Fic: Call it Affinity Part I
Title: Call it Affinity
Word Count: 6,975 total
Warnings: Angst, Confusion, AU, Underage
Rating: Pg here, nc-17 in the next part
Summary:One minute there are pawns stealing quaffles and rooks dodging bludgers, and the next it’s Potter, Harry, Harry Potter everywhere - and how could Ron have ever forgotten?
A/N: This was written for the Harry & Ron Fuh-Q-Fest over at
harry_and_ron
community.
Call it Affinity
Part I
Curfew started over four hours ago. Ron knows because he’s been casting tempus religiously ever few seconds. He’s never felt so time conscious before, of how it drags by sluggishly the more he watches. Ron hates it. After the first thirty minutes his pajamas began to itch and itch and itch until he finally tore everything off. After the second hour Ron couldn’t stay still. His bed became too small, the dormitory too dark and too cold. After the third, his skin crawled with unease; little shivers that made him want to scream. Now Ron’s stomach is churning, chest aching fiercely under an invisible weight.
Ron stares through the bed curtains to the empty four-poster next to his. Harry hasn’t come back yet. He’d gone off to Merlin only knows sometime during the night and hasn’t been seen since. Both the Map and invisibility cloak were whisked away with him. Harry could be anywhere. Ron whishes he was anywhere, too, and not just left behind forgotten.
Kicking back the bedcovers with a sigh of impatience, Ron rolls onto the floor. He tugs on yesterday’s robe hanging half out of his trunk. The top holds it snuggly in place. Using more strength than necessary, Ron’s lucky that the robe doesn’t snag and tear as it flies loose. Somebody snorts. He whirls around to stare at the door hopefully. Nothing. Ron keeps staring anyway.
“Oh, dear,” His mirror says, “I do apologize.”
“Piss off, will you?” Ron hisses in return, pausing as his voice cracks.
The mirror is graciously silent. Ron faces it reluctantly. He looks gaunt standing in the shadows in nothing more than a pair of underwear, skin crawling with gooseflesh. His vision shifts to the reflection of Harry’s bed, an unsteady hand reaching out to touch it in the mirror. Ron’s face pales, the image fogging under his breath. Bewildered by the hot tears that spill down his cheeks, Ron stumbles backwards. He trips over his book bag, clumsily catching himself on his bed post. His knees buckle.
Merlin, what’s wrong with me?
Ron’s hands are clutched around his robe, the Gryffindor red glowing like blood under the moonlight ghosting in from the windows. He hugs it to his chest and stands. The cold stone underfoot curls his toes. Ron walks to the door and out to the base of the girl’s dormitory, his forgotten robe held limply in his hand. The darkness within this passageway is absolute. Ron is overwhelmed with its presence. Every blink brings a flash of light then darkness, life then darkness. It is as if a grate is opening and closing before his eyes, revealing the possibility of affection - if not love - before steadfastly sliding shut. Ron is scarred with the image.
“Hermione!” Ron yells desperately, scrubbing leftover tears from his face, “’Mione, wake up!”
Lavender appears at the top of the stairs. She is swallowed by a pink dressing gown. Strands of hair stick out every which way from underneath a nightcap. Her face is set in a deep scowl, lips pursed so thin they’re barely visible.
“What the hell, Ron?” Lavender whines, “You’ve probably woken the whole bloody castle!”
“Just-” Ron’s breath hitches, his robe trailing through his fingers to the floor, “Get Hermione,” He bows his head, feeling the ache in his chest rupture.
“Shove over, Lavender,” Hermione orders, fully dressed and making her way down to him, “I’m here, Ron. What’s the matter?”
She stands before him quickly, tilting his face to meet hers. Hermione frowns. Ron can’t seem to breathe anymore. His chest heaves up and down, eyes squeezed firmly shut. Blood rushes in his ears, drowning out the sound of Hermione anxiously calling his name. Then he is falling, falling, floating high in the air with mobilicorpus engulfing him in an invisible bubble of invisible cushions that cradle his body gently.
With a jolt of bright light Ron is revived, lying on a hospital bed. He blinks and blinks again, eyes slowly adjusting to the staggering whiteness around him. The Hospital Wing, he’d know it anywhere even without Madam Pomfery hovering over him with her wand in his face. Ron always comes here frequently to visit when Harry…
Ron groans in pain, curling into a ball under the crisp sheets.
“His tears are purple,” Hermione supplies helpfully next to him, “I’ve read about the significance of colors before, so I know it’s important.”
“Purple, you say?” Madam Pomfrey asks, clucking her tongue in disapproval before she bustles around the infirmary to collect three potions on a tray, “That’s certainly unusual.”
“Yes, I know. Purple means sacrifice, so to have it as a symptom of an illness can’t be good, only I don’t actually know how.” Hermione sits on the edge of Ron’s bed, taking his hand in hers and looking frazzled, “Can you help him?”
Madam Pomfrey sets the tray of potions on the bedside table next to Ron before facing them again, “I will need to run some tests before I can be certain. While I do that, Mr. Weasley, please answer some questions."
Ron nods listlessly. It is all he can do to stay awake, but at least he knows now that something is definitely wrong with him. Merlin, he should have caught on sooner. Ron might have, too, if he hadn’t been so caught up in worrying about… someone.
