A special thanks to my co-writer, Hermione-kun, for her contribution to Aurora's character in this chapter.
Chapter 21
Upon a cut, blood is always spilled. Some fall victim to the wound's pain, like Aurora did. To these people, the flow of blood causes a flow of tears, symbolically emptying the soul of life and sorrow. But then there are others who see the twisting red snake upon their skin and spill a different kind of salt water, the kind of tears made out of disappointment and frustration.
These two reactions are governed by the person's view of life. Should the person be more or less satisfied with life, the suffering comes in the form of flaring nerves and clutching grips. Aurora had a will to live, and therefore suffered when her arm was cut.
But then there are others who are driven to madness, the madness that attacks the primitive will to survive that defines humans. The chains that bind them to healthy humanity are broken, and therefore they experience a cut with a different, emotional kind of suffering.
And one of these hopeless humans was named Hermione Granger.
Every breath she sucked in was withering and laborious, and somewhere in the back of her mind someone screamed. It flowed in through the window of her soul to her ears; a high-pitched one that sung in fear until it was suddenly cut off with a swift stroke. The stroke had been executed long ago, for a red slice ran through her arm, from her shoulder to her wrist. The bright line of blood slithered down her arm like a snake, tracing a straight trail of shining blood down her limb. The vein that ran across her wrist had been viciously severed, and the soft plat of liquid on the floor reached her satisfied ears. Her other quaking hand gently cradled a knife, stained forever with her own blood.
Her forehead was lined with glistening sweat, and her eyelids were shut to the engulfing darkness. Her wearily throbbing head leaned weakly on the wall. Her chest heaved and fluttered unsteadily, and her knees bent to draw closer to her face. Suddenly, she could feel the blood evaporating off of her skin, disappearing somehow. Without warning, she hurled the knife across the room, listening to the shriek of metal clashing against stone. Her eyes opened as the gazed down at the vanishing blood, frustrated with the undying strength within her that kept her alive.
I want to die . . .
Unexpectedly, she started to cry again, more ferociously than ever because her one possible salvation had gone. She had grown tired of waiting for her imaginary executioner. Life - not even life, more like shadowy and incomplete existence - in this room was torturing her, binding her with metal chains that cut at her skin and made her bleed, though the slashes never got to her wrist to snap her blue veins open and splatter blood across the floor. Yet this was all in her head, as she had imagined her death a million times.
But she didn't even know if she was alive to begin with. She didn't know what she was. As if to prove to herself that she was alive, she needed to see the blood. And as if some cruel higher being wished to see her suffering, a knife had somehow appeared in the chamber. The candle had flickered in protest, but Hermione's greedy hands had snatched the knife within moments.
Now she had made herself fatally wounded, but her heart was still pumping at the same rate. She realized that she wasn't going to die. She had blood, but it wasn't human-like blood, and it proved nothing. Now all she could do was feel pain. Torturous but not murderous pain.
Her body shivered with this realization. I'm just going to keep living in pain...
"Damn it!" She screamed suddenly, surprised at the strain in her own foreign voice. The tears squeezed between the slits on the sides of her eyes and became uncontrollable waterfalls. She felt so empty inside, so lifeless, like a disgusting creature of the night. Immortality seemed her punishment. Her eyes darted to her arm, and found that there was no longer any blood; the deep wound had sealed up like a flower at night.
"For what?" She sobbed, the question pounding in her head with a rhythm to match her pain. "What did I do?" Her voice escalated in anger and despair, her voice bouncing violently off the walls. "What did I do to deserve this?"
No answer came, and no answer was expected, save the endless dance of the candlelight.
Outside of the ever dark room, dawn was caressing the earth with its warm touch. The activities of the day at Hogwarts began normally; the birds trilled happily, the house elves set to work on breakfast, the students attempted to shield their vulnerable eyes from the sunlight. And this day also began normally for Aurora, who became aware of a burning sensation on her eyelids. She tiredly opened her eyes to see a tinted color painting the room around her.
But the bright sight did not please her anymore. Not like it had when she was little. Back then, she jumped out of bed, bounded up the stairs in the glorious sunlight, and bounced upon her parents' bed to wake them up. Now, the dawn only jeered at her, reminding her about the imperfectness within her compared to the bright light.
'You're such a parasite.'
That young masculine voice haunted her, ever since her first year of wizarding school when she met the speaker. And today was no different; the insult relentlessly whirled in the back of her mind as she lay awake trying to ignore it. This was a battle she fought every morning, and she knew she would lose.
Because it's true.
With a heavy sigh intricately laced with failure, her eyelids fluttered down, and her sheets scuffled above her bent knees. Her feet kicked upward, then sideways, so that her skin was exposed to the biting air. She shivered outside of the warmth of the sheets, and with a momentary rubbing of her eyes, her legs swung around the side of the bed to bring her to an upright position. Her head spun for one dizzy moment, as it did every morning, and she forced herself on the floor and dug in her bag for clothes.
'You're always clinging to people, like a homeless puppy!'
Her shoulder flinched involuntarily, and her breathing was interrupted by that same voice again. The voice of someone she had thought of as a big brother and had found reassurance in. The voice of the only guy she every looked up to, Nathaniel. Nathaniel, who later . . .
I deserved it. I deserved what he did to me.
