Please see first part for disclaimers and warnings.
Notes: As before, this is my first time writing Harry, and there's been so many brilliant renditions of the Boy Who Lived apart from Miss Rowling's version that it was a bit of a challenge to write him. Hopefully, I've managed to make his voice convincing enough. Right, one down, one more to go! ^_^ As usual, please do read and review. It always makes my day :p
And last but definitely not least, thank you so much for reviewing, you're all too sweet ^_^
*Harry*
He thought he must have felt this numbness before, once upon a time. Maybe when he had still been very young, before he'd realized that spells and magic were not a myth. The world was so bland – when the numbness had shrouded his heart. It had felt like he was in a soundproof room, where external noise was muffled and the only thing he could hear clearly was his own voice in his head.
And it told him not to listen. To ignore whatever his eyes, ears and skin were telling him. Don't pay attention to the beatings and cruel words. Because if you don't really sense the malice, if the pain doesn't truly register, then it might not necessarily be reality.
In a way, the numbness was his friend. It was like an invisible cloak, enfolding him within its dulling embrace, deadening his senses to the world, keeping him safe.
And then he'd made a new friend. One that was the exact opposite of anything he had ever known. This friend didn't freeze or anaesthetise him. Instead, this friend was vibrancy and life. He stimulated, excited, thrilled. His every smile, every word, every laugh, every gesture, even his very appearance, was an invitation, an invocation, rousing him from the stuporous trance he had been in ever since he could summon conscious thought.
The old friend issued an ultimatum: it's either me or him. There could be no compromise.
He didn't give it a second thought.
At the age of eleven, the Boy Who Lived stopped existing, and truly began to live.
The numbness abandoned him, but he didn't really care. Ron was taking him on the ride of his life, and the myriad of experiences and emotions was too intense for him to ever want anything else ever again.
Except for now.
Now, he wanted his childhood friend back, with every fibre of his being. Come back… come back and make it stop hurting. And for an instant, it seemed like the protective shield had returned, blocking out the pain. But then hairline cracks appeared, rapidly spreading, widening, until the dam could not hold it in any longer, and it broke.
You had your chance to keep me but you didn't, the numbness cackled spitefully in his mind, as he was inundated by the anguish and agony. Now you won't have me, or him, forever more…
Remotely, Harry felt himself slowly moving forwards, eyes fixed on that head of red which seemed to fill his vision. As he walked, he could hear the sounds of distant traffic from the window ahead, Hermione's gasping sobs from behind, the chafing of the carpet against his boots, and the crunching of glass shards underfoot.
Everything seemed perfectly clear. Too clear, he thought wildly, as he reached the nexus of stillness at the far side of the bedroom. He knelt down heavily beside the pair, ignoring the twinges of pain from the sharp crystal biting his knees through the fabric of his trousers.
His best friend was draped sideways across his lover's lap, head resting upon Draco's shoulder. Draco's right arm encircled Ron's waist, while the other hand was interlinked with one of Ron's. It was a tableau that Harry could recall seeing, so many times: on the grounds at Hogwarts on a soft spring day; during the clear summer nights stargazing at the top of the Astronomy tower; taking a rest after strolling through Hyde Park in the fall; or simply savouring each other's company in front of the fireplace, as snow blanketed the world outside their home in endless white.
With the memories fresh before his eyes, and Ron's shoulder still warm beneath his trembling fingertips, it felt like one of those bittersweet days, if not for the scar on his forehead throbbing madly away.
Another wave of grief and pain flooded him, sweeping away reason. Riding upon this crest of irrationality, fury poured from him, accompanied by a spite and vindictiveness he never believed himself capable of, its focus the blond man sitting so utterly still, it would have been hard to tell him from a statue.
"What did you do to him, Malfoy? How could you? You swore that you would never hurt him, that he would be happy and content. Why on earth did I ever believe you?! Such as fool, I was, such a bloody fucking fool!!" He'd began softly, but with every word the emotions seethed, building higher and higher, until he was practically shouting, screaming his rage at the futility of it all.
Impulsively he grabbed Draco's arm, dislodging it from its hold around Ron, and was rewarded by an angry dart of silver in his direction. Draco tried to shrug off his grip, but Harry held firm.
"Let. Go. Of. Me. Potter." The sibilant hiss from Draco's lips would have surpassed Snape's even on his worst of days.
Harry ignored him, pulling him closer so their faces were scant inches apart. "I should have known better to have trusted a Malfoy, a Slytherin… Death Eater!" The accusations spat out hatefully. "I hope you rot, Malfoy. And I hope it's going to be slow, agonising, and endlessly painful. And when that happens, I shall be there laughing – laughing as the gates of Hell close upon you!"