“Where is the pain?” Madam Pomfrey asks, catching his wince.
Ron touches the concave of his stomach, his chest, the place above his heart; he points to his eyes and his lips, wiggles his fingers in the air. He knows he’s probably not being very helpful, but he’s just so tired.
Madam Pomfrey stares at him for a moment before she waves her wand in front of him, golden light streaming out in ropes to wrap around him from head to toe, “Anything else unusual?”
The light tingles around his body and Ron shivers. The pain in his chest has become more acute, heart pounding an erratic rhythm against his ribcage that Ron cannot follow. Then the spell fades and the golden ropes dissipate.
“Dunno,” Ron mumbles gruffly, “I wasn’t able to sleep earlier and… my skin was really sensitive?” Hermione smiles encouragingly at him, squeezing his hand, “I started feeling anxious. I almost sicked up a few times. And… I can’t stop crying. I- I feel like I want to sleep and never wake up.”
“Go on,” Madam Pomfrey urges, taking his hand to rub pixie dust on his wrist. Nothing happens, which Ron can tell is a bad thing because Madam Pomfrey shifts her posture in agitation. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“I feel… I feel like I need something, but I couldn’t tell you what if I wanted to.”
“Well,” Madam Pomfrey says, looking perplexed, “Why do you feel so anxious?”
She waves her wand again, a small swish and jab that emits a soft blue mist from the tip. The spell shimmers around him. While Ron feels exactly like he did two seconds ago, he can’t seem to speak at all.
Why do I feel anxious?
“He was probably waiting for Harry,” Hermione answers instead, “He wasn’t in the dorm when I found Ron. We needed him and he wasn’t there.”
Madam Pomfrey stops her spells and hands Ron his potions off of the tray, "I'm afraid I can’t be certain of what is currently ailing you. I'll need to conduct further research and consult the Headmaster about your condition before I’ll be able to provide you with anything concrete."
"You must have some idea!" Hermione says, "Can't you tell us anything?"
"As far as I can gather, Mr. Weasley is suffering from his magical core. As for his medical symptoms, I do not know what they mean or even if his feeling of affection are relevant to them at all."
“But you can treat me?” Ron mumbles, voice hoarse from discomfort, as he stares at his potions.
“Afraid not, Dear. I can only give you medicine to ease the pain. I cannot provide a cure for something I do not know.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” Hermione cries, looking back and forth from Madam Pomfrey to Ron, “If it’s his magical core, than you must be able to do something. What if he loses his magic?”
Madam Pomfrey shakes her head, sighing quietly, “Because magical cores are so sensitive, that is exactly why I am being so cautious.”
“How did this even happen anyway, Ron?” Hermione looks about as upset as Ron feels, but less nauseous. Her cheeks are flushed in consternation, eyes bright with unshed tears; Ron whishes that he had the energy to comfort her so that she’d stop worrying. They’d figure something out, they always did. They’d pull through this. It’s not like he was dying, or anything.
“Dunno,” Ron mumbles, downing the potions that Madam Pomfrey gives him. They taste vile, and though he can breathe easier, his heart still flutters painfully in his chest, “I was just waiting. I hate being left behind. Next thing I know I’m here.”
Ron can almost see the light bulb that flashes on above Hermione’s head as her face brightens with awareness. Then it shatters, eyes filling with pity. She sighs something that sounds vaguely like oh, Ron, but Ron can’t really tell because he’s quickly succumbing to sleep.
Ron doesn’t know how long he’s slept, but his body is stiff and the pain in his chest has returned with a vengeance. He spots three more potions lined up on the bedside table and drinks them greedily. Instant relief and Ron lets out a long, shuddering breath as he gingerly gets out of bed. His bladder is protesting. Cold air kisses his skin and Ron shivers, scratching absently at his bare stomach. He shuffles into the lavatory. After relieving himself, Ron is met with his reflection again. Ron regrets it. His eyes are dull and bloodshot, ringed by dark circles that contrast severely against his ashen face. Even his freckles look a shade paler.
There’s a knock on the door. Ron ignores it. He doesn’t much feel like speaking to anyone at the moment. The knock comes again, three insistent raps that have his ears ringing. Ron turns and swings the door open, glowering before he’s even turned the knob.
“What?” Ron snaps, voice dying in his throat.
It’s a boy. He’s standing there sweaty and puffing for air. His robe is streaked with slime, glasses askew on his nose. Ron tingles at the sight of him.
“Are you okay?” He asks, brandishing an old piece of parchment frantically between them, “I saw that you were in the infirmary and I’ve only just gotten back and what’s wrong with you?”
The boy’s eyes have gone wide, finally absorbing Ron’s lackluster appearance. Ron feels more self conscious then he probably should. So he pushes past him, flinching when the boy grabs his wrist. It’s on fire under his fingers.
“You’re hurting me,” Ron lies between clenched teeth, “Let go.”
The boy does. He follows Ron back to his sickbed. He eyes it as if he’d like to sit down, but thinks better of it. The boy takes the chair under the window, pulling back the drapes to reveal autumn sunshine. It’s bright and cheery and Ron doesn’t feel like smiling at all. His chest hurts, he can’t breathe, his mind is nothing more than a jumble of fleeting happenstance. He sits on the bed with a whoosh of dizziness, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. The boy is beside him in seconds.