Her hands fumbled around her bag before finding a small white flower tucked underneath. Her movements stopped, and she stared quietly at the flower and the memories that it held.
The flower he gave me.
Her fingers gently pushed aside a dark sweater to expose the pure whiteness, and then delicately cupped the flower in her hands. It was no longer soft, nor beautiful, for three of its six petals were missing in odd places and the smoothness had long evaporated. Brown tinted the edges and the poor flower seemed beaten up, creased noticeably. It almost looked dead.
Just like Professor Trelawny said. I killed it.
A heavy feeling settled in the bottom of her lungs as she recalled that day. That day when he made her realize what a parasite she was. She was wearing the radiant flower on top of her head.
'Why do you still have that bloody piece of crap? I only gave it to you because I couldn't use it after the dance with Jessie!'
He had ripped the flower out of her hair and angrily hurled it into a nearby wastebasket. It wasn't until after he had left that she pulled the flower out of the trash, sobbing quietly at its ruined beauty, and she kept it since then.
I killed our friendship.
With one last, blurred look at the flower, she softly placed it back on the dark sweater and folded it in securely. It was as if she was trying to save what little part of the long lost friendship they once had. Though it represented the destruction of their connection, it was probably the most precious item she owned.
I'm so stupid . . . How do I manage to mess up every friendship I ever have had a chance at?
Vaguely choosing a dark Hogwarts outfit, Aurora tossed the clothing onto the bed. They only seemed like black puddles in her mind, for she was preoccupied. Tears threatened to distort her vision and she felt like crying, but a few deep breaths prevented that from happening. At least for now.
And I did the same thing with Harry and Ron. But I deserve their hatred. I really did butt into their lives.
By now, she had been able to pull herself out of her pajamas, and shivered without the cold.
It's just a cycle - a neverending cycle of my stupidity. I've never been able to stay friends for long with anyone. Not Nathaniel. Not Harry. Not Ron.
Aurora immediately tore her train of thought apart. But that wouldn't help, Aurora knew. The thoughts would still haunt her, torture her, and she somehow needed to live with them. Somehow.
By this time, Aurora had been able to change into her clothes, though she remained as detached from her surroundings as possible. The logical part of her brain was telling her that she needed to go to the bathroom to prepare for the day, but the other part of her was swarming with depressed thoughts on a slightly different subject.
I've screwed up before. Back at my old school, all the girls hated me, and I never realized why. A frustrated sigh escaped from her parted lips, and her tilted head rose slightly to glare at her reflection in the mirror. A pair of emerald green eyes glared back at her from between black strands of hair, and she bent over the sink like she was about to throw up. With an unmatched ferocity, her eyes penetrated every foreign piece of her.
Why do people think I'm pretty in the first place? Her eyebrows furrowed angrily at herself as she kept searching for an answer. All I see is an ugly person.
Her abnormally pale hand shot out to grab her wand to fix up her hair. But her eyes never left her own reflection. My face should be plain to match my oblivious mind, she declared silently. Her free fingers balled into a tight fist and she felt the urge to punch the mirror.
For a flickering moment, her flaring eyes left the glass and wandered to find her wand. Suddenly, her life seemed to mean nothing, like someone else inside of her was giving up. It scared her, yet this feeling offered a lot of peace that she had long forgotten. The light thought penetrated her mind, the one that she had first encountered after she gave away a part of herself to get Nathaniel to not hate her, the one that had haunted the back of her mind, but the one that she never managed to fulfill.
I want to die . . .
These words weren't like the whimsical thinking that nearly every other teenager encountered. Besides some outside force seemingly torturing her, her life was so full of failures that suicide had crossed her mind several times before.
Yet she never found herself actually severing the connection; instead, she felt as if she was on the edge, hopelessly wishing that somehow life would get better. It was like waiting at a rainy bus stop: she kept watching for the bus to come, but for some reason she knew that the two lights would never enter her life again. Only loneliness accompanied her.
Even on such a basic level of cleanliness, she was isolated from the other girls. She felt dirty and used on the inside, and she knew that if the other girls found out about it, they would hate her even more. Yet their uninviting faces melted away into one big blur, a kind of melting pot of all the overwhelming imperfections that stood out starkly in front of her.
And she passionately hated every disgusting drop of it.
A certain young redhead nervously made his way to Dumbledore's office. The previous day, McGonogall had pulled Ron aside after class and told him that Dumbledore wanted to see him early the next morning. Though McGonogall assured Ron that it was nothing "dreadful", Ron could not help but worry.
Not that this was unusual for Ron.
As he reached the entrance to Dumbledore's office, it occurred to Ron that he didn't know the password. "Er . . ." he stalled at the door, shifting his weight from one foot to another.
What could be a Dumbledore-y password? "Er, how about, 'half-moon spectacles'?"
Nothing happened, which made a worried frown grow on Ron's face.
"Um, what about, 'Dumbledore sent me'?"
Once again, the door did not open. Well, that one usually works in the movies.
