Author's Note: Ok, two apologies to make. First, sorry this took so long. Second, sorry it's so short, it just seemed to wrap itself up here. I'll try not to take so long on the next chapter. Fingers Crossed.
chapter 32: SUSERRATION - of breath and blood
The steam was so thick in the shower room that Harry could hardly see a thing as he walked barefoot over the wet tile. Despite the steam, however, there was a chill in the air, reminiscent of a foggy London night, the tendrils of wet air like sinister wraiths. As he walked further into the room, past shower heads and bare tile walls, he slowly began to notice the silence. The steam wafted into his face in a perpetually obscuring cloud but there was no shower to be heard, nor sounds of someone washing.
Further and further into the steam he went, and now it seemed to be too hot, stifling and choking. His glasses had long since fogged up and they now dangled dejectedly from one hand. Then, through the blanketing silence, he heard a sound, just a whispering susurration. Someone breathing. Suddenly, he slipped on the wet tile, falling to hands and knees, his glasses skittering off into some unknown corner of the fog. His breath hissed in sharply and almost he lost that other sound, covered over by his own exclamation. He held his breath until he had it again, then began groping forward on hands and knees.
He had nearly reached the source of the sound when he brought his hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes and noticed the blood. Finger-tip to palm was covered in a red smear. He almost fled then, coiling himself over his feet, ready to spring backwards and away. A voice stopped him. "Don't be afraid," whispered, tired and small, into the silence of his panic.
And there was Ron, lying so close Harry could have reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't. For a while time seemed to slow down leaving Harry frozen, immobile, as he took in the sight of his friend, supine on the hard tile. He was naked, his skin so pale it seemed to fade into the fog, blurring at the edges. Steam had collected in the fringes of his lashes and laced the surface of his body, outlining the shadowed hollows of his ribs. He looked so frail. And he was bleeding. One hand was stretched out towards Harry, almost as in supplication. A large gash had been torn in the forearm, near the elbow, edges ragged, and beneath it pooled so much blood it overwhelmed Harry's senses. It's smooth, red face was broken only by the edging line of Ron's body and the dimpling of his fingers and palm. Glancing away and toward Ron's face, Harry saw another, smaller wound in Ron's shoulder, near the base of his throat. Blood seeped from it in a slow inevitable tide, pulsing with the pulse Harry could see fluttering in Ron's throat. The contrast of the red blood against the pure white of Ron's skin held Harry transfixed. Finally, he tore his gaze away and dragged it upwards to Ron's eyes, dreading what he would find there. They were dark, black as the abyss, but they burned with a fierce light.
"Don't be afraid." Ron's lips barely moved and his voice came out in a breath, but still the words were said with an intense will.
"I..." Harry searched for something to say, anything he could do or question that might bring some sanity to what lay before him, but his words were all dried up and all he could do was stare at his friend in mute horror. Ron looked back at him calmly.
"It isn't your fault. The choice is mine." Ron's words were measured and steady but still they faded more and more until Harry had to lean close to hear what he was saying. "It's better this way."
Suddenly, Ron's face contorted in pain and Harry sat back quickly, fear sweeping through him. As he watched, another wound bloomed against the pale skin of Ron's chest and began bleeding freely down his side. Then another on his arm. And along his side. Soon Ron was covered in gashes and rents that wept blood onto the cold tile, spreading the pool further and further out from his body. Ron's head arched back and he let out a long, terrible scream, full of rage and pain. It echoed in Harry's ears, endlessly, going on and on. And in it, an unmistakable note of triumph.
Harry woke with a start, sitting up in bed so fast that the blood rushed from his head and he almost collapsed backwards again. His heart was pounding so hard he felt it must break out of his chest and go galloping from the room. Its incessant pounding throbbed in his ears.
Around him, the dorm was quiet. Soft snoring came from Neville's bed, and a faint muttering from Dean's. He looked over. Ron's bed was empty. A horrible lethargy overcame him, then, and he sank back down into his pillow. He was so tired of worrying, of living on edge and in fear. He had thought he'd put that behind him last year with the dark lord's passing. He had needed to put that behind him. He only wished that now he could rest.
Knowing that sleep was now only a distant and unlikely possibility, he clawed his way out of bed and, shuffling, slowly got dressed before heading down to the common room. Maybe there he could just let his mind drift over inconsequentials.
He wasn't really surprised to find Hermione, once again, sitting at a table, doing homework when he got there. What did surprise him, though, was the look on her face when she looked up and saw it was him coming down the stairs. A horrible hot and cold feeling washed through him and settled in his stomach as a dark apprehension. "Harry, I'm glad you're up early. We need to talk." Wordlessly, Harry walked over and sat down in a chair across the table from her.
Hermione talked as the sun rose and the room began to brighten and through it all Harry felt a weight settling heavier and heavier upon him. By the time she had finished a few other Gryffindors were up and puttering in and out of the common room, most on their way to breakfast. Hermione's voice had dropped down low so that the two of them crouched across the table like two conspirators. As the last words fell from her lips and she stuttered to a halt, Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair, wishing desperately that it could just not be true, that Ron's recent strangeness could be attributed to nothing more complicated than a secret romance or a bad cold.