“I’m fine,” Ron says, trying to be reassuring when it’s all he can do not to throw up.
The boy doesn’t believe him. Ron can tell by the way his jaw clenches; by the way Ron is given the look. The same one that says I’m The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-Your-Life-Miserable. He calls for Madam Pomfrey. She comes bustling around the divider curtain, wand at the ready.
“Out, Potter, out,” She demands at once, “You’re making him miserable.”
Potter’s protests prove unsuccessful as Madam Pomfrey spells him clean. Then she is yanking Potter away and pushing him out of the infirmary without so much as a good day. Ron doesn’t know if he groaning in relief or misery. His heart is protesting like it’s been pricked a thousand times all over by his mum’s sewing needles.
Madam Pomfrey pours more potions down Ron’s throat until his tongue is numb with the taste of them. She tucks him back into bed and he sleeps. He dreams of chess and quidditch. It is so bizarre that when the dream shifts, Ron hardly notices. One minute there are pawns stealing quaffles and rooks dodging bludgers, and the next it’s Potter, Harry, Harry Potter everywhere - and how could Ron have ever forgotten? There’s Scrawny Harry wearing overlarge clothes and clunky glasses, asking how to get to the Hogwarts Express. Vulnerable Harry with his nightmares and visions, scar angry and red on his forehead. Determined Harry saving him from the merpeople - what I’d miss most.
Ron wakes with a jolt, tangled in the linen. Sweat soaks his hair along with the lone tear trailing down his face. Ron stares blankly at the candle glowing above his bed, trying to burn away the images of a boy still playing through his mind. It doesn’t work, not even when Ron squeezes his eyes shut tight. Ron still sees him everywhere. A self deprecating sigh pushes past his chapped lips. Ron thinks that this is what is must feel like to fight off a pack of mountain trolls and come out the worse for it.
Ron wishes he was as smart as Hermione, then maybe he’d be able to figure out this mess he’d gotten himself stuck in. Ron is overwhelmed with the reality of it. He peels away the sheets and gets out of bed. While he grabs for his wand on the bedside table, he knocks over the potions provided by Madam Pomfrey with a shaky hand. The vials don’t break, but the potions ooze out into the tray. Ron watches them puddle together, their orange and green and white colorations swirling together lazily. He vaguely wonders if Madam Pomfrey will be more upset when she finds out that he’s gone or that he’s not taken his potions. Ron doesn’t let it stop him as he tears his eyes away from the mess he’s made, nor does he acknowledge the cold as he steps around his divider curtain and out of the infirmary.
Ron is met with the soft snoring of sleeping portraits, but the halls are otherwise silent as he moves through them. It’s possible that Filch, or Snape, or both could still be out and about, but Ron doubts it. He only happens upon Sir Nicholas. The ghost is floating through a wall in mindless sleep. Ron skirts around him and stumbles the rest of the way to the Entrance Hall. It feels weird to be there all alone without anyone beside him, but Ron tries not to let it bother him. He pushes the door open. The night is rainy and wet, a chilly breeze slapping his face when he steps outside. Ron is soaked in seconds, hair plastering to his neck and face. His boxers rub uncomfortably against his thighs. They become so waterlogged that when they slip off his waist, Ron lets them fall to the ground.
Naked and unconsciously shivering, Ron trudges to the lake. Grass snags at his feet, mud splattering up his legs. Ron ignores it. He clambers over the rocks to the shore, where he stares resolutely at the wide expanse of water before him. It shines black and smooth under the light of a gibbous moon; occasional ripples shatter the Lake’s calm façade. Fish jump to catch insects and grindylows jump to catch fish. It probably would have been amusing if Ron was actually watching. He is too busy seeing something else.
The mind’s eye is remarkably strange when it wants to be. Who would have ever thought that Ron would daydream about cupboards with friendly spiders and frying eggs on a stovetop? Ron has never used a stovetop in his life! But it isn’t much of a daydream, because it quickly fuzzes and shifts into something else. A dark room, with cold stone and plush rugs; beds and trunks lined the circular walls that were dotted with windows overlooking nothing but darkness. The beds are occupied, but Ron can’t make out faces, doesn’t even care to. He is moving closer to one four poster in particular, but with each step he takes his vision blurs more and more until Ron can barely see anything at all. Ron reaches out, fingers ghosting over someone’s mouth, cheeks, nose. He rests his hand on their forehead.
Ron jolts back into awareness, blinking away whatever it is he was seeing furiously until it’s just him and the grass and the grindylows. He’s gasping and floundering in the surf that laps against his heaving chest. The sun is beginning to rise and peek, illuminating the sky with vivid yellows and pinks. Ron finds this strange, but can’t seem to remember why. Something brushes against his feet underwater, tickling the pads of his toes. Ron kicks it away. His body is numb with cold, joints aching while he pulls himself away and out of the Lake.