" 'We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Hogwarts'? 'I can give the teachers detention'?" The sides of his frown twitched and tugged into a light smile. Ron was beginning to enjoy this guessing game, despite the tiny problem that he was unable to enter, and his brain concocted the most insane possibilities. " 'Mister Congeniality'? 'If there's no Quidditch in heaven, I'm not going'? 'I am Albus Dumbledore, you killed my father, prepare to die'? 'I tried so hard, and got so far, but in the end, it bloody has to matter'? 'The fat lady needs Atkins'? 'I brake for Muggles'? 'I wish I could fire Snape'? 'I can kick You-Know-Who in the You-Know-Where'? "
A soft chuckle behind him made Ron's blood freeze. "Very clever, young Weasely, but I'm afraid I'm not that imaginative."
Ron spun wildly around to find himself gaping at Dumbledore's warm smile. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, and within seconds his pale cheeks dramatically darkened to match his flaming hair. Dumbledore nodded kindly, as if to signify that Ron was in no trouble, but that did not help Ron's now very uptight composure. He had only been in Dumbledore's presence for two seconds, and he had already messed up. Bloody hell, this is not going to be a good meeting...
"Actually," Dumbledore's soft, wavering voice interrupted Ron's thoughts, "the password is 'lemon drops'. Very delightful candy, you know. But," Dumbledore added with a small smile, "I'll consider using one of your passwords next year. I must say, I'm fond of the last one . . . very flattering."
Ron's face darkened about ten shades so that his freckles were now barely visible.
"And so," continued Professor Snape, his hand toying with a bottle of glassy purple juice, "this potion is extremely dangerous and should be handled with equally extreme caution."
He was rudely interrupted by a particularly loud snore from Seamus, and the students were too sleepy to laugh. Snape's pale lips curled into an evil smile, and his palm slammed down on the table with a thunderous thud. Seamus woke with a start and a small yelp, then looked around with a confused look on his face.
"Ten points from Gryfindor," Snape smoothly said with a smile in Seamus' direction. Seamus turned a slight pink and buried his face shamefully in his textbook away from view. Snape surveyed the class carefully, as if challenging anyone else, and his lecture soon continued.
To Aurora, the facts and occasional slipped opinions blurred into a hollow groan, like the humming of a heater, in the back of her mind. Her quill scratched the scroll, not taking notes, but randomly twisting and turning aimlessly. The black ink had long stained the old paper and faded away, yet Aurora did not think of dipping it back in the ink bottle. In fact, as the quill skittered hurriedly across the paper, she was barely thinking at all. Only echoes whispered in her mind.
' . . . parasite.'
The scratch of quill against paper surged without warning, and her fogged green eyes rolled around the room. No tuft of red hair met her gaze, but she recognized the wild dark hair a few rows away from her. It was unmistakably Harry Potter, with his elbow propped on the table and his cheek resting against his fist. His hair obscured her view, but she could see his quill occasionally whirling across the paper, then stopping as his head rolled sleepily. She could spot it – a red jagged line on his forehead, the symbol of so much pain and suffering.
Her orbs shifted their gaze to the blotched parchment in front of her as more thoughts flickered across her mind. He has a right to hate me like he does now. I just barge into his life and act so stupidly. Of course he's Harry Potter – the Harry Potter.
A wisp of her raven hair slid down her shoulder in front of her face, but she didn't reach up to brush it away. He and Ron both should hate me . . . just like everybody does.
The black strands poked at her irritated eyes, urging tears onward. Just like I hate myself.
'Shut up, you brat. You talk too much.'
Nathaniel's face floated in her vision, and she could see every detail perfectly. His curled, short hair artfully bleached on the top so that a single strand started brown and brightened to light blonde. His clear gray eyes, though never misty, that could be as soft as a cloud or as cold as a frozen lake. His flawlessly soft, almost feminine skin, the color of honey cake dipped in nectar, from all of the vacations spent on the beach. His pale, thin lips that could curl into a welcoming grin or, more fittingly for Aurora, a deadly fixed line. He was one of the popular kids, the ones who had been going out since first year and easily socialize with anyone. Nathaniel was not a pure "jock", but he was on the swim team – a champion, in fact.
In other words, Nathaniel was the coolest guy Aurora had ever met.
When they first met, as Aurora recalled, she was an oblivious first year at her old wizarding school. She had trouble making friends anyway, but going to an all new school and an all new life was even harder. She had girls who were acquaintances, but not friends. She couldn't talk to anyone at her school.
Nathaniel, at the time, was an experienced fifth year, a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Aurora had first talked to him on the train – only for a few moments, to apologize for falling into his cabin where he and his girlfriend, Jessie, were getting comfortable. But just the fact that he hadn't ignored her, and had nodded with a forgiving smile, had made Aurora look forward to the school year.
Not that he would remember when we first met, Aurora sourly assured herself. He'll only remember how I always stuck around him. He was okay at first, and he actually listened to my stupid rants.
Then, halfway through the year, he showed me how pathetic I was.
'Do you ever shut up?' He had hissed with his gray eyes shut as he was bent over his homework, cutting Aurora off with his demand. The empty classroom, a place Nathaniel frequently went for reflection and quiet time, made his voice echo slightly as it bounced off the walls. Aurora blinked at him, incredulity spreading through her veins.
'What?'
'You heard me,' Nathaniel spat, now looking up and glaring at her. She had never seen him so angry – nor did she see any of this coming. The guy that she looked up to like an older brother was ferociously frowning at her. It scared her so much: the thought of losing his friendship.
