Just Another Occlumency Plot Device (In Which Ron Is The Boy Who Lived)
Title: Just Another Occlumency Plot Device (In Which Ron Is The Boy Who Lived)
Author: scarysnapey
Rating: PG
Warnings: AUish
Word Count: 499
A/N: Oh, boo. Well, I made it to the final four, and I am quite honored to have done so, what with the amazing talents I was up against. I've come a long way since my first challenge elimination from ronpansy_ldws . This was a little risky to write, but I enjoyed it, so ah well. :)
The Headmaster wants me to teach him Occlumency.
Don’t make me laugh.
I’ve grown to expect mediocrity from him.
---
He doesn’t want to be here. He seems to think that this is something of my own design, that I conspire to keep him here week after week.
Occlumency is only boring because he lets it be. He is only a poor student because he doesn’t try.
I beat it into him, as best I can. My voice grows hoarse over long hours, and his sweater is ragged and torn from fall after fall on the rough stone floor.
---
Weasley. And he’s the only one left. And I wonder in my heart of hearts what sick force of fate chose him to be our savior.
His memories are bright, but boring. I watch him comb his hair to hide his scar. I watch him force a smile during dinner with his Great Aunt Murial. I watch him pretend that living with her has not inflicted even greater poverty upon him.
I watch him grow. I watch him with his friends.
And ever present is his mediocrity, juxtaposed with his brilliant friend and his athletic one.
It’s his specialness that makes him special.
And nothing more than his strength will see him through.
---
I can feel his heart beating, only through the connection of our minds. I feel him straining, the lines and recesses of his brain pulling taunt like any muscle, flexing and straining under the force of my invasion.
I am so tired of keeping quiet. Of holding back and staying calm while he tries and tries and tries and does not succeed.
A useless potion here, a needle instead of a matchstick, a pathetic Charms paper.
I can’t help but wonder why. Why him? Of all people, of all the heroes I have met and I have known, what business does this boy have being our savior?
But then I watch him pull himself up, knuckles white, face as red as his flaming hair. “Again,” he spits, with anger not for me but for his own shortcomings.
I do as he asks. I raise my wand.
“Legilimens.”
And it goes on.
---
I plow through his deepest dreams and fantasys, and once I see him staring into the Mirror of Erised. It lingers his mind where it clearly does not belong.
I know what he desires, though we never speak of it, and a part of me begins to wonder...
---
I know that his broken nails are from scraping against the floor, that his red cheeks are from exertion. That when he first manages to knock me out he reaches out to shake my hand, and my complete shock gives him time to pull me into a hug, laughing beneath his red fringe.
I know that in the end his strength, physical and mental, will be what pulls him through.
And I think that I’ll want to know him more when all is done.
Author: scarysnapey
Rating: PG
Warnings: AUish
Word Count: 499
A/N: Oh, boo. Well, I made it to the final four, and I am quite honored to have done so, what with the amazing talents I was up against. I've come a long way since my first challenge elimination from ronpansy_ldws . This was a little risky to write, but I enjoyed it, so ah well. :)
The Headmaster wants me to teach him Occlumency.
Don’t make me laugh.
I’ve grown to expect mediocrity from him.
---
He doesn’t want to be here. He seems to think that this is something of my own design, that I conspire to keep him here week after week.
Occlumency is only boring because he lets it be. He is only a poor student because he doesn’t try.
I beat it into him, as best I can. My voice grows hoarse over long hours, and his sweater is ragged and torn from fall after fall on the rough stone floor.
---
Weasley. And he’s the only one left. And I wonder in my heart of hearts what sick force of fate chose him to be our savior.
His memories are bright, but boring. I watch him comb his hair to hide his scar. I watch him force a smile during dinner with his Great Aunt Murial. I watch him pretend that living with her has not inflicted even greater poverty upon him.
I watch him grow. I watch him with his friends.
And ever present is his mediocrity, juxtaposed with his brilliant friend and his athletic one.
It’s his specialness that makes him special.
And nothing more than his strength will see him through.
---
I can feel his heart beating, only through the connection of our minds. I feel him straining, the lines and recesses of his brain pulling taunt like any muscle, flexing and straining under the force of my invasion.
I am so tired of keeping quiet. Of holding back and staying calm while he tries and tries and tries and does not succeed.
A useless potion here, a needle instead of a matchstick, a pathetic Charms paper.
I can’t help but wonder why. Why him? Of all people, of all the heroes I have met and I have known, what business does this boy have being our savior?
But then I watch him pull himself up, knuckles white, face as red as his flaming hair. “Again,” he spits, with anger not for me but for his own shortcomings.
I do as he asks. I raise my wand.
“Legilimens.”
And it goes on.
---
I plow through his deepest dreams and fantasys, and once I see him staring into the Mirror of Erised. It lingers his mind where it clearly does not belong.
I know what he desires, though we never speak of it, and a part of me begins to wonder...
---
I know that his broken nails are from scraping against the floor, that his red cheeks are from exertion. That when he first manages to knock me out he reaches out to shake my hand, and my complete shock gives him time to pull me into a hug, laughing beneath his red fringe.
I know that in the end his strength, physical and mental, will be what pulls him through.
And I think that I’ll want to know him more when all is done.