A/N: Hi there! Here's the second chapter for your enjoyment. Don't forget to review!
Brynn
x
Sons of Sunx
This time I choose a different strategy and open my eyes before I do anything else. I'm pleased to realise that, aside from clarity, my strength also seems to be returning. It's not much, and I'm still a pathetically easy target, but at least I can look around without over-exerting myself. Seems that my keepers were right – I'm out of the critical condition. Into another one, sure, but a new problem demands a new set of solutions.
I glance to the left, and find the same room, except that something is different. The wooden pattern of the ceiling is more distinct in the light of the candles on the table. The rug covers raw stone, which I don't think I have seen as a floor lining before. The brown curtains are darker than before, which suggest that it's night-time. So does the sleeping figure reclining on the table, inches from the hot wax.
Then it hits me – I shouldn't be able to see details. I'm not wearing my glasses and I feel no charm on me… did they dose me with a potion? Is there even a potion? Why didn't Snape tell me about it…
Snape! Snape was the person I've been trying to remember… well… that's just strange.
"Harry?" someone whispers. I jerk and look up… into a pair of blue eyes.
"B-bill?"
"Hey, mate. How do you feel?" Save being royally confused by what the Hell is going on and overwhelmingly relieved by the fact that the people I am with truly are friendly, I feel just…
"Strange." I can't manage more than a whisper, but he gives me a blinding smile with the radiance of a small sun. He strokes my cheek out of sheer happiness of seeing me getting better, which is a first for me and therefore I have no idea how to react. I'm not exactly in a position to react with embarrassment or nonchalance, so I do the easiest thing and ignore that it ever happened.
"My eyes?" I inquire. This is the most pressing issue at the moment.
"What do you know about Khepri?" Bill asks, making himself comfortable sitting on the rug at the foot of my bed. I close my eyes, trying to concentrate. I come up with nothing. "Khepri is an Egyptian god – one of the solar deities. He is associated with rebirth, renewal and resurrection… new beginning, sometimes."
I try to extend my hand, but all that I manage is a tiny movement towards Bill's chest. He hesitates, and after a while pulls the right front side of the garment he's wearing (I don't know what it should be called; it's something foreign) to the side and bares a tiny tattoo on his breast bone. It doesn't look like a rune; rather like a… a beetle?
"A cult?" I ask, surprised that any of the Weasley children would let themselves be suckered into a denomination. Bill, however, resolutely shakes his head.
"Nothing like that. It's more like… a blessing. Curse-breaking in ancient tombs won't leave you unchanged, Harry…" I understand that. It makes sense. Practically anything to do with magic of any kind changes the wizard. I am a textbook example of that; so is Voldemort, and so, apparently, is Bill… and the other wizard who is here with us, of whose identity I have a strong suspicion.
"This mark gives me some authority in one of the local groups, without being actually a part of it… Essentially what happened to you is… the Scarab granted you healing." I think my expression conveys what I am feeling accurately, since Bill squirms, lets go of the cloth to cover his marking, and attempts to expand: "The… holy beetle… found you worthy of a… gift. I can't explain it better, Harry, I'm sorry. I don't even know if it's permanent. I get a feeling that it depends on you."
I can see. I can see clearly even without glasses… I was given better sight by believers of some half-forgotten member of Egyptian pantheon. I'm not sure what to think. I'd thank them, but I would have appreciated it more if they'd killed Lord Terrordemort for me. But I don't object as long as they don't ask for anything in return. I won't even question it.
x
When we're interrupted, Bill has barely finished feeding me, which is a necessity (I'm woefully not strong enough) much less embarrassing than I would have expected it to be. He's calm and professional, while at the same time maintaining a cordial, friendly conversation. He speaks of his job, his colleagues, of the curses, of the city, and just about anything that is a part of his daily life. It all sounds wonderful.
When our last companion enters the room Bill is nearing the end of a story, one that actually is more significant to me than the others he has narrated.
"…and about three hours later they found me there, unconscious. Asim said that by rights I should have been dead, but the guardians found me 'worthy'. He never specified of what, but the survival itself was a nice thought. Anyway, I've had the Mark ever since."
"And it… doesn't hurt?" I ask. Speaking still causes me trouble. I need more rest… more time. One thing that I lack.
I'm torn out of my musing – and temporarily also out of my bleak mood – by a soft laugh. It sounds like several tiny glass bells, and turns heads automatically. I swear not even my CNS knew about the movement before I was staring at the third occupant of our humble abode… mesmerised.
