I'm really, really sorry!  I was on MAJOR hiatus for, like, ever!  Oo;;;  Err, yeah.  Well, I mean, between school, two cats, brother, sister, and loving…yeah…best friend, and all the other stuff that has to do with being a teenager (*cough cough* HOT GUY *cough cough*  Crissy:  -_-;;; *HURL*  JCP:  What?  He IS pretty damn hot…*Evil Glare of Death™*).  Anyway, my newfound muses, Mr. Bigglesworth the Evil Cat and Fido the Stupid Siberian Husky Wonder Puppy have faithfully pulled me out of my minor writing jam.  (OB-666 pointedly glares, then subsides into a shunned pout).  *huggles new muses.  More shunned pouting on OB-666's part.*  For those of you who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, READ MY DAMN BIO!!!!  -_-;  Well, enjoy!

Silent Torment

Part III:

Lost in Darkness                

Lost in darkness but blinded by light

Desperately I wage a losing fight.

Tears always pain me but laughter's my fear

And I know my soul is a prisoner here.

Bruised and beaten I'll shed silent tears

Of blood and humiliation till the end of my years.

No one can help me; they'd be fools to try

To save something that's torn and empty inside.

Cursed to live but doomed to die.

I beg to be buried in a grave of lies.

For here I am nothing and nothing is me

I'm trapped in torment for eternity.

Bruised and beaten I'll shed silent tears

Of blood and humiliation till the end of my years.

No one can help me; they'd be fools to try

To save something that's torn and empty inside.

Not of the living or dead; I'm trapped in between

Where no one can hear my agonized screams.

Lost in the darkness but blinded by light

I give up the battle,

I'm broken tonight.

Bruised and beaten I'll shed silent tears

Of blood and humiliation till the end of my years.

No one can help me; they'd be fools to try

To save something that's torn and empty inside

Lost in the darkness but blinded by light

I give up the battle,

I'm broken tonight.

--Author Unknown  (GAAAAAAH!!!  INS'T THAT SO F**KING GOOD?!?!?!  Sorry, Crissy saved it on her computer a while ago and forgot to put the author…if you know who wrote it, email me and I'll fix it…)

Harry's mouth sagged uncontrollably.  He could feel his face paling even further as he stared into the face of his best friend. 

But this wasn't the Ron Weasley that he had known for six years.  The Ron he knew had the dust of the stars in his eyes, always sparkling mischievously, especially, Harry knew, when he looked at Hermione (his insides squirmed rather guiltily at the thought—for he had much the same feelings for her himself).  The Ron he knew had a face that was bright and always full of laughter, each freckle sharply defined upon his glowing face.  But this Ron, this Ron had eyes that were bitter chips of ice, as if he had grown up without love or warmth of any kind, either physical or emotional.   There were dark circles under his eyes, eyes that held no compassion, no recognition.  His fiery hair was now dull and faded, lacking its usual lustre.  The face was tired and strained, as if a smile would shatter its rigid surface into tiny, minuscule pieces.  There were lines of strain etched into his face that Harry knew the seventeen-year-old back at home didn't have.  Which made him all the more speechless…

He felt a cold hand on his shoulder and whipped around.  There was Crysania, and she was wearing the most self-satisfied smirk that you could imagine.  Indeed, Harry thought it should be illegal.  But beside that, his stark-terror was slowly turning into stark-pissed-ness.

"You…you…" he spluttered, not even able to come up with a word that could describe her.  "You…bitch," he finally decided. 

Crysania did not look the least bit fazed.  She merely smiled even wider than before.

"Now, now.  Manners, Harry dear," Crysania amended self-righteously. 

He now realised that Ron was staring at him, his eyebrows raised, the slight concern that had been apparent in his blank-slate face dissipating, only to be replaced by derision.  This unsettled Harry even more.

"I thought you said no one could see us!" Harry hissed at Crysania, earning an even more disdainful glare from Ron…if that was really who he was.

"Listen, are you okay?  When the Creepers threw you in here it looked like you hit your head pretty hard…"

It occurred to Harry that his mouth was still hanging open, and he shut it quickly.  But that didn't stop him from staring.