The rain has stopped, but the dawn is still as chilly as before. Grime and muck clings to his body and Ron tries to brush it off with indifferent distaste. It smears. His paleness is masked by lumpy brownish black, small rocks scraping down his arms and legs and chest with every sloppy swipe of his hands. Ron hardly notices. Sunken ankle deep in earth, Ron squelches his way free. Birds chirp sweetly from surrounding trees as he staggers across the school grounds. He follows their songs mindlessly. Time means nothing anymore. Images of a four poster bed haunt him. Ron holds his right hand high in the air, cupping his palm against the glowing sun. It’s not just the sun’s warmth that he feels. Ron swears that he feels something else, too.
A wet cough forces its way up Ron’s esophagus. It sears as it rises, bringing with it the metallic taste of blood. Pain reawakens in his chest. This time its rage is more potent and it spreads throughout Ron’s body. He claws frantically at the source, trying to tear through his own flesh to get the terrible hurt out. It’s his screams that bring people running. By the time Professor Sprout and her class of fourth years reach him, Ron has gone silent and still. The pain has not disappeared, only dulled to an insistent throb.
Professor Sprout immediately forces everyone to back away. She summons Madam Pomfrey with a speedy expecto patronum, a silvery sparrow flying straight from the tip of her want to the high windows of the hospital wing. Ron flounders on the ground. He can’t remember falling. His stomach heaves and puke and blood pool from his mouth. Gasps echo all around him and Ron acknowledges them with a faint groan. He feels like he’s falling apart.
Madam Promfrey finally arrives, Professor Snape right on her heals. Unfamiliar spells are spoken and potions are poured down his throat. Ron can’t keep them down. The world becomes one giant blur.
“Take your students and go, Pomona,” Madam Pomfrey says, not looking from Ron who was still lying on the ground, “They needn’t see this.”
Professor Sprout nods and herds the fourth years away. Once they are out of earshot, Madam Pomfrey speaks again.
“He’s dying, Severus, and I can do nothing to stop it,” Her voice cracks near the end.
In all of her years as Hogwarts’ mediwitch, Poppy Pomfrey has never once lost a student. She frequently prides herself on her expertise. Now all she feels is helpless. Young Ronald Weasley’s body is slowly dying from the inside out, his magical core a swirling chaos of rot. Madam Pomfrey can’t do anything to fix him. All she can do is prolong the inevitable.
“I’ll fetch the Headmaster, shall I?” Professor Snape answers coolly, hiding his surprise by swiftly marching back to the castle.
Madam Pomfrey tuts sadly before busying herself with transporting Ron to the Hospital Wing. At least they had found him. It had been quite the unpleasant surprise to find that Ron had left sometime during the night. He’d been missing ever since.
Headmaster Dumbledore is already present when Madam Pomfrey and Ron arrive. She tucks Ron back into his bed. Sweat beads down his forehead, cheeks flushed a cherry red.
“I’ve contacted his family. They are waiting in my office,” The Headmaster murmurs softly, his eyes void of any twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles.
“What of Miss Granger?” Madam Pomfrey asks, “And has Mr. Potter been found yet?”
Ron instantly feels sick but doesn’t know why. It’s like he’s worried for this Mr. Potter, but that’s ridiculous. Ron doesn’t even know who he is. He should be worrying about himself. An anti-nausea potion is administered to him. Madam Pomfrey makes sure that it stays down for over a minute before she gives him the strongest pain potion that she has. Ron’s eyes instantly roll back into his head and he passes out cold. His breathing is still labored.
Hermione is there when Ron wakes. He tells her that just because he keeps passing out doesn’t mean that he is any less of a man. She smiles and laughs and tears spill from her eyes. Soon she’s sobbing and hugging him gently. Ron pulls her tighter against him; he’s not about to break.
“Am I dying?” Ron asks calmly once Hermione quiets.
“No,” She says fiercely, bushy hair tangled and wild as she shakes her head in denial, “No, no you can’t be!”
Ron can say no more. He lays back on his bed, gingerly pulling the bedcovers up to his chin. He always thought that he would live a long life. Most wizards do. Now Ron doesn’t know what to think. He hopes it is only Madam Pomfrey’s potions that have numbed him to the core.
The hospital curtain is pulled aside. Ron peers around Hermione to see who it is. He almost doesn’t recognize the boy at first. Then Ron remembers that Madam Pomfrey called him Potter earlier. So this was the missing boy.
Just like me. I was missing, too.
“Shite!” Hermione whisper-yells, “Where the bloody hell have you been?”
Ron is surprised that Hermione is swearing. She never swears. And she definitely shouldn’t talk to strangers like that, even if she is angry.
“Sorry, ‘Mione. I lost track of time,” Potter apologizes; Ron doubts that that excuse will appease her.
“Lost track of time where? Ron went missing last night. If you had been here, then maybe we could have used the map. Instead Professor Sprout and her fourth years found him screaming bloody murder! Maybe if you had been here Ron wouldn’t be…” Hermione trailed off quietly, her anger abruptly curbed by her grief.
“Ron’s what?” Potter says, looking back and forth between the two of them, “What’s wrong with you?”
Ron thinks that that is a very personal question for a stranger to be asking. Even if Ron’s whole body is aware of Potter’s presence, why would he want to answer that?