'I'm sorr - '
'Don't apologize,' he snapped with a low growl. 'It won't help. You already did the damage.' His piercing eyes flickered to her hair. ''Why do you still have that bloody piece of crap? I only gave it to you because I couldn't use it after the dance with Jessie!'
He jumped out of his chair with seemingly lightning speed, and his hand wrenched the white flower out of her hair and hurled it into a nearby wastebasket. His back was now facing her, his swirling orbs fixed on the wastebasket and every breath dangerously slow. He looked like he could hit something. Aurora's mouth opened, but nothing could twitch her vocal chords.
'It's your fault,' he declared, his voice rising with every word. 'Jessie dumped me because of you!'
Aurora couldn't believe what she was hearing. She had never considered herself a threat to the relationship between Nathaniel and Jessie – she actually admired their mutualistic and genuinely caring bond.
Now, Nathaniel turned to her with a violent flicker upon his face. 'You're such a parasite.'
'Nathaniel,' Aurora choked, tears now blinding her vision in terror. He paid no heed to her, and instead sat back down heavily, his forehead resting on his palm and his eyes drilling holes into his homework.
'All you do,' he slowly let out, 'you cling to people like a homeless puppy. I'm sick of it!'
'I'm sorry,' Aurora offered helplessly, trying to keep the tears from streaming down her face. 'I'm sorry, I know that it's all my fault, and I caused you all this pain, and I'm sorry!' Her foggy eyes searched his frozen face to no avail, and fear sealed her throat. 'Please,' she airily begged, afraid of losing the one person at the school who would listen to her. 'I'll do anything to make it up to you! Anything!'
Life returned to his eyes; he lifted his head, not to look at her, but to prop his chin on his clasped hand and gaze thoughtfully into the empty space before him. He did not answer immediately, and it looked like he was debating something in his mind.
'Anything?' He slowly repeated, emphasis dripping from every syllable and vibrating endlessly on the walls. Aurora did not see what he was thinking, but she was desperate to earn his trust back.
'Anything,' she whispered once more, her eyes now wide with a different kind of fear.
Unbroken silence stretched between them, hanging delicately in the air, waiting to be shattered by the slightest twitch or most silent sight. Then, finally, Nathaniel smoothly crushed it, getting out of his chair and stepping firmly in her direction in an unreal, slow-motion movement.
"Miss Withertopp? Miss Withertopp!"
A dull voice snapped her out of her terrible flashback, and her body froze instinctively before she registered it as Snape. Her eyes flashed around the room uncertainly, and after a few seconds, a sea of familiar faces flooded her. She was still in class, but now everybody was staring wide-eyed at her. Her blood iced in her veins, and she looked down to see that her hands were trembling. A ragged but barely audible sigh slipped from her. Oh god . . .
"Are you all right, Miss Withertopp?" Snape towered threateningly over her, making her shrink back a little from his dark form. He peered half-inquisitively and half-amusedly at her, and Aurora did not respond, save for her uncertain glances around the room. All the students had her fixed in their gazes, and she caught the fleeting sight of Harry's icy glare before he turned his head away. She could feel the Slytherin's eyes bearing into her back, sending a subtle shiver up her spine, like someone had run his finger lightly up her back.
"Er," she stuttered in panic and deeply wished that she could just disappear. She felt herself shrink further into her chair under everyone's scrutiny. "Y-yes, I'm fine," she allowed herself to say, not daring to meet Snape's cold gaze. What did I do? Suddenly, she sensed something wet on her cheek, and her eyes widened in horror when the salty taste met her lips.
Snape had moved away, for she could no longer feel the coldness of his presence. Instead, she was faced with the coldness of everyone's stare, and the deadly thought crossed her mind again as she felt herself on the brink of reliving the pain. She wanted to cease existing, to hide forever from all of these eyes that haunted her like evil hands that probed and poked her. She wanted to wave her hand and blot them all away – or even better, blot herself away.
A prickly feeling settled in her stomach and her throat sealed up as she suddenly felt someone's hand on her shoulder. Her body twitched in horror at the touch, and her head jerked up to see a blonde boy grinning over her.
"Professor," Malfoy slyly offered, his thumb now lightly running across the curve of her shoulder and making Aurora shiver with a sudden wave of nausea. "Perhaps I may accompany her to the Hospital Wing. She seems a bit . . . " he paused uncertainly, his eyes flickering downward in her direction. "Pale," he finished, his eyes now locked with Aurora's and his smile widening with a hidden intention. Her blood ran cold again, and she wanted to wrench herself away from him. But she couldn't – she had already drawn too much attention to herself, so she closed her eyes and silently prayed that Snape would say no . . .
"Yes, she does seem a bit pale," Snape repeated carefully, and Aurora's eyes shot open in horror. Snape gave her a small, not-so-reassuring smile, and in her panic Aurora glanced in Harry's direction. He wasn't even watching. Of course he isn't . . .
The hand on her shoulder tightened slightly and his other hand found her other shoulder, urging her upward. "Come on, Aurora," Malfoy whispered into her ear, making her hair tremble.
The light sound of his voice was soon followed by the rapid pounding of her heart in her ears, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled at the warm breath. She could almost feel him smile next to her skin, and another wave of nausea hit her as his left hand slithered down her arm, fingers gently curved, to grasp her wrist and help lift her off of the chair.