I have met Charlie Weasley before, actually on more than one occasion. He used to look like a nice, but very ordinary young man, although caring for dragons had left him with a rather impressive musculature (which often caused him to look stocky, especially in the kind of clothing he preferred.) This wizard… doesn't compare. It is a completely different being. Dressed in reinforced green denim trousers and off-white tunic, there is very little stocky about him. Not that he is lean, either. He has a half-familiar grace to his stance and motions, adopted from someone outside the family…
Outside the species.
Charlie Weasley moves like a dragon. His semi-long hair whispers in a breeze that is not a current of air, but (I suspect) magic. Not controlled, either. It's a part of his aura… a sphere of peace and rock-solidness that he carries like other people wear perfume or Illusions. It is real and almost tangible – at the very least it makes my fingers tingle. He's got the same basic eye-colour as Bill (this is obvious, as he's staring into my eyes, quite possibly examining my soul) and yet the overall effect is… foudroyant.
"Hello," I whisper, because I can't think of anything else to say. In the given circumstances it is a considerably intelligent statement. Charlie smiles, which seems to change the temperature in the room.
"Hi, Harry. Great to see you coherent."
On that I have a different opinion, but I'll wait a few days before I start losing my temper about what these two did. Right now I'll pretend to be a good convalescent and let the pair of Weasleys explain anything and everything they can think of, starting with this startling change in Charlie. Although… in light of Bill's stories, I have a pretty good idea about that. I just can't imagine why he would hide… or maybe I can, too.
If he walked down the street like this, the population would tear him to pieces, drooling all the while. I squirm, inconspicuously moving so that the corner of my mouth is buried in the pillow. A precaution.
"How long?" I ask inquisitively. Charlie comes over and folds himself on the carpet next to his brother.
"Since I started working at the preserve." It's wonderful to talk to smart people when I'm this weak. I don't have to ask long, specific questions. They understand. "It was gradual, and in the beginning just plain scared me."
"Not scary…" I offer. He reimburses me for my effort with another smile. I can't tear my eyes away from it.
"To some it is. Could be a reason to kill me. I'm not… exactly hundred percent human anymore…" He doesn't sound nervous, thank Merlin. Anyone who knows me knows very well that I don't discriminate anyone because of their species (or species-related affliction, like Remus). The word on the tip of my tongue right now is beautiful, so I bite it. My tongue, I mean.
"I was surprised that you came in like this," Bill admits quietly, looking at his brother with both apprehension and appreciation. It's a complex feeling, but Bill is a complex man – he merely hides it well.
"I never feared Harry's reaction. He won't rat me out," Charlie proclaims with conviction that humbles me. I'm not someone to believe in, but the only one who understands it, really understands it, is Snape. There is a strange emptiness somewhere inside me, which shouldn't be there, because I've eaten. Loads.
"Who knows?" I inquire in an attempt to take my mind off Severus. For a moment there is a war between him and Charlie for space on my mind, and then Charlie wins by sheer force of presence.
"We'll talk about it later," Bill interrupts. "We're not going anywhere for at least a few days."
"Sleep, Harry," Charlie says melodically. "We'll wake you tomorrow for another meal."
I would protest, but in this case, obedience is easier.
x
I wake up from a nightmare, screaming.
These days Voldemort is too weak to send me any visions, but my subconscious must hate me as much as the Dark Lord does… besides, this wasn't even a nightmare as such, just a memory.
I sit, having launched myself upward in the initial shock, which is the only way I could muster enough energy. I concentrate on my breathing, but it doesn't help slowing it down.
When the door opens I flinch and scoot away, propelled by irrational but deep-seated fear of my uncle's wrath. He's dead. He's dead, he's dead. I killed him, I killed him, I killed him-
I flinch away as a hand touches my shoulder. In the total darkness it could be anyone.
"Steady, Harry…" says a soothing voice, still raspy from sleep. The lack of anger surprises me; so does the presence of fear.
"Who… Where…" I hate disorientation. I really, really hate disorientation. A candle lights up some five feet from me, filling a small sphere around its wick with dim orange glow. It's enough to see at least shadows.
One such shadow sits on the side of my bed, facing me, keeping its hand on my shoulder, gripping it reassuringly. The situation is new, unprecedented. It makes me uncertain; I'm not sure how to react, but I don't want them to think I don't appreciate it.
