Change Comes From Words

All previous disclaimers apply.

Author’s note: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed my last chapter. As I’ve said, I’ve never had a reaction like this to anything I have ever written and it’s absolutely incredible for me. I’ve become a bit addicted to reviews, I think. But, as always, they will never be a requirement for me to continue. But, still, I really like them. (If you’re not getting this, it is my shameless plea for reviews, even though I don’t need them to keep writing.) Thanks again to everyone who has and continues to review. Now, I’m going to shut up.


“Back again, Harry?”

Harry Potter was awakened rudely from his sitting doze by the quiet, sad voice. For a moment he blinked confusedly, certain that the voice belonged to Albus Dumbledore. He had been asked the same exact question before by the man and just after his mumbled answer had been given some of the soundest advice he had ever received. But, tired as he was, heartsick as he was, and no matter how much he needed some sound advice right at the moment he knew through his sleep clouded mind that Albus Dumbledore was dead. He had been killed by Severus Snape nearly two and a half years earlier. No amount of wishing he was here to impart even just a few words of wisdom was going to raise him from the dead. So, he took off his glasses, wiped the last remains of sleep from his eyes, shook his head a little to clear it of sleep, and turned to look at who had spoken.

“Seems you can’t come awake on a dime like Hermoine and Viktor either. I envy them that. It would be a good skill to have. Take a moment and wake up.”

Arthur Weasley smiled gently at the young man blinking at him like an owl. After a moment Harry shook his head again and put his glasses back on.

“ ‘m awake,” he mumbled, pushing his unruly black hair away from his eyes and beginning to stand.

“Don’t get up,” Arthur held up a hand, “No need for protocol or politeness here. This is a place for family. No change today?”

“None,” Harry sighed and sat back down as Arthur walked completely into the room and sat in the chair next to Harry’s. For a moment they were both silent as they gazed upon the figure in the bed.

Ronald Weasley could have been sleeping were it not for the few telltale signs to the contrary. His pale face was peaceful, his breathing was even. And yet, the very thing that allowed him to breathe evenly was the one thing that Harry had hated to see on him more than anything else. For the past six months this room at Saint Mungo’s had belonged to Ron Weasley. Ever since the day Harry had found him on the battlefield, wounded and, by all appearances, on the edge of death. But, Ron hadn’t died. His enemies hadn’t been that kind. Ron lived on, looking like he was sleeping peacefully. A sleep, it seemed, he would never wake from. All poisons had been ruled out and the spell was impossible to trace.

Harry had told the mediwitches and wizards that in the muggle world this was called a coma. It had caught on with them. For six months they had faithfully taken care of the prone young wizard. A modified bubble charm made certain that there was always a flow of oxygen to his lungs. Enchanted sleeps, poisons, they knew how to deal with such things, but no matter what they tried he just stayed asleep. And so, they tended to him as if he were any other patient that would wake soon enough.

That was, they tended to him when Harry allowed it. For six months he had been at Saint Mungo’s every day it was possible, sitting by Ron’s bed, talking to him as if they were having a conversation. With the help of one of Ron’s family, Hermoine, Viktor, or any number of any of their friends, he spooned broth down Ron’s throat, bathed him with sponges, exercised the muscles in his legs and arms so that when Ron came to they would still be useable, if a bit weak. Harry never allowed himself to think in terms of if. It was always when. When Ron woke up. Harry had every confidence that someday Ron would wake up. He had to. There was no other option.

“None” Harry repeated quietly and shook his head, “No change. How’s Fred?”

“Fine. He’s going to be just fine. A bit sore for a while. If . . . if anyone attacks in the next week or so he won’t be much help, but . . . He’s going to be fine.”

“Has you-know-who had any luck in finding where Voldemort is hiding yet?” It always gave Harry a bitter, ironic amusement that at one time you-know-who had been used to describe Voldemort himself and now, for the members of the Order, it had come to stand for the one ally they had in the Death Eaters. They never spoke his name, just in case. Spies could be anywhere.

“No. His last report came in just before I left. ‘S why I’m here to see you actually. He’s still not sure of Voldemort’s location, but he’s confident that he will know soon. Because of some of our little staged theatrics he’s quickly becoming a favorite among Voldemort’s generals.”

“And he’s safe?” Harry pressed.

“As safe as can be expected, given his current situation.”

“Good. I’d rather not lose any more friends to this bloody war." Every once in a while things became to hard for Harry to hold in. As hard as he tried to prevent it, his voice and mind betrayed him and he continued, "Why doesn’t he just come out of hiding, Arthur? This war is as miserable for his followers as it is for us! More so, considering how many he’s lost. Why can’t we just end it all? I’m so tired of blood, of pain. I’m so tired of battles and the whole world living in fear of where he’ll strike next just to draw us out!”

“We’re all tired of it Harry." Arthur set a steadying, comforting hand to Harry's shoulder and spoke quietly, barely above a whisper, "War is hell. That is why he won’t finish it. He likes the turmoil, Harry. He likes the turmoil and grief of a father when his children are killed in cold blood. He especially loves the hell it puts his greatest enemy in when he comes back day after day to his best mate’s beside only to know that his best mate is still there just as he was when he left. He loves the hell his greatest enemy puts himself through when every day he blames himself for what happened on that battlefeild. He shouldn't have left him alone. He should have been there to protect him. These killing thoughts give Voldemort pleasure. He loves the hell that the young man is put through when every day he questions if there was something else he should have done. If there was anything else he could have done while he sat in the mud with his best mate in his arms. He loves the hell caused when everyone else knows there was not and does not blame this young man, but the young man can not help but blame himself.” Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked down at Ron as Arthur fixed him with a peircing gaze. Yes, he did balme himself. He had a feeling he always would. How could he not? But, before he could say anything at all Arthur let him off the hook and began speaking again, “He likes the hell that has overtaken the planet because of his war. Until he knows that he is strong enough to kill you and keep the planet in this hell for all of time it will continue and he will not come out.” They were both silent for long moments, Arthur lost in his thoughts, Harry trying to get his confused and mourning heart back under control.

“Was there . . .” Harry blinked back tears and cursed himself when his voice broke, “Was there anything else you needed to report to me?”

“No. Just that. I’d best get home now. You know how Molly worries. Will you be along for supper?”

Harry just nodded. Arthur stood and began walking toward the door.

“Try to smile, will you? For Molly? She cleaned out Ron’s things from the bedroom today. Before I forget . . .” he handed Harry a letter in handwriting Harry recognized to be Ron’s. Harry gasped as his heart jumped into his throat and looked up at Arthur. Arthur rolled his shoulder in a half shrug, “She found it under his bed. No one’s read it.”

Harry looked down at the letter for a moment, tracing his name written on the heavy parchment in the untidy scrawl. When he looked back up Arthur was gone. He stood and walked to the only window in the room. He didn’t understand why, but his hands were shaking as he unfolded the parchment and began to read.

Dear Harry,
Sometimes I wonder what you’d do if I died in this war. Would you mourn for me? Of course you would. We’ve been best . . .

Next chapter: Confrontation
As always, should you feel the need to flame, please be civil. Thanks! Until next time.