Narcomatic
By StarWolf
6/21/2004
Title: Narcomatic
Author: StarWolf (elendraug at yahoo.com)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, horror, A/U warfic thing
Warnings: "thematic elements" and disturbing stuff
Pairing: Slight Ron x Harry
Distribution: Do not archive it.
Disclaimer: Rowling's, not mine.
Summary: Get rest while you can.
Authoress' Notes: Fwaha, it's been a year since Order of the Phoenix hit the shelves, and I still haven't read it. I suck.
Every time he tries to run away from death (haunting, stalking, creeping), he approaches it faster. Hydrochloric acid (Snape once taught a bit of chemistry) burns a hole in his empty stomach. It's not (he wishes it was) the only thing giving him ulcers.
His hair is dirty (it's gone from red to brown with grime and dried blood), and he runs skeletal fingers through the greasy strands. Tattered robes (now there are patches on the patches) hang loosely on his too-wiry frame. Starvation (need food) is such a slow way to die.
Ron looks down (oh god the floor is covered in--), regrets it, and throws up. Vomiting's rarely pleasant (though it's beneficial when you've ingested something harmful), but there's nothing left to purge. It hurts, it hurts (he hasn't eaten in so long that he's lost count of the days). The things he wants to expel from his body are permanently fused into his mind. Even in his dreams (they're all nightmares now) he sees it all, again and again and again and--
Bolt of lightning (electricity-sparking-static) outside his window, on Harry's forehead, emblazoned on his mind's eye. Rain, rain (go away and come again another day, his mother used to sing) pounding on the roof. So loud, so loud (one hundred twenty decibels), the thunder never stops.
Hiding with Harry under the worn blankets (warm and almost safe), Ron pretends that his socks aren't terribly dirty. He pretends (mind over matter) that he hasn't been accidentally stepping in the rotting remains of his classmates. He pretends that he wasn't caught gnawing on Hermione's left arm (so tasty so good so hungry).
Fingers entwined (knuckles bones skinny digits), Ron listens to Harry's breathing and tries to sleep. Green eyes closed, blue eyes open (can't think don't want to).He just can't do it (this isn't working). Tossing and turning and yanking the sheets (Harry mumbles a complaint), he tries and tries in vain. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling (insomnia) until his pupils dilate and he's adjusted and able to see in the dark.
Forcing his eyelids shut, he concentrates on his breathing (in and out inhale exhale), feels his chest rise and fall, but his heartbeat refuses to slow. If he's sleeping, he might (probably won't) forget that the Death Eaters promised to kill them. If he's unconscious, he won't remember that Voldemort (you bloody idiot, he's Not Supposed To Be Named) has threatened to destroy the castle. Stone walls (cracking breaking falling crumbling crushing everyone) are protecting them, safeguarding the good little children while they rest in their beds.
Maybe (if he's lucky) he'll fall asleep before he dies.