Author's Notes: Ah, well, it's been a while, hasn't it? I doubt anyone remembers this story any longer, but, oh well. I'm off to my native homeland in a couple days, so I thought that I should finish off this story at least. Things are really looking tough this summer and then onto the school year, but I'll squeeze in updates for my other stories…somewhere…
Awareness came to me in shades. In the dark recesses of my mind, I could fathom that there was a thought, a whim, a whisper, a dieing word—something—highly unpleasant. My insides were laden with lead: something was very wrong. And yet, I could not reach for it, could not grasp it as my thick, muddled mind fought its way toward consciousness.
A warm hand smoothed my brow. It made slight circular motions with its fingers, calming, comforting. Perhaps everything was okay after all.
I opened my eyes blearily. I couldn't make anything out. Everything was swathed in shadows.
"There, there, dear. Every thing will be alright," a voice murmured. It was vaguely familiar, like a lost shadow on the wind. Its tones were warm, maternal, oozing love and gentle grace. Like a mother.
It couldn't be my mother, though…hands were pulling me up into a sitting position, my head squeaked in pain, but I paid no heed, there were more important things to think about…no, she had died a while ago, a long time ago, with my father…someone slipped a hot steamy liquid down my throat, I felt warmth spread thorough my body like bonfire…
"Harry…?" a voice whispered cautiously.
Why were they scared? It wasn't as if I was something to be feared…
"Harry…uh, we need to talk to you…"
They needed to talk to me…why…?
Suddenly, something clunked into place in my head. I froze, blood running to ice: I told them. I spilled it out to them, regurgitated the secret that was the horrendous disease that seeped through my veins and my mind, poisoned me, drained me, destroyed me. And I'd told them.
I screwed my eyes shut—and a realization hit me: enough. Enough pain, enough torture, enough fatigue, enough heartbreak, enough having to endure everything and anything alone, of carrying the weight of the world and hiding from disbelieving eyes how much it hurt, enough skulking in shadows; enough. I was tired. Come what may, I'd face it. I wouldn't resist—I couldn't resist. It took a lot of vigor to resist. I didn't have that, not anymore.
I opened my eyes. And there they were: Ron and Hermione, both with unreadable expressions on their faces—pity?
No, I didn't want their pity—I didn't want them to treat me like shattered glass—I struggled with my covers—my hands were slippery—oh, god why was everything so damn dark—?
"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed shrilly, leaping to her feet with tears sparkling in her eyes. Just like so many times before, unmindful of my injuries, she threw her arms about me and sobbed into my shoulder.
"Oh, Harry, I'm—I'm sorry—I just—just didn't know, oh how horrible it m-must have been—k-keeping all bot—bottled up inside—"
Shocked, I patted her back as well as I could, trying to soothe her, but having no idea how to soothe the ache in my soul. She pulled back after a minute, wiping her tears.
"How long?" Ron asked suddenly, flatly.
I whipped my head around as fast as I could.
"How long?" Ron repeated in the same dead-pan tone. He seemed to be deep in thought, staring at a point on the wall high above my head. "How long did you know?"
I stared at Ron—and before I knew it, the rusty hinges in my jaw moved.
"Since the night at—" my throat closed.
He nodded, and suddenly, looked like a beaten old man. Like the image of a single teardrop gliding down a weathered old face filled with grief. A face that had provided relief, comfort. A teardrop hung in the balance of time.
Ron nodded, looking down at his lap. He ran his hands through his hair. And even in my muddled mind, I knew that something very important was going to happen.
Ron glanced up at me at last, and said, "Remember—way back in out first year—with the Sorcerer's Stone?"
My mind flew back over the years that seemed more like centuries, eras, eons, epochs. "Yeah…"
"You were gonna go in alone."
I looked down at my hands, remembering. And somehow now, with Ron and Hermionethere with me as anchors, holding on to the real world, nothing gaped and enveloped me. It was soothing. Balm to a wound.
"You were gonna go in, and face down You-Know-Who alone. D'you remember what we did?"
There was something there, something I needed to understand, but my mind skittered away form it, too bruised and battered.
"We went with you, Harry," Hermione interjected in a small voice. "And there were no second thoughts. Same with the night at the Department—" her throat closed too.
"I don't know about the whole thing with you and You-Know-Who," Ron said, looking at me full in the face. "But we were with you whenever we could. And with this war …it's the same. I don't care who you have to kill. I'm with you."
Hermione nodded fervently.
It took a moment to sink in; when it did--it was the most wonderful thing in the world.
Fireworks burst inside my stomach, lightening me, relieving me, letting me breathe. I sprouted wings, it seemed, and for the first time since the heart-wrenching morning in Dumbledore's office I didn't feel alone. The burden was lighter. Still there, but lighter. Shared.
I smiled.
Ron and Hermione smiled back.
And I knew—I knew—now that I could face whatever the world threw my way, I wouldn't fall when the earth rocked under my feet because Ron and Hermione would reach out and steady me. We would come through this, because, through the milling mass of doubt, hatred, malice, evil and cruelty, hung a quivering, mystical, all-encompassing phoenix song note called friendship.
I groped for words to tell them in my fluttering mind, but I didn't have to. They already knew.
End