Barry Potter - Chapter 12
Alden was sitting quietly in the Common Room, seemingly absorbed in her book when Ron found her. He sat beside her on the couch, a little closer than usual, but she didn't look up. He paused to study her face, drinking in her features. She was relaxed, a small smile playing across her lips and a happy twinkle in her eyes. Ron sat very still, mesmerized by her as her eyes darted across the words on the page before her. For a moment, he wanted time to stand still, so that he could sit there watching her forever.
All too soon her eyes paused, then glanced up at Ron's face. Her grin grew for a second, and she asked, "What?"
It took Ron a while to respond. He knew what he wanted to ask her, but he didn't really want to ask it. Eyes turned down to the book in her hands, he managed to say quietly, "How did Hermione get the knife?"
He couldn't see Alden's face, but he felt her frown. He knew color was slowly rising to his freckled cheeks beneath the heat of her frown, so he began intently studying the page her book was opened to. It was a handwritten page, yellowed with age and use. Some of the words were slightly smudged, while others were underlined.
Her voice broke through his thoughts, "I told you. It's attracted to high emotion. Very useful, actually."
"That's not true," Ron looked up, eyes meeting hers. He shuddered as they did, and he would have given anything to take back his last words. The color was leaving his cheeks, because her heated frown had just fallen into an icy glare. "That's not true," he repeated unsteadily, "If it were, it would have happened before."
Alden delicately raised as eyebrow, "When?"
Summoning up his courage, Ron managed to look her in the eye and say, "If it's drawn to high emotion, wouldn't it have come to you on the night of the Moones' arrest?"
He saw her freeze, and for a moment her eyes were like those of a rabbit caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. Ron had never seen her like that; so prone, so utterly afraid and unsure of herself. He used the moment to his advantage, springing before she had a chance to recover and catching her totally off guard. "It wasn't a charmed knife. You sent it to Hermione, and you tricked her mind into making her use it. Didn't you?"
He instantly regretted his accusation. He had expected her to rise up in anger, to shout or coolly tell him off, to brush away and shoot back another icy glare. But she didn't. Instead, she simply sat, stunned by the sharp and accurate words that had caught her unprepared to parry them. She once again appeared defenseless, stripped of her hardened outershell and exposed as only human. The accusation had hit home. And it hurt.
Ron panicked as he saw two large tears beginning to well in Alden's eyes. He had never known what to do when girls cried, but when a girl who never cried cried... well, he was just at a loss. Some hidden instinct made him reach out, pulling her into his arms and forcing her to rest her head on his shoulder, not caring that her book slid from her lap to the floor with a clunk. She had never cried before, not around him, anyway. She had nearly cried when Viktor Krum died, but, he remembered, she hadn't actually. Now warm wet tears sunk into his robes as she leaned against his shoulder, body shaking slightly with angry sobs. Ron stopped trying to think, letting his instincts take over. He pulled her tighter, resting his head gently against hers as he slowly rocked her back and forth. Ron remembered his mother doing the same to him when, years ago, his pet goldfish had died. Only this was more serious, and this time he was doing the consoling.
At last her sobbing subsided, and she just stayed silently in his strong arms. He relaxed a little, glad that she was no longer crying. Now he felt a tiny thrill as she sighed, sending a jet of warm breath onto his neck. She was warm and close; he could feel her heart pounding in her chest and her cheek brushing lightly with his. He ordered himself not to think about those things. He was here to take care of his distressed friend. She's just a friend, he reminded himself mentally. Just a friend. For now, he couldn't help throwing in as he felt more warmth tickle his neck when she sighed once again.
"I'm sorry..." he told her softly, willing away his words from before. Alden pulled herself away a little, looking him in the eye. Both of her own were red and moist, and salty trails remained where the tears had cascaded down her face. Ron's heart went out to her, the tired little girl having a bad day that he had never seen before. He resisted the urge to draw her back in again, contenting himself to keep his arms loosely around her waist. He mentally noted that she hadn't removed herself from his arms entirely, and once again felt a tingling thrill.
She shook her head, eyes cast down. "Don't be sorry. You didn't mean to..." Her voice trailed off, and she looked up at him. "You know what I mean."
Ron nodded, not quite sure he fully understood everything, but grasping her meaning. Nonetheless, he found himself saying, "But why did you do it?"
Despite her still moist eyes, she smiled. "They'll thank me one day."
With that she pulled herself from him completely, picking up her book and rising from the couch. She slowly mounted the stairs, and Ron watched her go, feeling a mixture of sadness and confusion. The last thing he saw as she turned up the stair was the title of her book, gold lettering shining out from its black leather cover. It read 'You Are Your Father's Daughter, Not Your Father: Freeing Yourself.'