"Ron…how did you…?" he began weakly, breathing heavily.  Ron raised his eyebrows even higher.

"How do you know my name?" he asked suspiciously.

"I…Ron…"

"How do you know my name?"

"How…it's me, Ron!  Harry…"

There was silence.

"Harry who?" Ron asked, still suspicious.

"Potter!  Oh, come on, stop messing around…"

Ron looked at him, long and hard, as though sizing him up, and like he was sure this was some kind of trick.

"Potter?" he said slowly.  "The Potters didn't have any kids as far as I know…"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.  His mouth was suddenly very dry.

"I mean," Ron snapped irritably, "that Lily and James Potter don't have any children."

There was utter silence, broken only by the steady drip, drip of the acrid liquid that dripped from the walls.  Harry's breathing was slow and rasping, his mind whirling with the same confusing questions.  How…?

"No…no children?  But how…"  Harry wiped sweat off his forehead, brushing his hand over his scar…that wasn't there.

Another spasm of terror threatened to overwhelm him once again, and he struggled for control.  He sucked in a sharp breath and slowly glanced at Crysania, who merely watched him placidly.  Receiving no help from her, he looked back at Ron, but not really seeing him at all.

"So this means…" he said slowly, more to himself.  "That I'm not alive…"

Ron, meanwhile, was still giving him a look that suggested he was worried about his sanity.  Harry chose to ignore this.  Instead, he asked a question that probably wasn't going to help his situation much.

"Where's Hermione?" he asked quietly, dreading the answer.  His heart sank like a rock at the sight of Ron's expression.

"Hermione who?"

That clinched it.

"Hermione Granger," Harry said, a choking sensation filling his throat, making it difficult to speak.

Slowly, comprehension dawned on Ron's empty face.  Harry was surprised to see a flitting of regret and sadness behind his mirror-like blue eyes.

"Oh," he said quietly.  Then he looked at Harry seriously.  "She died in my first year.  Committed suicide on Halloween."  He looked away, emotion clouding in his eyes.  He took a deep breath and continued, "It was my fault.  I made fun of her too much.  And I…I really…"  Overcome by his emotions, he stared down at the wall.  Slowly, as if loathing to leave its safe confines, a glittering tear trailed over his pale, freckled face, the only colour that Harry had yet seen upon this dismal painting of torment that was his best friend.  Just what he had had to endure all these years, Harry could not even begin to imagine…

"Everything was fine, until my second year.  That was when my sister died."  It took Harry a few moments to realise that Ron was speaking to him again, but those last few words brought him back rather more sharply than they would have normally. 

"Ginny's dead?!" Harry's voice cracked and his head snapped up, causing him to get a crick in his neck.   His head filled with an overwhelming blank buzzing sound that didn't allow room for a voice to penetrate.  The only thing that could be heard was Ron's voice, repeating itself over and over again… Committed suicide on Halloween…that's when my sister died…

Harry glanced up at his best friend, whose eyes were once again narrowed with distrust. 

"I never told you my sister's name—" he began threateningly. 

"Never mind," Harry interrupted quickly, almost recovering.  "Go on."

"The Dark Lord…the Master…he came," Ron continued, still eyeing Harry distrustfully.  "He was searching for new talents.  Talents that could help bring the Dark Side to full power.  But first he had to get rid of Dumbledore."  Ron swallowed.  "He killed him.  The battle was short.  The Dark One was too powerful for little old Dumbledore."  His features twisted into a bitter, sardonic smile.  "Then…the Master came for me."  He started fumbling with the frayed edges of his grey, rotting robes distractedly, trying to regain some composure.  When he did, he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath.  "He found that I had talent, a talent that I didn't know I possessed."  Ron didn't seem prolonged to elaborate on the subject, however.  He lapsed into a brooding silence.  Harry realised that he was probably musing over the bane of his existence, the reason for living.  And he knew that he wouldn't find it here.  Not in this barren wasteland, where his dreams were diminished, all because there was no one to have saved him from something he was…a slave of darkness. 

"What was the talent," Harry asked hoarsely, making the near silent inquiry more of a statement than a question.  Ron looked up at him quickly, giving him a vague piercing stare; as if he thought the young emerald-eyed wizard was being nosy.  He didn't seem to mind too much, however, when he answered the said question.