“I’m sorry,” Ron says, “But who are you?
Word Count: 6,975 total
Warnings: Angst, Confusion, AU, Underage
Rating: Pg here, nc-17 in the next part
Summary:One minute there are pawns stealing quaffles and rooks dodging bludgers, and the next it’s Potter, Harry, Harry Potter everywhere - and how could Ron have ever forgotten?
A/N: This was written for the Harry & Ron Fuh-Q-Fest over at
harry_and_ron
community.
Call it Affinity
Part I
Curfew started over four hours ago. Ron knows because he’s been casting tempus religiously ever few seconds. He’s never felt so time conscious before, of how it drags by sluggishly the more he watches. Ron hates it. After the first thirty minutes his pajamas began to itch and itch and itch until he finally tore everything off. After the second hour Ron couldn’t stay still. His bed became too small, the dormitory too dark and too cold. After the third, his skin crawled with unease; little shivers that made him want to scream. Now Ron’s stomach is churning, chest aching fiercely under an invisible weight.
Ron stares through the bed curtains to the empty four-poster next to his. Harry hasn’t come back yet. He’d gone off to Merlin only knows sometime during the night and hasn’t been seen since. Both the Map and invisibility cloak were whisked away with him. Harry could be anywhere. Ron whishes he was anywhere, too, and not just left behind forgotten.
Kicking back the bedcovers with a sigh of impatience, Ron rolls onto the floor. He tugs on yesterday’s robe hanging half out of his trunk. The top holds it snuggly in place. Using more strength than necessary, Ron’s lucky that the robe doesn’t snag and tear as it flies loose. Somebody snorts. He whirls around to stare at the door hopefully. Nothing. Ron keeps staring anyway.
“Oh, dear,” His mirror says, “I do apologize.”
“Piss off, will you?” Ron hisses in return, pausing as his voice cracks.
The mirror is graciously silent. Ron faces it reluctantly. He looks gaunt standing in the shadows in nothing more than a pair of underwear, skin crawling with gooseflesh. His vision shifts to the reflection of Harry’s bed, an unsteady hand reaching out to touch it in the mirror. Ron’s face pales, the image fogging under his breath. Bewildered by the hot tears that spill down his cheeks, Ron stumbles backwards. He trips over his book bag, clumsily catching himself on his bed post. His knees buckle.
Merlin, what’s wrong with me?
Ron’s hands are clutched around his robe, the Gryffindor red glowing like blood under the moonlight ghosting in from the windows. He hugs it to his chest and stands. The cold stone underfoot curls his toes. Ron walks to the door and out to the base of the girl’s dormitory, his forgotten robe held limply in his hand. The darkness within this passageway is absolute. Ron is overwhelmed with its presence. Every blink brings a flash of light then darkness, life then darkness. It is as if a grate is opening and closing before his eyes, revealing the possibility of affection - if not love - before steadfastly sliding shut. Ron is scarred with the image.
“Hermione!” Ron yells desperately, scrubbing leftover tears from his face, “’Mione, wake up!”
Lavender appears at the top of the stairs. She is swallowed by a pink dressing gown. Strands of hair stick out every which way from underneath a nightcap. Her face is set in a deep scowl, lips pursed so thin they’re barely visible.
“What the hell, Ron?” Lavender whines, “You’ve probably woken the whole bloody castle!”
“Just-” Ron’s breath hitches, his robe trailing through his fingers to the floor, “Get Hermione,” He bows his head, feeling the ache in his chest rupture.
“Shove over, Lavender,” Hermione orders, fully dressed and making her way down to him, “I’m here, Ron. What’s the matter?”
She stands before him quickly, tilting his face to meet hers. Hermione frowns. Ron can’t seem to breathe anymore. His chest heaves up and down, eyes squeezed firmly shut. Blood rushes in his ears, drowning out the sound of Hermione anxiously calling his name. Then he is falling, falling, floating high in the air with mobilicorpus engulfing him in an invisible bubble of invisible cushions that cradle his body gently.
With a jolt of bright light Ron is revived, lying on a hospital bed. He blinks and blinks again, eyes slowly adjusting to the staggering whiteness around him. The Hospital Wing, he’d know it anywhere even without Madam Pomfery hovering over him with her wand in his face. Ron always comes here frequently to visit when Harry…
Ron groans in pain, curling into a ball under the crisp sheets.
“His tears are purple,” Hermione supplies helpfully next to him, “I’ve read about the significance of colors before, so I know it’s important.”
“Purple, you say?” Madam Pomfrey asks, clucking her tongue in disapproval before she bustles around the infirmary to collect three potions on a tray, “That’s certainly unusual.”
“Yes, I know. Purple means sacrifice, so to have it as a symptom of an illness can’t be good, only I don’t actually know how.” Hermione sits on the edge of Ron’s bed, taking his hand in hers and looking frazzled, “Can you help him?”
Madam Pomfrey sets the tray of potions on the bedside table next to Ron before facing them again, “I will need to run some tests before I can be certain. While I do that, Mr. Weasley, please answer some questions."
Ron nods listlessly. It is all he can do to stay awake, but at least he knows now that something is definitely wrong with him. Merlin, he should have caught on sooner. Ron might have, too, if he hadn’t been so caught up in worrying about… someone.
