44. ANTICIPATION (PG-13) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: Anticipation
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,247
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Plot! Fight! Hurt/comfort.
Summary: A preventative measure is taken.
A/N: Can't tell you when the next chapter will be out. A lot will depend on my health. Sorry for leaving things at such a moment, but there's not much I can do about that, right now. I hope you like it anyway.
Thank you to star54kar for the beta read.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
The first week Harry is on the Calming Draught passes swiftly enough. He doesn’t seem bored. In fact, he dozes and daydreams away most of the day, and sleeps heavily at night, without any apparent inclination to do anything more active. I give him books to read before I leave for work, but when I return home, they’re either exactly where I left them, or have been discarded after barely a glance. I suspect he can’t focus his thoughts enough to follow them.
Instead, he stares out the window.
It chills me each time I come home to find him sitting in bed, hair mussed from the pillow, looking out over the orchard. It doesn’t take much imagination to think back just over a year and paint his hair red instead of black.
Fortunately, Harry doesn’t fight me when I coax him from the room to take a shower, to come downstairs and listen to the Wireless with me while dinner’s being cooked. He isn’t pining away like George was; he’s just stopped fighting.
“He’s resting,” Mum reassures me, when I ask her worriedly about it. “His body and mind need it.”
I can see her point. Harry is losing that pinched, haunted look and starting to put some weight back on, which is great. He’d begun looking like he used to after a long summer at the Dursleys’. Even still, I want to take those bloody bottles and tip the contents of each down the sink, one at a time. My Harry was never like this, placidly sitting, day after day, like someone who’s suffered an unfortunate hex to the head.
On Sunday, he takes his first lower dose.
I break the seal, pull the cork and pass him the bottle. He’s already got his hand out for it, before I even offer it, and seeing that makes me feel a little ill. That same, measured swallow, and he gives it back to me. When I look up from replacing the bottle on the bedside table, his expression is one of mild confusion.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Fine,” he answers immediately, though there’s a furrow in his brow that says otherwise.
“Coming down for breakfast, today?”
I don’t expect him to say yes, since every other day he’s chosen to sleep a little longer, only staying awake long enough for Mum or me to bring him up a cup of tea and toast, but to my surprise, he pushes back the sheets. He seems to have trouble deciding what to wear, so I grab him a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and he puts them on without complaint.
For the first time in a week, he walks down the stairs on his own without my support, though he keeps a splayed hand on the wall for balance.
Mum keeps a sharp eye on Harry throughout breakfast, and urges him (although not with her usual vehemence) to take seconds of the bacon, eggs and sausages. Perhaps it’s because Harry doesn’t even roll his eyes at me in amusement, like he usually does when she mothers him, but politely takes more and attempts to eat it. Or it could be that she has seen the subtle signs that I have; the occasional glances towards the stairs when he thinks he’s not being watched.
After we’ve eaten, I lure him outside to sit in the shade under the apple trees. It’s a warm, lazy day, and it’s a particularly lovely weekend to be in the Devon countryside, and not in London, dressed in magenta robes and packing bags with joke products. If things were different, it’d be a wonderful day for a leisurely frot in the long, sweet grass, hidden from the main windows of the house as we are by the trees and the curve of the hill, but since that first night, he hasn’t shown the slightest interest in sex, so I don’t even ask. Even if he had brought it up, I don’t think would have felt right saying yes anyway; not with him so muddled.
Harry sits next to me, but he’s not chatty, and he seems restless. He shreds leaves and grass and bits of bark into tiny pieces, chewing his lip, only responding to my talk about the upcoming Quidditch season with lukewarm enthusiasm. He lasts until ten o’clock before escaping back to the house with the excuse of needing the toilet. I follow at a distance, and, sure enough, I find him in our bedroom, pulling things out of drawers.
“Where are they? The bottles, I need them. It’s not working,” he says, frantically.
“It’s working, Harry,” I say, keeping my voice as calm as I can. “It’s just a weaker dose, that’s all.”
“I need more! It’s not working. Where did you hide them?” He dumps out a drawer on the floor, contents scattering with a clatter.
“I didn’t hide them, Harry,” I reply, honestly. “I’ve been with you all morning.”