Despite her concealed disgust, Aurora silently rose up, her knees slightly trembling. A moment later, she regretted showing her weakness, and a silent gasp flowed into her as Malfoy's grip on her wrist tightened dramatically. His body shifted from behind her to beside her, and his right hand smoothed its way to her back, erecting a deep shudder on Aurora's part. A scream lodged itself in her sealed throat, but she couldn't let it erupt, so her lips pursed to keep it in.
Yet no one else noticed all of these details; to all the other students, Malfoy was simply helping her up. And not a single soul questioned his casual touch, as everyone knew that Aurora and Malfoy had in fact gone to the ball together. But every single step he took, every slight shift that he made, every breath that he sucked in scared her beyond words, and Aurora's head began to spin in helpless horror. It was as if his touch penetrated beneath her skin, plunged into her, and reached her exposed and quivering soul.
Her now frightened eyes glanced over her shoulder, and this time she caught sight of Harry's face. His unblinking and cold stare at Malfoy made Aurora gulp nervously, even though the ferocity in his eyes was not aimed at her. His hand had curled into a white ball around his quill, and his eyes suddenly shot a dirty and murderous look in her direction. Her breath was caught in her throat again as her once friend treated her with the same familiar hatred she had known for a long time.
But something was different about Harry's stare when it was fixed on Malfoy . . .
It's as if he knows something that I don't . . .
Malfoy must have seen her glance in Harry's direction, because the hand enveloping her wrist now tightened painfully. Before she had time to react, the hand on her shoulder pushed her almost violently forward, though he just hastily stepped forward to make it look like she had stumbled. Aurora turned her head to look at his face, and if Harry's glare had been murderous, the plastered smile fixed on Malfoy's face was like instant death. Malfoy's eyes flickered a warning before leading Aurora onward like an ill old woman.
Snape's cold voice gave Aurora's nerves another sharp snap. "Don't be long, Miss Withertopp."
Her dry lips parted soundlessly, and she faced Snape with a pleading look that was not received in his emotionless gaze. In response, she shook her head lightly, but it was Malfoy that gave Snape a crooked smile.
"We won't," the blonde boy assured Snape with an unvoiced twist on his playful words. Snape's visibly set jaw quivered slightly, and he fluently gave Malfoy a trusting smile that made Aurora feel sick again. Her head tilted downward to stare blankly at the floor, and her fragile body was on the edge of convulsing.
Malfoy slowly slipped in front of her, though not letting go of her wrist, and she noticed that his robes rustled purposefully against hers. He proceeded to open the door for her, like a gentleman, and even bowed a little with a comfortably curled smile underneath his nose. Aurora mustered a determined and disgusted frown, and when it faltered, her raven hair shielded her terrified look as she stepped quietly through the doorway. Malfoy swiftly closed the door behind her, and Aurora tried to shake his hand off of her wrist. It didn't work.
"So," Malfoy started quietly as though her unwillingness had gone unnoticed, "Aurora . . ." His free hand settled on the bottom of her back and slid skillfully up to her shoulder, making Aurora quake a little.
"Draco . . ." came her breath through clenched teeth, and she gulped audibly when he led her forward.
"Listen," Malfoy continued as if he hadn't heard her protest, "I'm willing to forget everything that happened at that ball. I know that sleazy Potter can be . . ." he paused as if searching for the right word, his eyes fixed upon her unresponsive face. "Manipulative."
Aurora lifted her head sharply in disbelief. She knew Harry would never do that. "What – "
"Let's just say . . . his hormones were doing the talking."
Aurora suddenly fell silent and bit her lip in nervous contemplation. That could explain why Harry even bothered being friends with me . . . Her eyes widened as her mind registered that thought. No! Harry's not like that!
"No," she firmly objected, and anger began to bubble within her. Yet the slightest shift of his hand quenched that anger and replaced it with sizzling fear.
"You poor thing, he's still got his grasp on you." Malfoy clicked his tongue in disapproval, and a few of his fingers toyed absentmindedly with a crease on her robe, making Aurora's hidden lips twist suddenly. His words were barely penetrating her head; all she could sense now was his touch, and the prickling of hair beginning to stand up. "But don't worry." His voice lowered to a quiet whisper, and Malfoy leaned closer to her ear. "I'll protect you," the breeze tickled her ear and erected bumps on her skin. She felt a wave fly across her skin, like something was inching across it, and her shoulders hunched a little.
Only after a few moments of unintentional satisfaction for Malfoy did the brunette suddenly react. In her horror, her body jerked away from his, and her green orbs stared into his with less than sufficient anger.
"I would rather he protect me from you," her strong foreign voice answered as if it wasn't her own. Her wrist tugged almost involuntarily in an effort to make him let go, but his grasp only grew painfully tighter like unbendable metal. "Ow!" Her left hand whipped out and grabbed his, trying to wrench him away, but now she felt like her right wrist was being bruised. Now she could feel the fluttering kiss of her pulse against his skin. "Draco, let go! You're hurting me!"
As her nails dug into his skin, leaving pink marks in their wake, she glanced upward and froze. His swirling eyes, half masked by strands of blonde hair, carried a somewhat familiar and passionate emotion that infected her blood with frantic quaking and clogged her breath in her throat. Nathaniel . . .