“Where is the pain?” Madam Pomfrey asks, catching his wince.
Ron touches the concave of his stomach, his chest, the place above his heart; he points to his eyes and his lips, wiggles his fingers in the air. He knows he’s probably not being very helpful, but he’s just so tired.
Madam Pomfrey stares at him for a moment before she waves her wand in front of him, golden light streaming out in ropes to wrap around him from head to toe, “Anything else unusual?”
The light tingles around his body and Ron shivers. The pain in his chest has become more acute, heart pounding an erratic rhythm against his ribcage that Ron cannot follow. Then the spell fades and the golden ropes dissipate.
“Dunno,” Ron mumbles gruffly, “I wasn’t able to sleep earlier and… my skin was really sensitive?” Hermione smiles encouragingly at him, squeezing his hand, “I started feeling anxious. I almost sicked up a few times. And… I can’t stop crying. I- I feel like I want to sleep and never wake up.”
“Go on,” Madam Pomfrey urges, taking his hand to rub pixie dust on his wrist. Nothing happens, which Ron can tell is a bad thing because Madam Pomfrey shifts her posture in agitation. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“I feel… I feel like I need something, but I couldn’t tell you what if I wanted to.”
“Well,” Madam Pomfrey says, looking perplexed, “Why do you feel so anxious?”
She waves her wand again, a small swish and jab that emits a soft blue mist from the tip. The spell shimmers around him. While Ron feels exactly like he did two seconds ago, he can’t seem to speak at all.
Why do I feel anxious?
“He was probably waiting for Harry,” Hermione answers instead, “He wasn’t in the dorm when I found Ron. We needed him and he wasn’t there.”
Madam Pomfrey stops her spells and hands Ron his potions off of the tray, "I'm afraid I can’t be certain of what is currently ailing you. I'll need to conduct further research and consult the Headmaster about your condition before I’ll be able to provide you with anything concrete."
"You must have some idea!" Hermione says, "Can't you tell us anything?"
"As far as I can gather, Mr. Weasley is suffering from his magical core. As for his medical symptoms, I do not know what they mean or even if his feeling of affection are relevant to them at all."
“But you can treat me?” Ron mumbles, voice hoarse from discomfort, as he stares at his potions.
“Afraid not, Dear. I can only give you medicine to ease the pain. I cannot provide a cure for something I do not know.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” Hermione cries, looking back and forth from Madam Pomfrey to Ron, “If it’s his magical core, than you must be able to do something. What if he loses his magic?”
Madam Pomfrey shakes her head, sighing quietly, “Because magical cores are so sensitive, that is exactly why I am being so cautious.”
“How did this even happen anyway, Ron?” Hermione looks about as upset as Ron feels, but less nauseous. Her cheeks are flushed in consternation, eyes bright with unshed tears; Ron whishes that he had the energy to comfort her so that she’d stop worrying. They’d figure something out, they always did. They’d pull through this. It’s not like he was dying, or anything.
“Dunno,” Ron mumbles, downing the potions that Madam Pomfrey gives him. They taste vile, and though he can breathe easier, his heart still flutters painfully in his chest, “I was just waiting. I hate being left behind. Next thing I know I’m here.”
Ron can almost see the light bulb that flashes on above Hermione’s head as her face brightens with awareness. Then it shatters, eyes filling with pity. She sighs something that sounds vaguely like oh, Ron, but Ron can’t really tell because he’s quickly succumbing to sleep.
Ron doesn’t know how long he’s slept, but his body is stiff and the pain in his chest has returned with a vengeance. He spots three more potions lined up on the bedside table and drinks them greedily. Instant relief and Ron lets out a long, shuddering breath as he gingerly gets out of bed. His bladder is protesting. Cold air kisses his skin and Ron shivers, scratching absently at his bare stomach. He shuffles into the lavatory. After relieving himself, Ron is met with his reflection again. Ron regrets it. His eyes are dull and bloodshot, ringed by dark circles that contrast severely against his ashen face. Even his freckles look a shade paler.
There’s a knock on the door. Ron ignores it. He doesn’t much feel like speaking to anyone at the moment. The knock comes again, three insistent raps that have his ears ringing. Ron turns and swings the door open, glowering before he’s even turned the knob.
“What?” Ron snaps, voice dying in his throat.
It’s a boy. He’s standing there sweaty and puffing for air. His robe is streaked with slime, glasses askew on his nose. Ron tingles at the sight of him.
“Are you okay?” He asks, brandishing an old piece of parchment frantically between them, “I saw that you were in the infirmary and I’ve only just gotten back and what’s wrong with you?”
The boy’s eyes have gone wide, finally absorbing Ron’s lackluster appearance. Ron feels more self conscious then he probably should. So he pushes past him, flinching when the boy grabs his wrist. It’s on fire under his fingers.
“You’re hurting me,” Ron lies between clenched teeth, “Let go.”
The boy does. He follows Ron back to his sickbed. He eyes it as if he’d like to sit down, but thinks better of it. The boy takes the chair under the window, pulling back the drapes to reveal autumn sunshine. It’s bright and cheery and Ron doesn’t feel like smiling at all. His chest hurts, he can’t breathe, his mind is nothing more than a jumble of fleeting happenstance. He sits on the bed with a whoosh of dizziness, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. The boy is beside him in seconds.
