Title: Red Sparks
Author: A. Linnea Elindor (Jillian)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Ron, Harry and company all belong to J.K Rowling. Ron and Harry are 6th year. Involves brief slashness. Should really be studying for midterms, but some ideas won't quit.
The wand lay on the nightstand, balancing precariously on the edge of wood. It was a heavy, thick wand – oak 11 ¾ with a dragon heartstring running through it's middle. It was the wand of a strong wizard, a powerful wizard. Ron had always thought it was a bit of a mismatch, but Ollivander had told him the red sparks that jettisoned from it's end before he could barely touch it were a good sign. Ron had learned that it had only needed a little push, a bare nudging with that unnamed force inside all wizards, to make it charm glass balls, transfigure a stack of quills into a peacock, or to create a shield to defend himself against attacks. It wasn't like using Charlie's old wand, which required conscious force. The power seemed to flow from the pit of his stomach, through his fingers and out his wand like someone had turned on a tap. And the magic, it seemed, would flow forever, in some sort of cascading rush that wrapped his bones and warmed his muscles like a hug from the inside. He loved the feeling of using that wand, even for the simplest of tasks, just to feel the rushing of his blood and the light of his magic in his body.
Then the magic became too easy. The complex spells they wove, the draining protections they laid upon themselves and each other seem to flow from his lips and his wand tip like the simple red sparks he produced in the wand shop three years ago. It was strangely effortless. His potions were still pretty dismal- his memorizations skills still as shabby as they had always been- and the long complex equations of arithmancy still escaped his understanding, but the pure magic was unhindered by anything. It never bothered him; he figured it was all the time with Hermione's genius and Harry's sheer power that had lead to the improvement.
Harry's green eyes were hungry that night. They burned brightly, glittering and fading dark as the moonlight hit them. He had taken Ron's lips that night, the combination victory over Slytherin in quidditch plus Lavender's magicked wine plus general paranoia over the impending war left him with no inhibitions. Perhaps Ron so readily accepted them because of the same factors. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the rush of magic that lit his brain with stars. The energy surged through his bones and muscles, it ravaged his nerves, making them raw and any touch almost painful. His heart seemed to open up and drink Harry's kisses, his touches, and Ron gasped as the energy threatened to shoot out of his skin, out of his eyes. Red sparks filled his vision as he felt something low inside of him snap.
Light hadn't dawned yet when he awoke later, his memory blurry and his body strangely relaxed and energized. Harry's form -everything but his feet- were buried under the blanket, and Ron took great pains to extricate himself that morning from Harry's arms. He opened the curtain and looked around. His wand lay on the nightstand, balancing precariously on the edge of the wood. The curtain to Dean's bed was closed, gentle snores reverberating in the small space. Seamus was passed out on the floor between his and Dean's bed- he probably brought Dean up last night and put him to bed. Lord knows Dean couldn't take his liquor. The curtain to Neville's bed was wide open, his fingers still tangled in Lavender's long, highlighted hair. He had shaken his head at the sight, he remembered, before he left for the lavatory. It was cute. He went into the lavatory and, after relieving himself, walked to the sink. He caught himself in the mirror and nearly choked on his tongue. His eyes, normally the usual shade of brown, smoldered a burnished bronze and the black of his irises seemed to twinkle with the light of faraway stars. His skin glowed, like a lantern had been turned on beneath his skin, with his freckles burning like red sparks, embers of some inner flame. His hair had left its auburn shade for one of brilliant copper, the lights overhead setting it awash in fire. Ron stared unbelievably at the figure in the mirror and reached out to brush his cheek. It was him. Probably a trick mirror. Ron reached out to touch the square glass and gasped audibly when it bowed inward, avoiding his touch. Never seen that trick on a mirror before. He walked back to the dormitory and back to his bed, the morning light still beneath the horizon. He threw pulled the covers off Harry's still form and nearly cried out. A handprint lay over Harry's heart, red and tender, and something thick and invisible hung over him like a cloud of imperceptible fog. Ron pressed his hand over it, watching as faint red sparks crackled lightly around him. Harry took a deep breath and released it, almost like a sigh of pleasure. Ron blinked, then climbed into bed with Harry, who promptly, with some sixth sense, threw an arm over his rib cage and pulled himself closer. The invisible fog rushed over him like a warm wind and he fell to sleep without delay.