"Maybe," Malfoy hissed angrily, ignoring her panicking nails digging relentlessly into his skin, "it wouldn't hurt so much if you stopped resisting." His free hand shot out to grab her left upper arm, and her body convulsed violently in response. Terror froze her heart once more; she knew that Malfoy was a jerk, but not violent.
"Draco," her voice broke when she felt herself being pulled toward the warmth of his body, frightening her ever further. "Stop it!" The yelp erupted from her throat, and her teeth gritted in panic as her knee jabbed his stomach, causing part of his breath to be knocked out of him. Like a cornered animal, she tried to claw his wrist, but moments later she felt her bones crash into a wall behind her. Her cry of pain muffled his outraged curse.
"Listen to me, you bloody bitch!" Malfoy spat as his hands crushed her upper body against the wall, and his chest heaved with mad quivering. Aurora looked up and saw his eyes, whirling like two unstoppable storms, his breath hissing through exposed teeth like the wind. His body was only a foot away from hers, and her quivering palms pushed against his shoulders to no avail. "I'm a guy who always gets what he wants. So when I say I want you," he paused to let his mouth go crooked, "that means I'm going to have you."
She stared at him in utter disbelief, her eyes frantically searching for some sign that this was not happening, and her breaths became ragged with fear as he took one determined step forward. "No!" She cried out, and as if she was detached from her body and watching a movie in slow motion, she saw her own hand raise and fly toward his head.
SMACK.
His head jerked to the side, his blonde hair twisting and falling. Aurora's eyes widened as she stared at his pale cheek, which within moments began to turn a darkening faint pink. A few moments passed in silence between them before Malfoy slowly turned his head in her direction and a gasp clenched Aurora's stomach. Murder was written in his eyes.
"You little whore!" He cried out in trembling rage, his voice thrashing her backward again. His grip on her upper arm and her wrist became deadly, sending shockwaves of pain up her arms as her body frantically tried to jerk away. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she fought blindly, her muscles straining to budge his hands off of her. For the next few moments, she could hear her own scuffling, the sound of robes disturbed, and the echo of their heavy breathing in the hallway. She could feel the warmth of his body edging closer, contrasting with the harsh cold bite of the wall behind her.
Suddenly, her body felt no hard support, and her green eyes flashed open as air rushed past her. In an instant, she crashed on the ground, her body jolting with pain. The hardness of the ground dug ruthlessly into her back and prodded her bones, and a pulsation sounded in her head. The dark ceiling muffled her vision, and moments later she recognized Malfoy's form towering above her. A sour frown perched on his face as he stared down at her like a child would regard a broken rag doll.
"Next time," Malfoy warned slowly, his words dripping with vicious venom, "I won't let you off so easily."
Within seconds he vanished from her sight, leaving behind a ruffle of his robes that sent an airy chill down Aurora's back. She felt no strength within her to rise, and her gasping struggled to tame her uncontrollable heart. Her wide eyes stared blankly at the foggy dark ceiling, somewhat detached from her surroundings, while her pounding knees curled helplessly toward her quaking chest. Her weak wrists still felt like Malfoy's hands were upon them, and as she painfully lifted to look at them, an ugly blue seeped across both wrists in the shape of his fingers like infectious poison right underneath her skin. In the light fading of footsteps and the following eerie black silence, one single word echoed endlessly and relentlessly in her throbbing head.
Nathaniel . . .
"Come, come, sit down, young Mister Weasely," Dumbledore invited with a welcoming smile after being seated himself. Ron couldn't help but gaze in wonder around the packed office for a few moments longer. All of the interesting little trinkets and colorful antiques aroused his curious side, and if Dumbledore had left him in here for another hour, Ron was sure he'd b e too busy looking around to notice.
Finally, the redhead sat down across from Dumbledore in a rather large furry armchair. However, Ron watched silently with astonished wide eyes as the furry skin turned to leather and the armchair shrunk to accommodate him.
"Now," the soft voice caught Ron's attention again, "do you have any idea as to why you are here?"
Ron looked up to see Dumbledore's tired and weak smile. It frightened him to see Dumbledore so closely. From afar, he was a strong and victorious leader, and undoubtedly one of the greatest wizards of all time. Yet from such a close perspective, baggy lines underlined his slightly reddened eyes, which sloped downward defeatedly and vaguely resembled a bloodhound. His body bent forward a little, with shoulders positioned as though carrying a great burden.
Ron caught himself staring, mentally chided himself, and vigorously shook his head in response to Dumbledore's question. A quiet gulp followed, nervously interrupting a potential silence which Dumbledore's voice broke within moments.
"It's not anything very specific." A small tired smile curled on Dumbledore's face. "How are you?"
Ron was taken aback by the question. He had been sent all the way down to the Headmaster's office just to be asked how he was doing? Confusion boggled his thoughts as Ron answered, "F-fine, er, sir."
Dumbledore waved away the formality with one visibly wrinkled hand and set his soft yet piercing eyes upon Ron again. With a reassuring nod of his head, he told Ron, "That's not what I expected. I expected a very different answer indeed. But if it is the truth, then that is truly wonderful."
Ron felt as though he had been cornered with such a soft voice and slowly shook his head.
"Tell me, what does that shake mean?" Dumbledore inquired politely, and yet Ron still felt like he was on the witness stand being interrogated.