Silence initially met his last tirade, bordering upon hysteria, only punctuated by his harsh breathing and the soft sounds of Hermione's grief. And then Draco shifted abruptly, wrenching his arm away to clutch Ron's body once more. He looked up, pinning Harry with his eyes.
Harry couldn't look away, struck by the hollowness he saw in them. He had seen such eyes before, years ago, when he'd first saw Sirius Black, not realising that he was actually his godfather. Black's eyes had been just as bleak, as empty. The eyes of Azkaban.
"You're wrong, Potter. What you've described isn't Hell." Draco's words were slow, calm, and completely toneless. "I would know, because I'm already in it. Hell, Potter, is understanding too late what is truly important. Hell is realising, after years of believing you are strong, that you're nothing but a pathetic, weak-minded fool. Hell… is never getting to say you're sorry. And knowing that even if you do say it, a million, billion times, it won't change a single, bloody thing."
The room was quiet as Draco's voice died away. Even Hermione had stopped crying.
Harry slumped again the bed, feeling drained as the fury ebbed from him, leaving nothing but that deep, achingly hollow sadness.
The red hair in front of him was making him remember too much for him to bear, and even when he closed his eyes, there was no escape. His life was flashing before his eyes – his life and Ron's.
He remembered their first meeting at the train station, and their first conversation on the Hogwarts Express, how he'd sided with Ron against his soon-to-be best friend's future lover. He remembered their adventures through First Year, Second Year, Third… battling mountain trolls and three-headed dogs, basilisks and treacherous rodents. Through it all, Ron had been resolutely beside him, determined to stick with him, regardless of the harm that came to him as a result.
He recalled their first fight, or cold war – how Ron's insecurity overcame him, manifesting as jealousy, and the first ugly arguments between them. He relived the misery he'd went through those few months when Ron was so far from him, and the boundless relief when they'd finally made up.
There was that heart-stopping moment when he was told that Ron was at the bottom of the lake, and he could be the only one to save him. He'd understood how essential Ron's existence had become to him at last. He'd had no idea then, that there was another who felt the same, and could do nothing but stand by in the bleachers, watching his love risk his life for someone else.
Horror, shock, revulsion, pain, and betrayal gnawed at his gut as the night he discovered Ron and Draco hit him once more full force. The bitter accusations backing his stubborn unreason, Draco's scathing retorts, Ron's stricken pleas, Hermione's desperate, futile attempts to mediate… It all filled his head, resonating and amplifying, like a bullet that could never stop ricocheting off steel walls. And permeating the entire nightmare was the panic, the dread that Ron would leave. That Ron didn't need him, didn't want him anymore.
He remembered all those explanations falling upon his deaf ears, the fear of abandonment and rejection so overwhelming it virtually paralysed him from contemplating anything else. He didn't want to think about Draco Malfoy, about Ron being anywhere near the blond boy in a remotely friendly way, didn't want to dwell on what else they might have been doing.
He'd almost convinced himself Ron was just curious, restless, experimenting. And he'd managed to trap his semi-terrified friend against the bedroom wall up in their tower, arms fuelled with mad conviction pinning down those frantically struggling shoulders.
His heart lurched a little as the memory of how soft Ron's mouth had felt, how his friend's body had stiffened in complete, utter shock. He'd ran his tongue gently over the outline of Ron's lower lip, before delving into the shock-parted depths. He'd tasted the unique sweetness that was Ron. And he'd tasted the fear.
He had stopped, pulling back. Ron remained in his grip, trembling slightly as he gazed back at him, a wary, skittish light in his eyes. Then he'd shoved Harry aside, dashing from the room, not returning until the following afternoon.
Crashing in defeat upon his bed, Harry had thought he could never feel worse than he had that night.
He'd recognised his error soon after when he saw the flash of red fling itself into the path of a hex cast by Voldemort during that last confrontation, and Ron's slow topple to the ground after that.
You've done so much for me, and I've never really thanked you. I've never really said them – the words. And I've never apologised, truly from the bottom of my heart, for being such a bastard to you then.
Harry suddenly found that he could no longer see Ron and Draco clearly, the world before him turning into shimmering saltwater.
And through all these years, I've never really accepted what you had with him. On the surface I've stopped objecting, appeared to tolerate it. But when I'm not with you I would try to deny it, or not think about it, or not see it, if I could help it… But now I think I could gladly call Malfoy brother, if you would just open your eyes and smile at us again.
He gradually become aware of the fact that his head had fallen against Malfoy's shoulder, and that part of the other man's shirt was soaked with his tears. Malfoy made no move to push him away.
It was your final wish, wasn't it? For all of us to be together peacefully in the same room. But how can it possibly be worth it, when we can no longer speak with you, smile with you, laugh and cry with you? How could you have ever thought it would be worth it?
Malfoy's right, he thought dully. Hell is never getting to say you're sorry.
fin