"Are you awake, now?" Bill asks quietly. I nod, although it's debatable whether he could see the gesture, and startle when he pulls me forwards. The world as I knew it is crashing around me in big chunks, shattering into tiny shards as they impact into each other. All the Darkness, all the fear and anger and hopelessness… everything I wanted to defeat in the last, desperate attempt on victory over my prophesised destroyer, it all floods the atmosphere, my mind, my soul… I now crave the suicide these two people denied me. I don't hate them for it, but I wish they would never have done it… I wish they would at least let me go now.
Bill is stroking my hair, but I remain silent. The only one in front of whom I ever let go even a little is Severus. This is my mind-poison to deal with. This is my prophecy, my fate and my war.
Bill and Charlie are just getting underfoot in the most disastrous way.
x
More than two days later I have had a few short, fitful mockeries of sleep and six meagre meals, since my stomach wouldn't accept more food. I didn't want it, but forced it down because in my pitiful state I couldn't even commit the suicide I find myself yearning for.
I've stopped speaking completely. I think I scare the Weasleys now, and rightly so. I can see it in their eyes: they want me to get better, they want to save me, but not even I can save me. I'm floating in nothing, towards a bitter and painful end.
They are trying now not to leave me alone. I'm on a suicide watch, and perfectly aware of it, although if I had enough initiative and energy to kill myself, I could do it with little difficulty.
It's Charlie's turn to mind me. Bill usually sits on the carpet, either facing me or leaning against the bed, and talks to me about mythology and people he knows, and re-tells stories he's heard in the past. His younger brother, on the other hand, prefers to sit on the side of the bed,and more often than not keeps physical contact with me.
It's so easy to accept comfort from Charlie. He pets me, speaks to me in quiet soothing voices, and generally treats me like a sick animal, which I, I'm afraid, qualify as. He has got the most wonderful hands in the world. They were once, years ago, Quidditch hands, but now they are working hands, and they are big, gentle, caring, strong, reliable, trustworthy, Charlie's. They never leave me and I find myself momentarily giving myself over to them. When I become strong enough to sit, I start crawling into his lap, snuggling into the perceived safety (it's not real, but it helps diminish those of my fears that are irrational). Charlie's hands are on my back to keep me steady – at least one of them at all times – on my shoulders, the back of my neck, in my hair… but I like them most on my own hands, just holding, or moving me, or even, on much rarer occasions, his fingers tangling with mine. They are enough to fall in love with Charlie.
But he also has hair, red like copper, like blood, like wine, and thousand other things, depending on the light. It gleams in the Sun, as unmanageable as my own, though longer and softer and just plain beautiful. He has got a mouth that has a tiny scar on the bottom lip, an intersecting paler line. He has the voice that is the vocal equivalent of peace. He has the deepest blue eyes ever. I drown in them, but it's better than getting burnt. Anyway, I've lost myself in them hours or maybe days ago. I can now somehow feel that he is not human (he barely resembles the man I remember from summer 1994), but all my senses scream perfection.
He smells like rain.
I become bolder in my struggle out of the cocoon of depression. They should have known what they were playing with before they started – now it's too late for them to shy away from my Darkness, and I won't give them a chance. They offered themselves – I take all.
At first it's just a brush of my hand against his ribs. He seems to have shrunk and at the same time hardened – as if all his muscles were forced into and contained within a smaller space. He thinks the touch was an accident and ignores it, all the while exuding the unnatural, eerie calm.
Next is his upper arm, and this time I clutch and there is no mistaking it for anything but a response. I want more, closer, more real, more physical… He takes it for a plea, but again it is misunderstood. I want him. Weak as I am, it takes me a long while to unfold myself, virtually climbing up vertebra by vertebra, until I am almost facing him, looking just slightly upwards.
I know now that he understands, but otherwise he remains unreadable. Merlin damn him, if he would help me just a little, just a hint, an answer…
I find a previously untapped reservoir of power inside me, and suddenly feel strong enough to control my body again. I put my left hand up as well, now clutching both Charlie's arms, and set out to shatter the calm, so that I can have a piece for myself. A piece of Peace, a piece of Charlie…
I kiss him, which he seems to have anticipated, although his response is minimal. When I angle my head he complies to me, opening his mouth, and draws me into one of the most wondrous experiences of my life, completely overpowering my eagerness, passion, and whatever I might have been feeling. His power over me is totally out of proportion. He would scare me, but he's so… so pure. Innocent. Like phoenixes. Like unicorns. Like dragons.
Dragons… Something must have happened to him in Romania. Something changed him. Made him harder, calmer, stronger, better and so fucking radiantly beautiful. Superhuman.
And a bit colder. Everywhere. Even his mouth is nowhere near as hot as a human one should be; his tongue sends little jolts throughout my entire body caused mainly by the temperature difference – at least in the beginning. It could be because I have a fever, but I doubt it.