Ron chose his words carefully, saying them in his head to make sure that they sounded right. "I'm not really fine," he finally let out, and instantly felt as if he had blurted out some secret.
Yet Dumbledore pressed no further and instead slowly turned his gaze toward an open window. The morning light danced upon Dumbledore's face, hiding in the curves and shining on his cheeks. In such a glorious presence, Dumbledore seemed ever weaker, and Ron grew ever fearful.
"How is Harry?" Dumbledore asked quietly, waiting patiently for an honest answer as his eyes traced the flight of a black bird outside.
A short and airy sigh escaped from Ron, and he soon cut it off nervously. "He's not really fine either."
Dumbledore nodded his head understandingly, and Ron's eyes squinted at the glare violently flickering off of the spectacles. "There is no reason to be nervous," he suddenly responded, his tired orbs darting toward Ron.
After seeing the warm smile once more, Ron felt his muscles relax a little. A few moments stretched between them, and Ron's eyes focused on a loose string in the armchair. His fingers toyed with it for a while, distracting his tense body while his mind debated whether or not to tell Dumbledore the whole truth. Ron felt like there was a clogged dam within him, a dam that had been kept for a long time, and he needed to let it out. But surely Dumbledore isn't the one I should talk to! I mean, he's nice and everything, but . . . His hand collapsed on the arm of the chair, no longer playing with the strand. Harry's face floated in front of Ron, and his throat gradually opened up.
"It's like," Ron began weakly, comforted without Dumbledore's eyes watching his every move. "It's like he's a different person."
A sad look drowned Dumbledore's cheerful smile, and a sigh sucked up some of the air in the room. "What do you mean by that?" He urged Ron comfortingly in the absence of a continuation.
Maybe I shouldn't tell him . . . but . . .
"It's just that . . . he doesn't trust anyone anymore." The redhead recalled Harry's unexpected explosion in the library, and how much that scared him. "He's not the old Harry," Ron declared officially with a sudden firmness, no longer possessed by any feeling of guilt or nervousness. Because it's true.
Dumbledore sadly nodded his head as if he had known all along. "A terrible loss may effect people in different ways." His blue eyes slowly turned back to Ron. "Do you know how Miss Granger's death effected you?"
The sound of her name, carefully avoided and unmentioned for so long, was now somehow piercing. Ron's eyebrows scrunched up a bit at the question, and he found himself without a definite answer, but instead a guess. "Well . . ." Ron said after a more comfortable silence, "I'm more protective now."
"Of course." Dumbledore came alive a bit more, but his whispering voice remained laced with exhaustion and age. "That is to be expected. You grew up in a family where everybody looks out for one another. You have many older siblings who always watch over you, while you have your own younger sibling to watch over." He slowed down a bit, with lots of emphasis on every word. "You're very protective of your young sister, aren't you?"
Ron was astonished at the accuracy of Dumbledore's analysis. Even he had never thought of his behavior in such a way. Speechless, he could only nod his affirmative.
"So, it's only natural that you become protective of your friends once you've lost one. But things are different with Harry, and you must understand this." Dumbledore slid further back into his chair, as if preparing to unleash a heavy burden, and then began.
"You were lucky. You grew up in a loving, trusting environment. Harry didn't have such luck. He was horribly mistreated by the only people he could call family, never knowing his mother or his father, and never with the support of friends. When he came to Hogwarts, he had to actually learn how to trust other people. Like you," Dumbledore pointed out with a smile, and Ron remained very silent in respect and a bit of sympathy. "He had to grow up with distrust, and he put so much on the line when he became friends with you and Miss Granger – Hermione. It was a strong bond that kept you three together, and after a while he stopped growing hesitant. But the instant that the bond is broken, his soul hides away, though he may try one last time to desperately reconnect."
Ron thought of the unstoppable teasing that had occurred only recently, followed by Harry's anger. Everything was making sense now.
"You see, Ron," Dumbledore leaned forward to emphasize his point, and Ron felt himself so drawn into his words that he barely even noticed that Dumbledore used his first name. "Believe it or not, your soul is actually stronger than Harry's."
Ron was shot backward by that comment. Harry's been through so much more than I have! How could –
"Let me explain," Dumbledore said, as if sensing Ron's disagreement. "You have already gotten over Hermione's death. That doesn't mean that you don't still think about it, or that the pain is no longer there. It simply means that you have subconsciously decided to move on with your life. You're not trapped in despair. That, unfortunately, is exactly where Harry's at. He purposefully avoids anything to do with Miss Granger's death, and when confronted with it, he becomes sore or attacks."
Just like he was hesitant about talking to me about her during that discussion about liking her, and now he's started to attack in anger instead. With every sentence that came out of Dumbledore's mouth, Ron felt safer and safer, knowing that the wisdom was not lost in such an ancient body.
"He is trapped, Ron. He is utterly and unmistakably trapped in her death." He paused for a moment, as if contemplating how to word something. "You have been around Dementors, have you not?"
Ron nodded silently, feeling the urge to shudder crawling up his spine.
"What does it feel like when they're around?"
A small pause preceded Ron's slow and careful answer. "It's . . . sad . . . dreary. Like they suck out all of the happiness in me."