Always something. There was always something and he would never see rest. 'It isn't your fault.' The words from his dream flashed across his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of Ron screaming in a pool of his own blood, as well as the more horrible image of him lying there calmly, looking back at Harry in acceptance, resignation. However true those words may have been, Harry didn't think he'd ever be free from his feelings of responsibility.
chapter 32: SUSERRATION - of breath and blood
The steam was so thick in the shower room that Harry could hardly see a thing as he walked barefoot over the wet tile. Despite the steam, however, there was a chill in the air, reminiscent of a foggy London night, the tendrils of wet air like sinister wraiths. As he walked further into the room, past shower heads and bare tile walls, he slowly began to notice the silence. The steam wafted into his face in a perpetually obscuring cloud but there was no shower to be heard, nor sounds of someone washing.
Further and further into the steam he went, and now it seemed to be too hot, stifling and choking. His glasses had long since fogged up and they now dangled dejectedly from one hand. Then, through the blanketing silence, he heard a sound, just a whispering susurration. Someone breathing. Suddenly, he slipped on the wet tile, falling to hands and knees, his glasses skittering off into some unknown corner of the fog. His breath hissed in sharply and almost he lost that other sound, covered over by his own exclamation. He held his breath until he had it again, then began groping forward on hands and knees.
He had nearly reached the source of the sound when he brought his hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes and noticed the blood. Finger-tip to palm was covered in a red smear. He almost fled then, coiling himself over his feet, ready to spring backwards and away. A voice stopped him. "Don't be afraid," whispered, tired and small, into the silence of his panic.
And there was Ron, lying so close Harry could have reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't. For a while time seemed to slow down leaving Harry frozen, immobile, as he took in the sight of his friend, supine on the hard tile. He was naked, his skin so pale it seemed to fade into the fog, blurring at the edges. Steam had collected in the fringes of his lashes and laced the surface of his body, outlining the shadowed hollows of his ribs. He looked so frail. And he was bleeding. One hand was stretched out towards Harry, almost as in supplication. A large gash had been torn in the forearm, near the elbow, edges ragged, and beneath it pooled so much blood it overwhelmed Harry's senses. It's smooth, red face was broken only by the edging line of Ron's body and the dimpling of his fingers and palm. Glancing away and toward Ron's face, Harry saw another, smaller wound in Ron's shoulder, near the base of his throat. Blood seeped from it in a slow inevitable tide, pulsing with the pulse Harry could see fluttering in Ron's throat. The contrast of the red blood against the pure white of Ron's skin held Harry transfixed. Finally, he tore his gaze away and dragged it upwards to Ron's eyes, dreading what he would find there. They were dark, black as the abyss, but they burned with a fierce light.
"Don't be afraid." Ron's lips barely moved and his voice came out in a breath, but still the words were said with an intense will.
"I..." Harry searched for something to say, anything he could do or question that might bring some sanity to what lay before him, but his words were all dried up and all he could do was stare at his friend in mute horror. Ron looked back at him calmly.
"It isn't your fault. The choice is mine." Ron's words were measured and steady but still they faded more and more until Harry had to lean close to hear what he was saying. "It's better this way."
Suddenly, Ron's face contorted in pain and Harry sat back quickly, fear sweeping through him. As he watched, another wound bloomed against the pale skin of Ron's chest and began bleeding freely down his side. Then another on his arm. And along his side. Soon Ron was covered in gashes and rents that wept blood onto the cold tile, spreading the pool further and further out from his body. Ron's head arched back and he let out a long, terrible scream, full of rage and pain. It echoed in Harry's ears, endlessly, going on and on. And in it, an unmistakable note of triumph.
Harry woke with a start, sitting up in bed so fast that the blood rushed from his head and he almost collapsed backwards again. His heart was pounding so hard he felt it must break out of his chest and go galloping from the room. Its incessant pounding throbbed in his ears.
Around him, the dorm was quiet. Soft snoring came from Neville's bed, and a faint muttering from Dean's. He looked over. Ron's bed was empty. A horrible lethargy overcame him, then, and he sank back down into his pillow. He was so tired of worrying, of living on edge and in fear. He had thought he'd put that behind him last year with the dark lord's passing. He had needed to put that behind him. He only wished that now he could rest.
Knowing that sleep was now only a distant and unlikely possibility, he clawed his way out of bed and, shuffling, slowly got dressed before heading down to the common room. Maybe there he could just let his mind drift over inconsequentials.
He wasn't really surprised to find Hermione, once again, sitting at a table, doing homework when he got there. What did surprise him, though, was the look on her face when she looked up and saw it was him coming down the stairs. A horrible hot and cold feeling washed through him and settled in his stomach as a dark apprehension. "Harry, I'm glad you're up early. We need to talk." Wordlessly, Harry walked over and sat down in a chair across the table from her.
Hermione talked as the sun rose and the room began to brighten and through it all Harry felt a weight settling heavier and heavier upon him. By the time she had finished a few other Gryffindors were up and puttering in and out of the common room, most on their way to breakfast. Hermione's voice had dropped down low so that the two of them crouched across the table like two conspirators. As the last words fell from her lips and she stuttered to a halt, Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair, wishing desperately that it could just not be true, that Ron's recent strangeness could be attributed to nothing more complicated than a secret romance or a bad cold.
Always something. There was always something and he would never see rest. 'It isn't your fault.' The words from his dream flashed across his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of Ron screaming in a pool of his own blood, as well as the more horrible image of him lying there calmly, looking back at Harry in acceptance, resignation. However true those words may have been, Harry didn't think he'd ever be free from his feelings of responsibility.
