A/N: Special thanks to those who reviewed! To avoid being 'killed in my sleep' here's the second part.
Onomatopoeia
Have you ever been afraid? I mean, truly afraid?
I thought I have. But now, I'm not so sure. I've been terrified, even petrified before, but never truly fearful. I suppose most people think the term 'fear' is below terrified and petrified by way of integrity, but I disagree.
I mean sick with fear. Intoxicated with it, like it's smothering you with a sweltering blanket. As James lurched forward, seeming as though his very bones had shattered, so sudden was the movement, I thought he was dying.
It seemed like it.
James had been trembling, shaking so hard I could almost hear his teeth rattling inside his skull. And he had been so cold. His hands had seemed so small and bony in my own.
My hands are so very different from James'. You can tell a lot about a person by their hands. I've often thought my own seem a little on the large side, but James has dismissed that, saying they merely seemed so next to his own, and to Peter's and Remus'.
Remus has very sculpted hands, quite weak and with long fingers. A scholars hands. Peter's are very small and chubby, fumbling with anything and always sweaty with fear, or nerves. James has very thin and bony hands, with long, brittle feeling fingers which are in fact quite strong. I don't know how to describe my hands…big?
I didn't know what to do, at first. I'd been going to see him for six days, ever since…well, I thought I'd go mad. He just sat and stared at the rain.
I tried opening the window, but he began to look down at the drop to the ground with a glint in his eye I didn't like the look of, so I locked it shut. He hadn't been eating. Or sleeping, as far as I had seen. According to Mcgonagall, I was the only one he even acknowledged.
He seemed so small then. So…brittle. Like at any moment he would just snap in two. I could feel almost every bone in his back and hear the rattling of breath in his thin chest. I almost cried then.
Almost.
I've only ever cried once before in my life (at least, as far back as I can remember) and that was when James fell off his broomstick. It was a Spring morning, about a year after I had been 'adopted' by the Potters. It was the day after James' birthday, and he was eager to try out his new 'Cloudrunner 3000' in the back yard.
Only problem was, it had to be serviced before it was used, as the Cloudrunner series always were tailored to a specific persons requirements. We, however, didn't know this.
I thought he was dead.
He broke three ribs and a leg, but, the worst of it was, that for about thirty seconds, he stopped breathing.
I panicked. Really panicked. I had a hysterical fit, and eventually fainted when Mr Potter told me his son was, in fact, still alive.
From what Mrs Potter told me when I woke up in the hospital in the bed opposite James', we travelled side by side in the ambulance.
But James isn't dead.
He's right here, but I cannot say he's wholly alive. He feels very delicate, both in mind and in body, even though that sounds like something I heard in church.
I wish I could do more for him.
After a vomiting fit, I think he passed out against me. I can't be sure, but he seems to be breathing easily enough. Slowly, deeply. James is a heavy sleeper at the best of times.
He's feverish. His face is flushed and he's still shuddering slightly. I don't know what to do…I've never seen him like this. Vulnerable.
When he's awake, it's like he has these barriers around him. Almost…like he's in some sort of glass elevator (double glazed?) around him. He plays it up, acts like he doesn't care.
He's only ever James when we're alone together. Around Remus and Peter, he's Prongs. Around the rest of the school, he's James Potter, the popular, big headed guy. It's like he has different faces.
Around me, he's just…James. He can be funny. Kind. He's not as much as a twit as some people think he is. He can even be a good listener, and sympathetic, if he wants to. To me, he's not just 'that Potter boy' or 'the Griffindor seeker'. To me, he's my brother, my best friend.
His knuckles are white; he's clutching me so hard. I wrap one hand around his, afraid the very bones in his finger will break if he squeezes any harder, absurd as it sounds.
I gently pry each finger, one by one, away from my t-shirt, noticing idly that it is stretched and twisted beyond recognition. If it was any other boy, I'd knock them good if they so much as touched my new t-shirt.
Not James. Not now.
His feverish forehead rests against my neck, and I can almost feel it pulsing dully. God, he was only ever this bad when we got so drunk we couldn't wiggle our big toes. That's our test on drunkenness. If you can't wiggle you're little toe, you're slightly pissed. If you can't wiggle you're big toe, my God are you in deep shit.
I smile slightly despite the predicament. Across the mountains by the lake, a pale silvery evening light is beginning to creep over the peaks. It's growing darker.
From the faint clatters and jumble of voices coming from down below, I guess it must be dinner time. Perfect.
I had been planning James' 'rescue' (more from himself than anything) for when the corridors were completely empty. Somehow, I could just picture James knocking my handsome block off for carrying him in such a state down a crowded corridor.
Oh, James. I wish I could just tap you with my wand and make you change back again…
…What a stupid idea.
I learnt long ago that magic cannot solve everything.
It can help when you want to get blind drunk, though.
Well, either way, I have to get James to the hospital wing before either a) he wakes up or
b) the students finish dinner
Some of these kids seem to eat faster than the speed of light.
I sigh, place the tip of my wand lightly against his temple and mutter "Voluncto." Remus showed me this spell when I put my back out lifting my trunk down the stairs. It's a lightening charm.
I don't quite know how I managed to get to the hospital wing without falling over. James may be smaller than me, but that doesn't make him any easier to carry. And…I got my foot stuck in the trick step.
That is a bugger.
It presented a barrage of problems. Firstly, I couldn't use my hands to pull my leg out because I was holding James. Second, I couldn't put James down because he might roll down the stairs and break something, and third…I think my leg is losing circulation.
James moaned weakly and stirred. I gritted my teeth and tried to wiggle my leg free without overbalancing.
Somehow, I managed to get us both to the hospital wing unscathed.
Mental note: this time, it was me carrying Prongs unconscious to the hospital wing. It's his turn next time.
"Black!" exclaimed Madame Pomfrey, looking half shocked, half relieved at my burden. She had visited James, of course, but he had simply ignored her. It was me who had to physically force the sustaining potion down his throat.
I felt dazed. Even after a week, I still felt like this was all one long nightmare. As I helped Madame Pomfrey lower a still shaking James into a hospital bed, James gave a small whimper, and clung to me even more fiercely than before. I took hold of his hand, and with the other held his face.
"It's alright, James." I said, quietly, as his hand latched onto mine. "I'm not going anywhere."
I sunk down on the edge of the bed while Madame Pomfrey arranged the covers over James, having discarded his shoes and socks. I stared despondently at his pale, unmoving face.
He looks so small.
His dark eyelashes and hair clash horribly with painfully pale skin. There are deep circles beneath his eyes, and dried tear tracks mark his cheeks like scars. His jet black hair spills messily across the pillow and over his face, gathered in spikes around his cheeks. I smooth them away, feeling suddenly very tired.
The room seems a little blurred at the edges…
"Perhaps you should lie down, Mr Black." The kindly voice of Madame Pomfrey filtered through the clogged sieve which was once my brain. She hurries off to her office, her feet making echoing thuds on the smooth, tiled floor.
I sink onto the bed, curling around James protectively, wondering briefly whether Remus had started to worry. I fling my arm across his chest, and rest my forehead against his temple, my shoulder length bangs mingling with his tousled locks.
He frowns slightly in his sleep, and turns his head slightly so his nose is nearly touching mine, letting out a deep sigh. I smile tiredly at him, wondering vaguely what he's thinking.
Yawning slightly, I touch my lips gently to his clammy forehead, before letting my eyes fall shut and surrendering to the gathering darkness.
A/N: Comments are appreciated, as this was written quite a few years ago and so my writing style has changed a lot. Thanks for reading!