The Headmaster tilted his head in approval. "Yes. Those are the words I was looking for. 'Sucking out all the happiness.' Do you know what else does this, Ron?"
The red-haired boy shook his head, the light beginning to dance like fire on his head.
"Depression."
The thought penetrated Ron's mind with difficulty, and even after a few moments, he refused to grasp it.
"Harry's in depression. What you feel like around a Dementor, he feels like every day deep within him. But he's not aware of it. It's too far inside of him."
"But, how can someone not know when they're sad?" Ron asked suddenly.
"That's a good question," Dumbledore told him, "And I know exactly how to answer it.
"You see, Ron, there are three parts in a human: the mind, the body, and the soul. Each part speaks its own language, its own code that it uses in the person's lifetime. The mind and the body speak the same language. If you see a quill, and your mind wants you to grab it, your body immediately obeys. So fluently do the mind and the body communicate, that you barely ever have time to recognize the conversation.
"However, the soul speaks a completely different language, and this language is so deep that the languages of the body and the mind are like two words in the entire English language compared to the soul. And the soul keeps its language to itself, barely comprehended by the body or the mind. But sometimes, it happens. If your mind catches a bit of what the soul is saying, the result is a hunch, or intuition. Something you know is true, but you're not sure how. If your body catches a bit of what the soul is saying, it's an unexplained spark of emotion, like crying for no visible reason.
"Since the soul has such a different and unique tongue, we humans can barely ever grasp what it is saying. The very few who can are the happiest people in the world, because they have the opportunity to fulfill their deepest and most hidden desires. But such understanding takes years or an entire lifetime of training, and such hardworking people only come once every thousand or so years. Everyday people, like you and I, have not the time in this busy society to scope out our souls. So our souls remain secret and hidden to us.
"We have an idea of what happens in our souls. It's where much of our growth happens, and where much of the information is processed. But it's so hidden away that we can't sense anything inside our souls.
"Therefore, if a person is truly depressed, inside the soul, then he or she can not sense it. It is far beyond our reaches. And there are only two ways to bring a person's soul back to the light of happiness: by strong will or strong support from friends or family. Harry certainly hasn't the will, after the trauma he received from Miss Granger's death, and he's detached himself from others so that he can not receive the support he needs."
Dumbledore finally paused, surveying Ron's astonished and awed gaze. "Can you see the importance of the soul in a human?"
Ron immediately nodded his head, awed by such deep knowledge and understanding, and then felt like he needed to answer verbally. "Yes."
Dumbledore's warm smile returned, and he looked at Ron with a trusting and reassuringly strong set of face. "I'm sure I've lectured you enough. You should go to class now. Which do you have?"
"Potions," Ron answered with a grateful smile, almost forgetting the tangy taste of that word in his mouth. He stood up and found that his knees shook slightly from not standing in a while. "Thank you . . . sir, er, Professor, um – "
Dumbledore gave him a wide smile, and Ron instantly returned it with great appreciation of all the knowledge he just received. As he turned to leave, he heard Dumbledore's faint and foreign voice flowing to his ears.
"I promise you, Ron, if you are able to become more aware of your soul, then you can see its brightness, you can sense its emotion, and when you hurt, you can hear its silent scream."
End Chapter 21.
Next Chapter: Aurora's secret finally revealed! Malfoy shocks all!
Author's Note: Hey all! I spent so much time just writing this chapter. Three straight days in my vacation spot – that's right, my vacation island, and I'm sitting on the beach with a laptop, my fingers burning from more than the sun. Ouch. But I had fun . . . yes, the Dumbledore speech was all my doing, thank you very much! Wow. If my legs could get as much exercise as my fingers just did, I'd be a marathoner. I know, not funny. But I tried. Once again, a huge thank you to Hermione-kun, who helped me so much with Aurora's thoughts and overall character. I don't know what I would've done without your help! Anyway, to all of you readers, please remember to review! Your feedback keeps me going! And now to answer the past reviews . . .
[Laen]: Eek, I made you re-read it? Sorry . . . I had the reason Aurora got cut in this chapter. Notice how Hermione cut herself? Hm . . . suspicious, eh? Alright, thanks for reviewing!
[HarryNDracosDarlin]: I love the name! Ha . . . thank you very much for your generous encouragement! I have to say that I don't feel like I'm doing my best here, but I'm really glad you're enjoying it! To answer your question, Harry is going to find out Aurora's secret next chapter! So, stay tuned! And about Aurora being Hermione re-born . . . well, I'm not going to say that you're right or wrong. You'll find out soon enough. Thanks for reviewing!
[Usha88]: Yay, you're back! Yeah, school's pretty overwhelming, so I'm hoping to finish this story by the end of the summer. I did try hard to explain everything about depression and such, and I'm glad it paid off. Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you stay tuned!
[Raine is Crazy]: Ah, my crazy but amusing reviewer! Your reviews never stop making me laugh! Alright, now I take a deep breath to answer all your questions . . . well, about whether or not Harry like-likes Hermione, that's for the reader to decide, and I know what your answer is! Hermione's still in the Nesskrad Room, and it looks like she's going to become a ghost, and yes! Yes! There is a way to bring her back! Haha! But whether or not I let her come back depends on how many times I have an attempt on my life in the next few chapters. But I might decide to be mean and not bring her back anyway. Muaha! Thanks for reviewing!