“You’re lying!” Harry shouts. He’s trembling all over, and his eyes are frightened and furious. “Tell me where they are!” He’s got his wand pointed at me, but before he can hex me, a steady voice from behind me says, “Expelliarmus!” and I turn to see Mum holding Harry’s wand as well as her own.
“Ron is not lying, Harry. I moved the bottles.” Harry doesn’t look any less angry. Rather, he looks highly pissed off at being disarmed by a woman wearing an apron patterned with slightly cartoonish cockerels. “Give us a moment, would you, dear? I think Harry has some things he’d like to say to me. Go on.”
She pushes me gently from the room and shuts the door, but doesn’t cast a Privacy Charm of any kind.
Then, she lets Harry shout.
I haven’t heard anything like it since the end of the summer holidays, years ago, at Grimmauld Place, when Harry had been kept in the dark about the Order.
And, more surprisingly, Mum doesn’t yell back for a long time. She just lets him rant and rave for minutes, venting his frustration in one long, rambling diatribe.
“You’re not my mum, so stop trying to be! You’ll never be my mum!” he screams at last.
“No, I’m not your mum!” she snaps, finally. “But I’m his! And if you think I’m going to stand back and let you hex him when he’s just trying to help you, you’d better think again!”
A long silence follows, as though both combatants are taking a breath, either to recover or in preparation for the next round.
“You’re hurting so much,” Mum says, so softly I can barely hear it through the door. “Is it really so hard to admit it? Is it worth losing him? Because you will, in the end, if you don’t let him in.”
Harry doesn’t reply. Instead, there is a strange choked sound, the shuffle of someone taking several steps, a shuddering intake of breath.
“Ron?” Mum says, a few moments later. “You can come in, now.”
Amidst the wreckage of our room, Harry stands in Mum’s arms, his head on her shoulder, his shoulders shaking as he sobs silently. At her nod, I come close, touch him gently, and he turns into my embrace. His blunt nails bite into my arms as he clings to me, as though he’s afraid to let go.
“I’ll make us a pot of tea,” Mum says, and she leaves to do just that.
<- 43. Preparation c@r 45. Renascence ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,247
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Plot! Fight! Hurt/comfort.
Summary: A preventative measure is taken.
A/N: Can't tell you when the next chapter will be out. A lot will depend on my health. Sorry for leaving things at such a moment, but there's not much I can do about that, right now. I hope you like it anyway.
Thank you to star54kar for the beta read.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
The first week Harry is on the Calming Draught passes swiftly enough. He doesn’t seem bored. In fact, he dozes and daydreams away most of the day, and sleeps heavily at night, without any apparent inclination to do anything more active. I give him books to read before I leave for work, but when I return home, they’re either exactly where I left them, or have been discarded after barely a glance. I suspect he can’t focus his thoughts enough to follow them.
Instead, he stares out the window.
It chills me each time I come home to find him sitting in bed, hair mussed from the pillow, looking out over the orchard. It doesn’t take much imagination to think back just over a year and paint his hair red instead of black.
Fortunately, Harry doesn’t fight me when I coax him from the room to take a shower, to come downstairs and listen to the Wireless with me while dinner’s being cooked. He isn’t pining away like George was; he’s just stopped fighting.
“He’s resting,” Mum reassures me, when I ask her worriedly about it. “His body and mind need it.”
I can see her point. Harry is losing that pinched, haunted look and starting to put some weight back on, which is great. He’d begun looking like he used to after a long summer at the Dursleys’. Even still, I want to take those bloody bottles and tip the contents of each down the sink, one at a time. My Harry was never like this, placidly sitting, day after day, like someone who’s suffered an unfortunate hex to the head.
On Sunday, he takes his first lower dose.
I break the seal, pull the cork and pass him the bottle. He’s already got his hand out for it, before I even offer it, and seeing that makes me feel a little ill. That same, measured swallow, and he gives it back to me. When I look up from replacing the bottle on the bedside table, his expression is one of mild confusion.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Fine,” he answers immediately, though there’s a furrow in his brow that says otherwise.
“Coming down for breakfast, today?”
