, and quickly. His mind doesn't yet know what the danger is, but his body clearly does, and there's no time to wait for it all to make sense. His pulse is erratic, his breathing shallow, and escaping is his only option. Determination.
Why are you hesitating? The question flashes across his mind, and he tries to bury it, deny it, but he can't. He knows exactly why he's hesitating: Guilt, anger, and self-hatred. Regret. A broken heart that he brought upon himself. A festering fear that maybe he doesn't deserve to escape.
Inaction may kill him, so he packs his heartache away — it was his emotion that got him into this mess, and now he needs out. He has to leave now, it's the only way to survive. Deliberation.
He waits for the familiar pop of apparition, the hook behind his navel, the magical scene-change, but it doesn't happen. When his eyes snap open, he's in the same sinister, stagnant, unwelcoming forest.
Shit.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, grasping desperately for his wand. It's not there. His eyes scan the mosaic of dirt, leaves, and twigs beneath his feet. He chooses to remain optimistic, even though the odds of finding a wand on the forest floor are abysmal.
He scrapes through the soil and shoves aside sticks, muddying his hands with the dirt, grime, and decay of the forest, but he still can't find his wand. The rustle of his search echoes through the otherwise silent woods, alerting them to his presence.
"Who's there?"
The voice is something between a growl and a hiss. It hardly sounds human. The hair on his arms stands on edge, his body freezes, and his breathing ceases.
"Where?" The second voice comes from the opposite direction, and his previous choice to remain optimistic suddenly seems foolish.
He steadies his trembling feet — or at least he tries to — an effort to prevent exposing his location with an accidental crunch of leaves beneath his trainers. His own pulse is loudly drumming in his temples, and he wonders if they can hear it too.
He has to escape, somehow. If only there was a way to apparate without a wand.
Focus, Ron!
His heart sinks when those words float into his mind because he hears them in her voice. It's the only voice they belong to. She has always been the one that nags him to concentrate, the one to come up with creative solutions. The one that saves his life.
And he left her. Stupid. Tears sting his eyes, and his body forces a breath, but it comes out audibly, a soft, but prominent sob.
"Did you hear that?"
The gruff voice yanks him back to reality. Feet are approaching him now — he doesn't count how many.
Think. What would Hermione do?
The thought of Hermione in his position doesn't just drain the color from his face, but his whole world. Picturing her in these woods, surrounded, at risk of capture fills him with a stronger motivation to act. Suddenly it's not a choice to remain optimistic. It's no longer a want, but a need.
His body reacts before his brain can make sense of it. Crouching to the ground, he grabs a rock, and launches it toward the nearest set of footprints. He doesn't see where it lands, but he hears it.
"Aaaargh!" In its panic, the voice is less gruff than before, much softer, unthreatening, and unrecognizable.
He isn't alone in thinking so. "Expelliarmus!" another one shouts, then immediately. "Sorry! I thought you were—"
There's no time. Someone's wand is flying through the air, and it's now or never.
Before he can hesitate, he's on his feet, sprinting toward the expelled wand as it falls to the forest floor. It takes a moment for them all to react, but when they finally do, the eerily quiet forest erupts as a battleground, echoing with the sounds of sinister incantations he's never heard before — jinxes, curses, and spells that could hurt him, stun him, or maybe even kill him. Jets of light streak the darkness, illuminating the yellowing, crooked, gap-toothed grins of the snatchers. He reacts instinctively by diving to the ground and catching the wand right before it lands. He closes his eyes, and this time, he doesn't hesitate.
Destination. Determination. Deliberation.
As if an imaginary hook latches behind his navel, he is yanked backward into thin air. The trees bend and twist grotesquely, disappearing briefly into nothingness. The abrasive smell of wood, waste, and decay dissipates and neutralizes. The jets of light that cut through the eerie, threatening darkness of the forest soften and fade. It's a nauseating relief.
For a split second, there's nothing. Then it hits him.
The misty, salted air fills his lungs. The rhythmic, energetic waves muffle the staccato of his pulse, and the cottage's windows are glowing in the moonlight, revealing the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen. His stomach growls.
He's cold and tired. Hungry and heartbroken.
He's angry at himself for leaving her.
But he pushes those thoughts aside for now, and chooses to remain optimistic.
He's alive.