He pulls out of the kiss, his lips still caressing mine, and smoothes the stuck sweaty strands of hair from my face. I begin to notice other things – like my right hand having moved to the back of his neck, keeping him close to me, and like the weakness having disappeared. Something inside me has re-arranged and, although my energy is still severely depleted, I am able to operate.
I put a pressure on Charlie's neck to get him closer, and he grants me a little chaste kiss before pulling away completely – I was right about his superhuman strength, for he does it with appalling ease – and calls: "War!"
I sit, frozen in the moment, only peripherally aware of the door being opened and closed, the bed shifting as someone sits behind me, and a pair of arms weaving around me, twining between me and Charlie and separating us. I don't understand what's going on. Charlie leans down to me and gives me one more chaste kiss, cupping my cheek and stroking it with his thumb, and then he stands up and leaves.
I should be feeling the loss right about now, but there are hands holding me, and while they are not perfect like Charlie's, they are more… something. Leaner, warmer, with longer nails, which I can feel touching my chest. More human. So is the chest I am pulled against – firm, but if I were to strike there, the ribs would break and crush the lungs, shred the heart… yes, this is a human holding me, and it feels so completely different from Charlie's perfection. A cheekbone grazes my ear and long, long strands of blood red fall into my view, pulled towards the ground with seemingly just slightly less gravity than would be considered normal.
"Are you sure you want this, Harry?" a warm, concerned voice asks me, whispering a mere inch away from my ear. Am I sure? I know nothing, I'm being pulled by the flow of fate or another supernatural force that decided to play with my life today. I only know that after I was denied absolution, I want my piece of abandonment. "There will be no going back from here."
Oh, but there never is going back. Not even the tiniest action can be completely undone once it has occurred. That is what time is for – and the handy little tools from the Department of Mysteries just tangle it more.
I twist in the embrace and place a kiss as far as I can without dislocating my neck, which is almost the corner of Bill's mouth. He loosens his hold on me, and with a series of surprisingly co-ordinated motions I am relocated so that I face him, straddling his thighs. I suppose I should be considerate and ask about Fleur… but consideration is for Light wizards, ergo it's Bill's to think about. He doesn't seem to do so.
I wonder why he does this – I don't question it, but I wonder. There's nothing about me to like (except perhaps my eyes, but when it comes to physical attraction, that doesn't amount to much). Is it possible that he cares about me – about what I need – so much, that he would go against his desires? Against his conviction? Maybe even against his family? I can't see Mrs Weasley rejoicing, were she to find out about this escapade…
Anyway, I want physical release so that it would pull me away from reality, at least for a while, and Bill does that wonderfully. His kisses aren't overpowering like the one from Charlie was; they are hotter, with more tongue and more passion. His nails scrape. His biceps bulge when he pulls me flush against him, and I feel his heartbeat and the frequency of his breathing.
I want. Therein lies the problem, because while I have this huge fervent thing inside me that insists to be let out, I don't know of any way. I must leave it up to Bill, and that means I must trust him. It's hard. It comes much, much harder now than the first time around, when little naïve me only had to hear it was going to a school for wizard and witches and would have gone to the end of the world if Hagrid only asked it to. Now, though I know people and death and could probably write an anthology of despair if only my chicken-scrawl was legible, I only have limited experience with life. That is Bill's domain. Therefore I have to trust. Now. I can't help but to suspect that it would have been easier with Charlie.
He meets my eyes for a moment, but the link between us is disrupted when he pulls the T-shirt somebody has lent me over my head. I start to tremble, not because of the sudden chill, but out of plebeian, irrational fear. It creeps over me like a soft touch of a dementor's slimy frigid hand, before I am engulfed in warmth and temporary safety again. Bill keeps me close, with my head tucked under his chin, waiting for me to calm down. I want to thank him, but the words get stuck in my throat just like the last fifty hours worth of comments and replies.
"We-" he speaks. My mind screams: Don't say it, don't say it, don't… please… "-don't-"
I put a hand on his mouth and look up at him, shaking off the weakness in the face of a fight. I am a weapon, in the end, and where there is enemy to defeat, there I am of use. Be it Voldemort or my screwed-up personal demons.
With agility that gradually returns to my trained body, I replace the hand with my mouth, and feel Bill responding differently now that I've become demanding. We have found a delicate balance, in which I am the one dominant mentally and he is the one dominant physically.
I let him rip me out of the over-exposed picture of reality I've been stuck in so far.