I don’t expect him to say yes, since every other day he’s chosen to sleep a little longer, only staying awake long enough for Mum or me to bring him up a cup of tea and toast, but to my surprise, he pushes back the sheets. He seems to have trouble deciding what to wear, so I grab him a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and he puts them on without complaint.
For the first time in a week, he walks down the stairs on his own without my support, though he keeps a splayed hand on the wall for balance.
Mum keeps a sharp eye on Harry throughout breakfast, and urges him (although not with her usual vehemence) to take seconds of the bacon, eggs and sausages. Perhaps it’s because Harry doesn’t even roll his eyes at me in amusement, like he usually does when she mothers him, but politely takes more and attempts to eat it. Or it could be that she has seen the subtle signs that I have; the occasional glances towards the stairs when he thinks he’s not being watched.
After we’ve eaten, I lure him outside to sit in the shade under the apple trees. It’s a warm, lazy day, and it’s a particularly lovely weekend to be in the Devon countryside, and not in London, dressed in magenta robes and packing bags with joke products. If things were different, it’d be a wonderful day for a leisurely frot in the long, sweet grass, hidden from the main windows of the house as we are by the trees and the curve of the hill, but since that first night, he hasn’t shown the slightest interest in sex, so I don’t even ask. Even if he had brought it up, I don’t think would have felt right saying yes anyway; not with him so muddled.
Harry sits next to me, but he’s not chatty, and he seems restless. He shreds leaves and grass and bits of bark into tiny pieces, chewing his lip, only responding to my talk about the upcoming Quidditch season with lukewarm enthusiasm. He lasts until ten o’clock before escaping back to the house with the excuse of needing the toilet. I follow at a distance, and, sure enough, I find him in our bedroom, pulling things out of drawers.
“Where are they? The bottles, I need them. It’s not working,” he says, frantically.
“It’s working, Harry,” I say, keeping my voice as calm as I can. “It’s just a weaker dose, that’s all.”
“I need more! It’s not working. Where did you hide them?” He dumps out a drawer on the floor, contents scattering with a clatter.
“I didn’t hide them, Harry,” I reply, honestly. “I’ve been with you all morning.”
“You’re lying!” Harry shouts. He’s trembling all over, and his eyes are frightened and furious. “Tell me where they are!” He’s got his wand pointed at me, but before he can hex me, a steady voice from behind me says, “Expelliarmus!” and I turn to see Mum holding Harry’s wand as well as her own.
“Ron is not lying, Harry. I moved the bottles.” Harry doesn’t look any less angry. Rather, he looks highly pissed off at being disarmed by a woman wearing an apron patterned with slightly cartoonish cockerels. “Give us a moment, would you, dear? I think Harry has some things he’d like to say to me. Go on.”
She pushes me gently from the room and shuts the door, but doesn’t cast a Privacy Charm of any kind.
Then, she lets Harry shout.
I haven’t heard anything like it since the end of the summer holidays, years ago, at Grimmauld Place, when Harry had been kept in the dark about the Order.
And, more surprisingly, Mum doesn’t yell back for a long time. She just lets him rant and rave for minutes, venting his frustration in one long, rambling diatribe.
“You’re not my mum, so stop trying to be! You’ll never be my mum!” he screams at last.
“No, I’m not your mum!” she snaps, finally. “But I’m his! And if you think I’m going to stand back and let you hex him when he’s just trying to help you, you’d better think again!”
A long silence follows, as though both combatants are taking a breath, either to recover or in preparation for the next round.
“You’re hurting so much,” Mum says, so softly I can barely hear it through the door. “Is it really so hard to admit it? Is it worth losing him? Because you will, in the end, if you don’t let him in.”
Harry doesn’t reply. Instead, there is a strange choked sound, the shuffle of someone taking several steps, a shuddering intake of breath.
“Ron?” Mum says, a few moments later. “You can come in, now.”
Amidst the wreckage of our room, Harry stands in Mum’s arms, his head on her shoulder, his shoulders shaking as he sobs silently. At her nod, I come close, touch him gently, and he turns into my embrace. His blunt nails bite into my arms as he clings to me, as though he’s afraid to let go.
“I’ll make us a pot of tea,” Mum says, and she leaves to do just that.
<- 43. Preparation c@r 45. Renascence ->