Who: Harry Potter and Ron Weasley Where: Their flat When: After his very long day at work (and then Blaise and maybe Adrian, if he's very unlucky.) What: Talking gibberish Rating: R for language and subject matter. Status: In progress
Ron finished off his sandwich and brushed his hands off on his trousers. The pumpkin juice container he’d grabbed from the refrigerator was nearly empty, and so he took a couple of long drinks directly from the container before putting the carafe into the sink. Distraction almost made him forget to set the dishes washing before he left the kitchen, but the memory of the last time he’d done so was enough to set him straight. It was only a couple of things, but it never seemed to matter if it was one dish or twelve, one sock or a whole pile of clothes. Whatever his Mum (or Hermione) might say, he had learned a thing or two in his years, and he did try.
Today, though, he was anxious for Harry to get home from work. He’d had the sense of something rather ominous, just from the way things had gone since the turn of the new year, but he couldn’t place what was causing it. Newspaper articles--that he begrudgingly read on occasion--looks that his superiors gave one another, conversations heard in passing on the street...something. Harry’s odd shift today was just another thing to add to the pile, and he wanted his best mate to get home and tell him it was nothing to worry about.
He sank onto the couch and picked up Harry’s Quidditch magazine, flipping idly through it. Harry played with his chess set, and Ron read the magazines he’d gotten Harry. It had worked out rather well, he thought. And Quidditch could get his mind off most things.
‘Long’ didn’t begin to describe the day he’d had at the Ministry. ‘Horrible’ didn’t either. Harry thought about it on the way home, thought of how he would explain it to the others.
There simply were no words.
All Harry knew for certain was that Hermione had to leave. She had to flee the country and possibly never look back. They couldn’t- He couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t sit by and let someone else do it either. It was barbaric, it was- Worse than barbaric.
There were no words.
Harry pushed open the door, and didn’t even see Ron sitting on the sofa. He barely saw anything at all as he made his way to this room and shut the door behind him.
Ron’s head snapped up from the magazine as soon as the front door opened, and he frowned at the look on Harry’s face, giving him an expectant look. What he didn’t expect was for his best friend to bypass him entirely in favour of his bedroom. He might have laughed if he hadn’t been so tightly wound with anticipation--which was only growing by the second now.
“Harry?” he called as the door swung shut. “What is it? What did they bring you in for?” He tossed the magazine back onto the table and got up, moving a few steps toward Harry’s room.
Pacing wasn’t helping. Harry had been about to sit on the bed, but Ron’s voice was approaching, so there was no point. He leaned his head against the wood of the door for a few seconds before opening it. Then, he did go sit on his bed. He hadn’t...
There were no words.
How did one come to terms with what they had just done, when what they had just done was... that? How did you explain to your best mate that he would have to- How did you explain to your other best friend that it would happen to her? How did you find the words?
“I can’t tell you, Ron. Gag. I can’t.” Which was another factor. He didn’t have the words, and even if he had, he wouldn’t be able to say them. Harry shook his head. How would he ever stop seeing Draco buck against the restraints on the chair, strain to get away? How would he ever get the scream out of his ears, the smell of burning flesh... And then Blaise Zabini. And Adrian Pucey. Each one somehow worse than the last. Harry could still taste the vomit, despite having brushed his teeth. Despite everything. That taste and that smell, they were going to follow him everywhere. Forever.
Those screams.
Harry shuddered hard, his face in his hands, bent in half at the waist over his knees, eyes filled with tears. He was going to be sick. Again. He had avoided it, somehow, while... during... but not anymore. Not for long. How was he- He couldn’t-
“Fuck, Ron. I can’t.” Harry’s voice cracked. “I can’t.”
It had been a long time since Ron had seen Harry like this. Maybe never. So many things had changed school, since things had been so intense for them all, but especially for Harry. And different or not, something was definitely very wrong. Really wrong.
“Gag? What do you mean?” He went to sit on the bed next to him and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, unsure what to do. Why the hell wouldn’t Harry be able to tell him? They were the sorts who kept things that were bothering them to themselves, but not when it was important. This looked important. “There’s got to be something you can tell me.”
“I-” Harry should his head. It was pointless, Ron didn’t understand. And he wouldn’t. He knew it before he even opened his mouth to speak. “I we're cattle. And sme med I we're brand ted my fauldn't. The ted trist way, Ron and med mad it brand it we'd to hark hark him. Like the bran't way, we're sust it. Anding it we'd too. I wouldn't. I catting to everyones, hey med. I him. Like tris med, Ron!” Harry had very seldom seemed more distraught in his life, and he spoke on despite the tears streaming down his face. He had to make Ron understand. He needed his best mate to understand. “I he tried hade to everror lieve to- You wou we're ted. They're getting to him. Everyones, an't was me suspected, wou way, we'd my me to they melife. It's my fauldn't away, wouldn't it bell getting it anding ist bran't. And tried, was. Like cand-”