“I’m fine,” Ron says, trying to be reassuring when it’s all he can do not to throw up.
The boy doesn’t believe him. Ron can tell by the way his jaw clenches; by the way Ron is given the look. The same one that says I’m The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-Your-Life-Miserable. He calls for Madam Pomfrey. She comes bustling around the divider curtain, wand at the ready.
“Out, Potter, out,” She demands at once, “You’re making him miserable.”
Potter’s protests prove unsuccessful as Madam Pomfrey spells him clean. Then she is yanking Potter away and pushing him out of the infirmary without so much as a good day. Ron doesn’t know if he groaning in relief or misery. His heart is protesting like it’s been pricked a thousand times all over by his mum’s sewing needles.
Madam Pomfrey pours more potions down Ron’s throat until his tongue is numb with the taste of them. She tucks him back into bed and he sleeps. He dreams of chess and quidditch. It is so bizarre that when the dream shifts, Ron hardly notices. One minute there are pawns stealing quaffles and rooks dodging bludgers, and the next it’s Potter, Harry, Harry Potter everywhere - and how could Ron have ever forgotten? There’s Scrawny Harry wearing overlarge clothes and clunky glasses, asking how to get to the Hogwarts Express. Vulnerable Harry with his nightmares and visions, scar angry and red on his forehead. Determined Harry saving him from the merpeople - what I’d miss most.
Ron wakes with a jolt, tangled in the linen. Sweat soaks his hair along with the lone tear trailing down his face. Ron stares blankly at the candle glowing above his bed, trying to burn away the images of a boy still playing through his mind. It doesn’t work, not even when Ron squeezes his eyes shut tight. Ron still sees him everywhere. A self deprecating sigh pushes past his chapped lips. Ron thinks that this is what is must feel like to fight off a pack of mountain trolls and come out the worse for it.
Ron wishes he was as smart as Hermione, then maybe he’d be able to figure out this mess he’d gotten himself stuck in. Ron is overwhelmed with the reality of it. He peels away the sheets and gets out of bed. While he grabs for his wand on the bedside table, he knocks over the potions provided by Madam Pomfrey with a shaky hand. The vials don’t break, but the potions ooze out into the tray. Ron watches them puddle together, their orange and green and white colorations swirling together lazily. He vaguely wonders if Madam Pomfrey will be more upset when she finds out that he’s gone or that he’s not taken his potions. Ron doesn’t let it stop him as he tears his eyes away from the mess he’s made, nor does he acknowledge the cold as he steps around his divider curtain and out of the infirmary.
Ron is met with the soft snoring of sleeping portraits, but the halls are otherwise silent as he moves through them. It’s possible that Filch, or Snape, or both could still be out and about, but Ron doubts it. He only happens upon Sir Nicholas. The ghost is floating through a wall in mindless sleep. Ron skirts around him and stumbles the rest of the way to the Entrance Hall. It feels weird to be there all alone without anyone beside him, but Ron tries not to let it bother him. He pushes the door open. The night is rainy and wet, a chilly breeze slapping his face when he steps outside. Ron is soaked in seconds, hair plastering to his neck and face. His boxers rub uncomfortably against his thighs. They become so waterlogged that when they slip off his waist, Ron lets them fall to the ground.
Naked and unconsciously shivering, Ron trudges to the lake. Grass snags at his feet, mud splattering up his legs. Ron ignores it. He clambers over the rocks to the shore, where he stares resolutely at the wide expanse of water before him. It shines black and smooth under the light of a gibbous moon; occasional ripples shatter the Lake’s calm façade. Fish jump to catch insects and grindylows jump to catch fish. It probably would have been amusing if Ron was actually watching. He is too busy seeing something else.
The mind’s eye is remarkably strange when it wants to be. Who would have ever thought that Ron would daydream about cupboards with friendly spiders and frying eggs on a stovetop? Ron has never used a stovetop in his life! But it isn’t much of a daydream, because it quickly fuzzes and shifts into something else. A dark room, with cold stone and plush rugs; beds and trunks lined the circular walls that were dotted with windows overlooking nothing but darkness. The beds are occupied, but Ron can’t make out faces, doesn’t even care to. He is moving closer to one four poster in particular, but with each step he takes his vision blurs more and more until Ron can barely see anything at all. Ron reaches out, fingers ghosting over someone’s mouth, cheeks, nose. He rests his hand on their forehead.
Ron jolts back into awareness, blinking away whatever it is he was seeing furiously until it’s just him and the grass and the grindylows. He’s gasping and floundering in the surf that laps against his heaving chest. The sun is beginning to rise and peek, illuminating the sky with vivid yellows and pinks. Ron finds this strange, but can’t seem to remember why. Something brushes against his feet underwater, tickling the pads of his toes. Ron kicks it away. His body is numb with cold, joints aching while he pulls himself away and out of the Lake.
