Author's Note: Ok, sorry again that chapters are coming so slowly, but, that's just the way it is right now. Thank you to my one reviewer from last time. I think I will just keep myself in fantasyland and pretend that everyone else who read the chapter was just too amazed to think of anything to say. :) You know how I love reviews. Hope you enjoy this chapter.



chapter 33: INTROSPCTION - demons of our eyes



A soft moan escaped Draco's lips and he slowly opened his eyes. For one disorienting moment he thought he was still back at the manor, that it was still night and he was still awaiting a fate of either salvation or damnation, but then the scratchy quality of Snape's couch registered and the final events of the evening came flooding back in a wash of sounds and smells, brief flashes of frozen images, and the taste of hot blood on his lips. Whatever tension was left in Draco flowed out of him then. He was safe, his mind and his body were his own. For the moment, that was all that mattered.

Of course, safe did not necessarily mean contentedly comfortable. As wakeful consciousness began to leak slowly back into Draco's brain, all the aches and pains that come with sleeping facedown on a lumpy couch began to register. Wincing at the crick in his neck that seemed to have evolved to one massive crick along half of his upper back, he sat up slowly on the couch. He felt rumpled. But more than rumpled, he felt vaguely like he'd been hit by a train. His whole body throbbed with the after effects of what had to be more than just sleeping in a bad position. He held up his right hand. It was curled into an unresponsive and now needly-tingling lump. Now that was definitely from sleeping wrong. And to top it off, he felt gritty, or like someone had crumpled in one side of his face. He probably had creases on his face from the couch. Damn it. He hated that.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, Draco made a cursory attempt at straightening his robes before heading for the nearest bathroom. Once there he made a beeline for the mirror. Oh good. On top of impossibly rumpled robes, hair that stuck up at weird angles, and couch creases in his face, he had a good swatch of dried blood smeared across his left cheek. It started around his mouth, which looked smudgy, and then extended upward. It even looked like he had some bits crusted in the corner of his eye. Well that was just charming. Muttering curses under his breath, Draco set to work washing his face and running copious amounts of water through his hair in an attempt to get it to lay down long enough for him to get to a comb and even, if there was time, a shower and some shampoo.

Despite the kinks in his back and the truly atrocious appearance he now presented, however, Draco couldn't help feeling a certain measure of calm, as though some great hurdle had just been passed and he had come out the better for it. Walking back to his dormitory he felt light, almost buoyant. For some brief moment in time, Draco Malfoy was at peace.







The water streaming out of the showerhead had begun going through rapid temperature fluctuations, probably some mechanism to get people to leave if they were in the shower too long, but Ron made no move to do anything about it. Indeed, for all intents and purposes, he appeared not to notice.

Ron was exhausted, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally as well. He felt as though the water cascading over his body was the only thing holding him together and that if he were to step out from under it he would simply break apart, or crumble into dust. No matter how hot or how cold, the water falling rough and stinging against his skin provided a consistency that kept him sane. And sanity was something he yearned toward.

When he had gone to bed the night before he had felt so at peace, like the world was finally allowing him to fit into his place. He felt accepting and calm. But then...but then sleep had been hard. He had fallen asleep easily, for once his prowling mind not keeping him awake with worries and barely perceived tensions. The dreams were different, though. They dragged him down, anchored his mind in some deep abyss and taunted him with dark visions, even, as a drowning swimmer struggles to reach the light, to breath the air, he struggled to reach wakefulness once more.

The visions that he saw were not as they should have been. Faces that he loved twisted and turned angry, becoming great beasts set to devour him, or they faded into grey, their eyes cast from him and slipped out of reach of love or comfort. Only the dark eyes of his enemies watched him with anything resembling pity, and always a black fire writhed before his eyes, twisting and obscuring what he saw even more.

When Ron had finally managed to claw his way out of the hell that was his dreams he had lain wide-eyed in bed, willing himself to forget. His fear had been a palpable thing, wrapping him tightly in its coils and worming its way into his heart. His bed had begun to feel like a prison, the sheets twisted about him like chains.

It was then that he had fled to the showers, craving the heat, the sound to fill the quiet. Feeling muffled and enshrouded he had discarded his rumpled robes in a flurry and a need to feel Free. The brush of cold air against his skin was such a blessing he almost cried out in relief before letting the water pour over him, muffling his pain in its encompassing wet and washing away the crusted scum of his fear. He couldn't have said how long he stood under the showerhead, drinking in the sensation, willing himself to be awake and present in the simple world it created. However else he felt, he would not sleep again this early morning, but let the water wrap him in a cocoon of fuzzy consciousness. He had drifted only once. When he had come to he had looked down to see his hands slick and dripping with a bright wash of blood. The vision had faded quickly, but the sight stayed with him, as well as a pressing feeling of guilt. He had not drifted into half-sleep again, but rather concentrated on scouring every inch of his body until the whole of his skin had been scrubbed raw and felt new as the day he was born.

The shower stuttered, then fell silent. A last trickle of water leaked from the faucet and dripped loudly in the sudden stillness. Ron sighed and lowered his hands from where his fingers had been working through his hair, searching out any last scrap of dirt that may have eluded him up to that point. A light breeze blew into to the room, raising goose bumps over his wet skin and seemingly trying to give him one more push out the door.

Ron sighed again and wandered over to where he had left his cloths in a pile just outside the showers. The thought of putting those robes back on again, the smell of locked desperation still clinging to them, repulsed him. Instead he grabbed up a towel thoughtfully left out by a house elf and wrapped it around himself before scooping up his clothes and heading back to his dorm to change. Time to face the day.

Gryffindor tower was oddly quiet, all of the other students already having risen and gone down to breakfast. A small voice in his head urged him to hurry or he was going to be late for Potions. He ignored it. Discarding any idea of trying to grab some breakfast before class, he headed straight down to the dungeons, enjoying the feeling of accepting his tardiness and not bothering to hurry. Oddly, he made it into the room just before the Professor. Not having points taken away in Potions was just surreal enough to fit in with the rest of his morning.

As he slipped into his seat next to Malfoy, he saw Harry and Hermione glance over at him looking worried. Harry, actually, seemed especially anxious and Ron realized that Hermione must have told him already. He waited for the feeling of relief to come that his friends now finally knew his secret, but it didn't. Instead of relief, he just felt sort of distracted and had to pinch himself to keep his mind on what Professor Snape was saying. Beside him, Malfoy was still and silent. If this had been a year ago and the two of them were partnered in Potions it would have been a long lesson in orchestrating and avoiding a continuous stream of sabotage. Now they just sat together in what could almost be called a compatible silence while Snape finished his instructions. This, more than anything else, seemed to be the most striking evidence that Ron's life had changed.