Alden was sitting quietly in the Common Room, seemingly absorbed in her book when Ron found her. He sat beside her on the couch, a little closer than usual, but she didn't look up. He paused to study her face, drinking in her features. She was relaxed, a small smile playing across her lips and a happy twinkle in her eyes. Ron sat very still, mesmerized by her as her eyes darted across the words on the page before her. For a moment, he wanted time to stand still, so that he could sit there watching her forever.
All too soon her eyes paused, then glanced up at Ron's face. Her grin grew for a second, and she asked, "What?"
It took Ron a while to respond. He knew what he wanted to ask her, but he didn't really want to ask it. Eyes turned down to the book in her hands, he managed to say quietly, "How did Hermione get the knife?"
He couldn't see Alden's face, but he felt her frown. He knew color was slowly rising to his freckled cheeks beneath the heat of her frown, so he began intently studying the page her book was opened to. It was a handwritten page, yellowed with age and use. Some of the words were slightly smudged, while others were underlined.
Her voice broke through his thoughts, "I told you. It's attracted to high emotion. Very useful, actually."
"That's not true," Ron looked up, eyes meeting hers. He shuddered as they did, and he would have given anything to take back his last words. The color was leaving his cheeks, because her heated frown had just fallen into an icy glare. "That's not true," he repeated unsteadily, "If it were, it would have happened before."
Alden delicately raised as eyebrow, "When?"
Summoning up his courage, Ron managed to look her in the eye and say, "If it's drawn to high emotion, wouldn't it have come to you on the night of the Moones' arrest?"
He saw her freeze, and for a moment her eyes were like those of a rabbit caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. Ron had never seen her like that; so prone, so utterly afraid and unsure of herself. He used the moment to his advantage, springing before she had a chance to recover and catching her totally off guard. "It wasn't a charmed knife. You sent it to Hermione, and you tricked her mind into making her use it. Didn't you?"
He instantly regretted his accusation. He had expected her to rise up in anger, to shout or coolly tell him off, to brush away and shoot back another icy glare. But she didn't. Instead, she simply sat, stunned by the sharp and accurate words that had caught her unprepared to parry them. She once again appeared defenseless, stripped of her hardened outershell and exposed as only human. The accusation had hit home. And it hurt.
Ron panicked as he saw two large tears beginning to well in Alden's eyes. He had never known what to do when girls cried, but when a girl who never cried cried... well, he was just at a loss. Some hidden instinct made him reach out, pulling her into his arms and forcing her to rest her head on his shoulder, not caring that her book slid from her lap to the floor with a clunk. She had never cried before, not around him, anyway. She had nearly cried when Viktor Krum died, but, he remembered, she hadn't actually. Now warm wet tears sunk into his robes as she leaned against his shoulder, body shaking slightly with angry sobs. Ron stopped trying to think, letting his instincts take over. He pulled her tighter, resting his head gently against hers as he slowly rocked her back and forth. Ron remembered his mother doing the same to him when, years ago, his pet goldfish had died. Only this was more serious, and this time he was doing the consoling.
At last her sobbing subsided, and she just stayed silently in his strong arms. He relaxed a little, glad that she was no longer crying. Now he felt a tiny thrill as she sighed, sending a jet of warm breath onto his neck. She was warm and close; he could feel her heart pounding in her chest and her cheek brushing lightly with his. He ordered himself not to think about those things. He was here to take care of his distressed friend. She's just a friend, he reminded himself mentally. Just a friend. For now, he couldn't help throwing in as he felt more warmth tickle his neck when she sighed once again.
"I'm sorry..." he told her softly, willing away his words from before. Alden pulled herself away a little, looking him in the eye. Both of her own were red and moist, and salty trails remained where the tears had cascaded down her face. Ron's heart went out to her, the tired little girl having a bad day that he had never seen before. He resisted the urge to draw her back in again, contenting himself to keep his arms loosely around her waist. He mentally noted that she hadn't removed herself from his arms entirely, and once again felt a tingling thrill.
She shook her head, eyes cast down. "Don't be sorry. You didn't mean to..." Her voice trailed off, and she looked up at him. "You know what I mean."
Ron nodded, not quite sure he fully understood everything, but grasping her meaning. Nonetheless, he found himself saying, "But why did you do it?"
Despite her still moist eyes, she smiled. "They'll thank me one day."
With that she pulled herself from him completely, picking up her book and rising from the couch. She slowly mounted the stairs, and Ron watched her go, feeling a mixture of sadness and confusion. The last thing he saw as she turned up the stair was the title of her book, gold lettering shining out from its black leather cover. It read 'You Are Your Father's Daughter, Not Your Father: Freeing Yourself.'