Harry never went back to his own bed after that night, and he never said anything about the mark over his heart. In subsequent weeks, they never did anything even remotely close to what happened that night, but Ron could see the imprint of his hand through Harry's cloak and could feel his heartbeat as sure as he could feel his own. It was how he knew that late that March night, Harry was in trouble. He could feel his own breath catch as he felt Harry's heart shudder. Ron's eyes snapped open and he saw Harry's scar burn a violent green. He propped himself up on his knees over Harry's body and shook him. Another choked intake of breath and Ron grasped at his own heart, briefly crushed from within. Harry seized up, his body straight as a board, and Ron felt his heart being squeezed. Pain shot through his body and he nearly collapsed, his hands dropping on top of Harry. Ron's vision blurred slightly as almost subconsciously he moved his right hand over the matching hand on Harry's chest. Red sparks exploded behind his eyes, and he felt the potion that ran through Harry's blood, slowly squeezing the life out his body from under his hand, chug through the veins and arteries. Harry was dying. He'd be dead before he'd ever reach the medical ward. Low in Ron's stomach, something taut hung, stretched almost to breaking. Without knowing why, without really understanding how he did it, he severed the string. The magic, the energy that had left his body aglow weeks back wasted no time in shooting from his skin in oh-so-thin, blindingly white rays. The light wrapped Harry's shaking frame, closing around him and then through him like a million ribbon arms hugging him. The tendrils of magic penetrated Harry's skin, and he could feel the poison destroying Harry's body, and the sickly magic of his body reach out to touch Ron's. The potion's ingredients ran through his mind, despite not knowing its name, and flashes of images shot through his head, lightning fast. What the potion was mixed into, the bottle where the potion once lay, and then a single face. Malfoy. His body shifted into autopilot, his mind rapidly calculating in symbols he had never seen but knew, and with some new knowledge that he could neither speak nor understand, his body put the answer to the calculations into motion. Something he hadn't known was building inside of him exploded, rushing through every linkage he had with Harry, turning the once white ribbons into brightly fire-red connections. The lines he had drawn crisscrossed through Harry like spider webs and Ron lost himself, in the magic, in the rush, and in Harry.
He could feel Harry before he realized he himself was awake. The heartbeat was steady, his mind lulled in a dreamless sleep. Calm, sweet, pleasure, rest, magic seemed to burble strangely from Harry, the emotions and feelings coming to him as intuitive knowledge, instead of the new that it was. The tension that he had never noticed low in his stomach was back, the ribbon of magic stretched, waiting to be broken. His eyes fluttered open, and he faintly heard the rustling of people coming towards him. "Ronald?" the blurred figure spoke in Professor McGonagall's voice. He took in a deep breath, focusing on the woman's face. Her face flitted with strange emotions. Ron sat up; his surrounding's coming into focus. Medical ward. Before he could respond, Albus Dumbledore strode through the door, two men in their mid 40's trailed behind him in white cloaks. He stopped shortly and looked upon Ron. "Ronald?" he asked, just as curiously as McGonagall did. "Yes." Ron responded, his tone sleepier than he felt. Dumbledore seemed that he couldn't believe his eyes, but his tone didn't betray those feelings. "There seems to be something wrong with Harry," he began, his voice normalized and calm. Before Ron could ponder that thought, he calmly said, "no, there isn't." McGonagall clearly showed confusion on her face, and Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and looked to his right. Ron followed his line of sight and saw the two men in white coats hover over the Gryffindor dormitory bed that sat, totally out of character, about 10 feet away. The curtains had been removed and only the poles that held them up remained. Ron saw a doctor poke towards Harry's body with his wand and Ron's breath caught as red sparks cascaded in a cloud around Harry's still form. He felt the tension in his belly tighten in response and immediately took a deep breath, feeling it resume its usual tautness. "Don't do that," Ron called over to the doctors, one of which withdrew his wand from within touching distance of the magic that clouded over Harry. Ron closed his eyes and he could feel the energy slip away from around Harry and drift smoothly into Ron. He welcomed that magic back, the strangeness of what he was doing only slightly concerning him. He opened his eyes and called out. "He's fine. Just let him sleep a bit longer," and the doctors, their eyes wide and disbelieving, backed away from the bed. He turned his attention back to the adults gathered at his bed. He noticed his body was lit brightly, his freckles burning like embers against the cream of his skin. Red sparks danced across his fingertips and he saw the amazement in Dumbledore's eyes, and the fear in McGonagall's. "Draco Malfoy poisoned him. I don't know the name of it, but I can tell you what was in it. Slipped it in the pumpkin juice before it came to the table at dinner. It was tuned to only effect Harry… to kill him. It had his blood in it." Ron's voice came out subdued, edged with anger. Red sparks, so familiar now, crackled over him, around him, in a fury of sharp pops of light. "Minerva, please have Severus and yourself search the Slytherin tower. Have Hagrid hold Mr. Malfoy for questioning," Albus asked. She seemed frozen in her place, staring openly at Ron. Ron blushed, his bronzed eyes crinkling in embarrassment, and reigned in his anger. She seemed to snap somewhat out of her reverie and, nodding clumsily, left the room. Dumbledore looked to him, questions flittering in his bright blue eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but one of the doctors called him to Harry's bed, where Ron could see his eyes blinking. As Dumbledore left to attend to Harry, Ron knew that a long discussion was in order. He had no answers to give, and he didn't trust himself yet to go looking inside himself for them. The magic hummed inside of him, shuttling like warm bathwater, or maybe feathery like Harry's kisses on his collarbone. The wand lay on the nightstand, balancing precariously on the edge of wood. It was a heavy, thick wand – oak 11 ¾ with a dragon heartstring running through it's middle. Ron lay back against the bed, humming a tune to the rhythm of Harry's heart.
The wand fell.