"Soul-searching," Ron answered bluntly.  Harry noticed that his hands were clenching and unclenching on the fabric of his robes again, as if he were trying to channel all of his frustrated anger into it.  It seemed that he gave up, however, when he released the cloth and looked up.  Ron must have noticed Harry's rather confused expression, because he added, "It's like a truth spell.  I can see people's memories, so I can see who they are…what their intentions are…"  He stopped, and swallowed hard.  The recollections were obviously painful for him.  He cleared his throat.  "Can I get you something?" he asked gruffly, perceptibly not used to offering anything to anyone.  Harry was about to object—how could he get him anything when locked in a cell?—when Ron waved his hand and a silver jug, along with two silver goblets, appeared out of nowhere.

Ron was apparently enjoying the shocked look on Harry's face, and smugly waved his hand again; one of the goblets made its way through the bars of his cell and clunked on the floor next to him.  Harry peered dubiously into the goblet, and was surprised to discover that the water that it held was clear, and obviously cool: condensation was already forming on the cup.  Gingerly, he picked up the goblet and lifted it to his lips.  The water glided down his throat, cooler and clearer than anything he had ever tasted.  He drank eagerly, only just realising how thirsty he had become.

"How did you do that?" Harry asked after draining the goblet and setting it back down.  Ron's smug look vanished.

"That…well…"  He fidgeted uncomfortably and rubbed the side of his neck.  Harry noticed a swollen red mark there, but was too interested in Ron's answer to ask about it.

"Well, you see, now that the Dark Lord has the Philosopher's Stone…he managed to give it extra powers, other than prolonging his life and making him the richest bastard in the world."  Ron glanced up at Harry balefully and continued, "He bewitched it to answer his every whim, and his…servants'…as well.  I could wish up any kind of food or drink you could imagine.  He does this," he added, "to keep us quiet, I think.  Kind of a bribe, if you will…"  He subsided into a thoughtful silence.

Harry's mind buzzed frantically as he tried to sort out all this newfound information.  Dumbledore and Hermione were dead.  Voldemort—he assumed that was who Ron was referring to when he said the Dark Lord—had taken the Philosopher's Stone.  And Ron…Ron was little more than a slave.  Harry wondered if the Ron he had known possessed a power like this one did.

Harry finally managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth to ask another question.

"What…where did you get that red mark on your neck from?"  He asked it carefully, trying not to sound too nosy.  And to his surprise, Ron's face flushed a dull, sickly red.  It looked as if he was choking on something; that, or he wasn't used to being embarrassed.

"Oh…that…"  He rubbed the mark gingerly, avoiding Harry's gaze.  "Remember how I said…that the Dark Lord kind of bribes his servants?"  Harry nodded.  "Well…"  He squirmed slightly.  "The Dark Lord gave me a mistress."  The flush spread over neck and down his collarbone.  He cleared his throat. 

At that, a loud clanging was heard down the hall.  Ron's flushed face was suddenly sapped of colour.  Harry sat up.

"What?  What is it?" he asked urgently.

Ron began to visibly shake.  He swallowed again.

"They're coming.  We're going to have to do the Soul-Search."

*******

BUM BUM BUUUM!!!  Well…isn't that interesting.  Ron has mystical powers and is being enslaved by Lord Voldemort.  Crysania is being an insufferable bitch.  And Harry's alive when he isn't.  Ah, the wonders of confusing words…it happens to be one of my strong points.  This chap was a bit short, don't you think?  And is it just me, or am I getting a bit repetitive?  *hides shamefacedly*  Gack, that chapter really sucked.  I'll work on it, I haven't been reading as much as I would've liked, so my ideas are being burned away.  Yeah, well, the next one should be longer, and come out faster.  I'm really sorry that took so long; I've had to use all of my creative juices for school…*sigh*  We had two creative writing papers to do in the first week!  Doesn't that suck?  Well, I DID get an exceptionally high grade…*head swells*  And my BITHDAY'S coming up…joy of joys!  *head swells more*  Fourteen…spiffy, high school in a year!  Oh…yeah…well, toodles, all.  Gotta start on chap four…see ya round!  --J