Chapter Two.
Hermione awoke with a blanket thrown around her. Harry was gone, but his smell remained. Just beyond the sick smell of decay that clung to him there was the green grass and almond smell she had fallen in love with. It clung to the sofa cushions, and she found herself breathing it in.
It was normal, she told herself. She loved him. It was so normal. She wanted so badly for it to be normal, for them to be normal.
* * *
Harry had gone out with the intention of picking up breakfast.. He wanted something huge and bad for his body. He wanted something that tasted like life, and to him life tasted a lot like fried eggs, pancakes, and sausages. He had picked these things up, brown bagged and paid for when his leg gave out. He hit the pavement outside the market with a dull wet thud, like a dropped melon.
He was out cold for a few seconds, all dark and faint noise. When he came to there was a puddle of brackish blood where his head rested. People around him were rushing toward him. He got up from the pavement, brushed the people off and limped away. In the chaos of it all he forgot his brown bag which contained things that tasted like life.
* * *
When Ron was released from police custody, his behavior explained and reasoned to be dramatic but fair, he went home. Sitting in his living room, on his couch, he felt nothing. Same goddamn living room, same goddamn couch. Ron stood to pace the room. His legs screamed at him. Too much exercise in the last few days.
He sat back down, but soon stood again. He liked the strain he felt from standing up. He liked that he felt anything. He felt like someone had scooped him out, left him hollow. He felt raw and he felt numb and he wished that he understood how he could feel both.
He grabbed his jacket and left. Soon he was out jogging the London streets. He figured that when exhaustion finally took him he would sleep where he was. It turned out to be a park bench. He was so tired that he went instantly to sleep. It was the good long and dreamless sleep of the truly tired. He slept like he used to, when he was a child.
* * *
"Sometimes I just..." Hermione turned her head but Ginny nudged her on, "Well, I mean, it's not fair, is it?"
"No, it isn't." Ginny confirmed with a solemn nod.
"Because he's done so much, you know? He's bleed for this godforsaken place, and every time he gets a moment, just one fucking moment, of peace! It steps up to him and it asks him to just bleed a little more. And I love him, Gin, I love him so much and... and..." She dropped her head.
"I know, 'Mione. I know. We all love him."
"But why now? I mean... GODDAMN IT! Why now! He was... we were..."
"What do you feel? Just say it."
"I want to break something! I want to fight someone! But what's the fucking point? Right? Because it won't fix this. It won't make everything better. He's dying and here I sit, the cleverest witch of my age, and I can't do one fucking thing about it!" Hermione's eyes bulged. Tears spilled over, and Ginny could almost see her heart break.
Ginny moved in close and pulled her friend to her. She stroked her hair and held her. And together the two women sat and cried.
* * *
Harry put a bandage over his head, after the bleeding had stopped. So far he had refused to accept help with his day to day medical needs. Nothing would fix it. He was bruising so easily. His skin felt like it was waiting to be prodded so that it could burst open and fill his world with his thick, dark blood. He was afraid to scratch an itch.
He sat down in front of his bedroom mirror and looked at himself. He looked pale. He used to be so strong. Once he was a hero, now he was just one more sick person fighting through his remaining years. He let out a sigh. She would see the bandage unless he covered it.
He rummaged through his things until he turned up a baseball cap. He tucked his hair back and slid it forward on his forehead. He checked himself again in the mirror. He could see the bandage poking out under the hat. He moved it to better hid the bandage, but that failed to cover it too. He tried several other things before he realized that he couldn't hide it.
Harry, very calmly, got up and grabbed a cricket bat from the corner of his room. He began, with no passion at all, to smash his bedroom mirror into pieces. He flung the hat into a corner of the room and sat down on the bed while the adrenaline worked it's way out of his disgusting disease blood.
* * *
When Hermione got over to Harry's flat she found Harry sitting in the living room reading an old book. She noticed the bandages under his ball cap before she moved any further. She sat down next to him and touched his forehead.
"What happened?" She asked.
"Nothing." Harry said quietly.
"Are you okay?"
Harry dogeared his book and let out a sigh, "You know what? No. I'm dying, 'Mione. On my indicator for what's 'okay' and what isn't, dying weighs in at what isn't."
"Oh." She blinked, "That's the first time...I've never heard you complain about it before." She looked down and to the right, afraid to meet his eye.
"Yeah well, I'm getting tired of being asked if I'm okay." He shook his head, "Look at me, I'm taking this out on you. It isn't you fault." He moved her face to his own, "I'm sorry. I love you, I don't want to fight."
She kissed him and then leaned back, tears almost escaping her eyes, "I love you, too."
"This is too much, I know that." He smiled a sad and weak smile, "It sucks that it had to come to this. It sucks that..."
"You have to die." She finished with her jaw set firmly, "I don't...god, I don't even know how this can happen. It's not fair."
Harry cupped the back of her head, "Life isn't fair, beautiful. Don't expect otherwise."
She rolled her head against his hand, feeling as much of his skin on her own as possible, "I can't believe you're giving me advice."
"Man gets kind of wordy when his time is come." He nodded, "And me? I'm not going to be leaving anything behind."
"Except me." She kissed his shoulder, "You're leaving me behind."
He nodded and yanked his ball cap off, "I don't want to."
"Die?"
He looked at her, really looked at her, "Leave you behind." He turned away and stared at the fraying edges of his living room throw rug, "I've been ready to die since I was eleven. I did once already in fact."
"I know."
"You know, when I was there, in that place..." He sighed, "Nevermind."
She moved closer on the couch, pulled his hands into her own, "Tell me."
"It was my choice to come back or not. I didn't have to. I could have just stayed. I could have slept. There would have been peace."
"But you did come back."
Harry nodded, "Because he wasn't dead. Because I had to finish it."
"Are.... Do you mean to say that you wanted to die?"
Harry squeezed her hands, "That was then." He concentrated on her face, "This is now."
* * *
When Ron woke up he went home. He was still hollow inside. He still felt sick to his stomach, but now his body hurt.