The rain has stopped, but the dawn is still as chilly as before. Grime and muck clings to his body and Ron tries to brush it off with indifferent distaste. It smears. His paleness is masked by lumpy brownish black, small rocks scraping down his arms and legs and chest with every sloppy swipe of his hands. Ron hardly notices. Sunken ankle deep in earth, Ron squelches his way free. Birds chirp sweetly from surrounding trees as he staggers across the school grounds. He follows their songs mindlessly. Time means nothing anymore. Images of a four poster bed haunt him. Ron holds his right hand high in the air, cupping his palm against the glowing sun. It’s not just the sun’s warmth that he feels. Ron swears that he feels something else, too.
A wet cough forces its way up Ron’s esophagus. It sears as it rises, bringing with it the metallic taste of blood. Pain reawakens in his chest. This time its rage is more potent and it spreads throughout Ron’s body. He claws frantically at the source, trying to tear through his own flesh to get the terrible hurt out. It’s his screams that bring people running. By the time Professor Sprout and her class of fourth years reach him, Ron has gone silent and still. The pain has not disappeared, only dulled to an insistent throb.
Professor Sprout immediately forces everyone to back away. She summons Madam Pomfrey with a speedy expecto patronum, a silvery sparrow flying straight from the tip of her want to the high windows of the hospital wing. Ron flounders on the ground. He can’t remember falling. His stomach heaves and puke and blood pool from his mouth. Gasps echo all around him and Ron acknowledges them with a faint groan. He feels like he’s falling apart.
Madam Promfrey finally arrives, Professor Snape right on her heals. Unfamiliar spells are spoken and potions are poured down his throat. Ron can’t keep them down. The world becomes one giant blur.
“Take your students and go, Pomona,” Madam Pomfrey says, not looking from Ron who was still lying on the ground, “They needn’t see this.”
Professor Sprout nods and herds the fourth years away. Once they are out of earshot, Madam Pomfrey speaks again.
“He’s dying, Severus, and I can do nothing to stop it,” Her voice cracks near the end.
In all of her years as Hogwarts’ mediwitch, Poppy Pomfrey has never once lost a student. She frequently prides herself on her expertise. Now all she feels is helpless. Young Ronald Weasley’s body is slowly dying from the inside out, his magical core a swirling chaos of rot. Madam Pomfrey can’t do anything to fix him. All she can do is prolong the inevitable.
“I’ll fetch the Headmaster, shall I?” Professor Snape answers coolly, hiding his surprise by swiftly marching back to the castle.
Madam Pomfrey tuts sadly before busying herself with transporting Ron to the Hospital Wing. At least they had found him. It had been quite the unpleasant surprise to find that Ron had left sometime during the night. He’d been missing ever since.
Headmaster Dumbledore is already present when Madam Pomfrey and Ron arrive. She tucks Ron back into his bed. Sweat beads down his forehead, cheeks flushed a cherry red.
“I’ve contacted his family. They are waiting in my office,” The Headmaster murmurs softly, his eyes void of any twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles.
“What of Miss Granger?” Madam Pomfrey asks, “And has Mr. Potter been found yet?”
Ron instantly feels sick but doesn’t know why. It’s like he’s worried for this Mr. Potter, but that’s ridiculous. Ron doesn’t even know who he is. He should be worrying about himself. An anti-nausea potion is administered to him. Madam Pomfrey makes sure that it stays down for over a minute before she gives him the strongest pain potion that she has. Ron’s eyes instantly roll back into his head and he passes out cold. His breathing is still labored.
Hermione is there when Ron wakes. He tells her that just because he keeps passing out doesn’t mean that he is any less of a man. She smiles and laughs and tears spill from her eyes. Soon she’s sobbing and hugging him gently. Ron pulls her tighter against him; he’s not about to break.
“Am I dying?” Ron asks calmly once Hermione quiets.
“No,” She says fiercely, bushy hair tangled and wild as she shakes her head in denial, “No, no you can’t be!”
Ron can say no more. He lays back on his bed, gingerly pulling the bedcovers up to his chin. He always thought that he would live a long life. Most wizards do. Now Ron doesn’t know what to think. He hopes it is only Madam Pomfrey’s potions that have numbed him to the core.
The hospital curtain is pulled aside. Ron peers around Hermione to see who it is. He almost doesn’t recognize the boy at first. Then Ron remembers that Madam Pomfrey called him Potter earlier. So this was the missing boy.
Just like me. I was missing, too.
“Shite!” Hermione whisper-yells, “Where the bloody hell have you been?”
Ron is surprised that Hermione is swearing. She never swears. And she definitely shouldn’t talk to strangers like that, even if she is angry.
“Sorry, ‘Mione. I lost track of time,” Potter apologizes; Ron doubts that that excuse will appease her.
“Lost track of time where? Ron went missing last night. If you had been here, then maybe we could have used the map. Instead Professor Sprout and her fourth years found him screaming bloody murder! Maybe if you had been here Ron wouldn’t be…” Hermione trailed off quietly, her anger abruptly curbed by her grief.
“Ron’s what?” Potter says, looking back and forth between the two of them, “What’s wrong with you?”
Ron thinks that that is a very personal question for a stranger to be asking. Even if Ron’s whole body is aware of Potter’s presence, why would he want to answer that?
“I’m sorry,” Ron says, “But who are you?