Chapter 11: A Place of Dim Light
Author's Note: Alright, really short. But honestly, if I'd written anything else it just would have been forced. I'm feeling pretty cruel already. And I'm really, really, really sorry about the wait. But it's up! At least that's true. A lot of angst. And general. So, please read! And review! *mwah* Oh, and to my lovely lovely reviewers:
Moonlit Aria: Awwww, thank you! I love your fic too! Next chapter I promise something will be done about Irina. *cackles*
Gillian: Thank you! Yes, stupid Irina *glare*
Julia Griever: I didn't want to. It can't be all fluff. Of course, in my perfect world, it would…..
***
Now that I know what I'm without
You can't just leave me
Breathe into me and make me real
Bring me to life
Wake me up
Wake me up inside
I can't wake up
Wake me up inside
Save me
Call my name and save me from the dark
Wake me up
Bid my blood to run
I can't wake up
Before I come undone
Save me
Save me from the nothing I've become
- Evanescence, "Bring Me to Life"
Early morning. The boy opened his eyes to the sharp and unrelenting light.
(I dare you…to kiss me.)
There was a pounding in his head.
"Ron?"
(No no no no no no no!!)
"Ron, are you alright?"
(No! No! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it, O God O God)
"What do you think, Harry?"
(Mr. Weasley. Mr. Weasley! Control yourself.)
There was silence.
(You don't understand, it's Hermione, Hermione, let me go, dammit!)
"There's not anything alright."
(Let me have the pleasure of informing you, Mr. Weasley, what this little escapade will warrant you and your friends…)
(If you could have know, Ron, how much it meant to her. All the world)
(But for me too, me too, more than the world to me)
(Did she really)
(Of course she did, how could she not, what have I done, what have I)
(Lost, lost, just like everything else, can't you just do something right, it's all over, all over, don't you realize)
(I know)
The red-headed boy let out deep, dry, wracking sobs, sitting up in his bed with his too-short pajama sleeves. His body convulsed with them. He didn't try to muffle them, and as he moved painfully with his grief, not once did he look up.
***
Ron didn't want to talk about it. It was the last thing he wanted to have to relive in his mind by confiding in someone. Harry understood. He didn't ask him about it, and waited for him to bring it up.
Ginny didn't care.
"Ron Weasley." For an instant, Ron thought she looked exactly like their mum. Her cheeks were flushed, hair coming loose, eyes narrowed, and at any moment he felt she was going to start shaking her finger at him with that anger that soon led to it hitting him upside the head. She looked like a vengeful spirit. She was.
"How could you do this? How, Ron? Do you know what this has done to her?"
Ron didn't know what he could do. Normally, he would deny it all, saying he didn't do anything, but what do you do when you deserve every word that is said and more? Much, much more.
Harry stepped in. "Ginny, I –"
"I what? Don't you realize what this great prat has just done? Don't you see how he completely ruined it all because some Russian bint tempted him for five seconds?"
"Yes, Ginny. I do." Ron looked at her quietly.
Ginny went utterly silent.
"Do you know where Hermione is?"
Looking helplessly at her older brother, Ginny said, "Charms room. Doing some project. But Ron –"
He was gone.
"It's not going to be any use. No use," she continued, looking into the empty space before her. "They will each have a broken heart."
Harry stammered. "Are you –"
"Oh yes. And I wish I wasn't."
***
When she saw him she started to gather up her books. Her face was set in an unmovable mask and her back turned towards him, like a wall.
"Hermione?"
The movements of her hands sped up.
"Hermione, I wish I could take it all back."
He didn't expect her to, but she straightened up and turned around. Her eyes glistened, but there was no vulnerability in her face whatsoever. "But you can't, Ron." She gazed at something just above his shoulder, and the resolve was so hardened it hurt to look at. "You can't."
"Don't you believe that I love you? Irina was just something I did because I was drunk, Hermione, I –"
"I know, Ron." There was something almost wistful in her eyes now, almost like finally letting a dream go even when it hurts you so much you almost don't think it's worth it. "I know. But I just don't trust you anymore."
"Don't trust me? I would never do this again, never!"
The regretful look snapped. Instead there was only iron determination. She spoke through nearly gritted teeth. "Ron. I would believe that. But I never thought you would ever do something like this to me once. And you did. And that makes all the difference."
Ron was frantic. He couldn't let her just walk away, leave him. He couldn't lose her, he had thought he had lost her before many times, but this was ever so much more final. It was a coffin lid slamming shut with dreadful finality. "Just give me a second chance, Hermione. I love you."
Hermione had her books in her hands. She looked right in his eyes, and there Ron saw only an impenetrable decision. "Second chances are only in books." She walked quickly towards the door, as Ron stood helpless. With sudden desperation he lunged towards her, grabbing her arm, cupping her cheek.
"Let go of me!" Hermione cried, fierce like a wounded animal. Wrenching her arm from his grip, she ran through the arched doorways.
Her robe flashed around the corner like the last piece of an elusive waking reverie, evanescent and intangible.
***
Stumbling through a world full of more shadows than those that linger in the corners of the nightmare world is dully painful. It is not a piercing pain, but a dull ache that sometimes becomes so overwhelming as it builds up beneath your skin like a cruel and torturous being, the pressure more and more unbearable. As you wade through that place, the grey wisps of forlorn dreams linger, catching your gaze every once and a while with their still potent allure. They drift by with the longing sigh that makes them what they are. And they echo within you.
This is the pain. The pain is watching the hopes you had turn into crippled lonely empty things, watch as they fade away into reflections of what could have been. The pain is not being able to turn away. And the pain is knowing just how real they once were, and remembering. The memories fuel the pain, with their innate and perfect and unrelenting recollection of glances, and touches, and moments.
***
There was quiet in Gryffindor. Quiet and gentleness, above all. No one doubted Ron's pain as genuine. No one doubted Hermione's decision as justified. And so there was the kindness of smiles freely given, even more stinging with their sympathy and their inevitable pity. There were times when Ron suddenly blinked very hard, and when Hermione put her head in her hands in the middle of a study session. They aged so much, both of them, weary in their eyes. Their eyes were far too old.
