A Lacking Of Foresight -- Chapter 15
Nov. 9th, 2002 06:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeA record! I completed another part without waiting 6 months!
A Lacking of Foresight -- Chapter 15
**
In which there are paper dragons and silver ink; memories in inopportune places; and honesty, if only to oneself.
**
Wednesday morning classes in Defense of the Dark Arts were for the first year students, four hours straight, one hour per House. On this particular Wednesday, the classroom was utterly silent except for the scratching of quills on parchment and the occasional thoughtful sound of tapping against a desk, which wasn’t helping the teacher stay awake.
Harry stifled a yawn, wishing he’d taken the time to at least get a cup of coffee before he’d staggered off to class. Most energy boosting spells he knew were short-lived, and only sidestepped the exhaustion, anyway. He had more important things to do this evening than be comatose.
He was doodling on a scrap of parchment, trying to give at least the impression of busyness to his students, using a bottle of silvery ink that he’d found on the bottom of his rucksack that he didn’t remember buying. Droplets that he’d shaken carelessly from his quill were shining wetly on the edge of the parchment like beads of mercury from a broken thermometer.
Most of his skill at drawing had come from repetitive sketching, occasional boredom making an amateur artist out of him. With a few careful lines he’d managed to make a decent representation of a wyvern. He blew softly on it to dry the ink, casting a guilty look at his students, who were still absorbed in their essays, before tapping it lightly with his wand and whispering, "Addolacer!"
The parchment shimmered lightly, the tiny wyvern slowly unfurling its wings as it woke. A many times as he had done this little magic, it never ceased to fill him with a moment of wonderment. The tiniest magics were so often taken for granted; Harry never wanted to forget how fortunate he was to be here, no matter how many turns his life was taking.
The silence of his classroom was reminding him rather unpleasantly of the newest kink in his life who wasn’t here. No tapping boots, no scraping chair as a person who was really too big for the desk tried to find some way to be comfortable. No rustle of a jacket when someone tried to shrug a cramp out of tired shoulders, and, really, that sound had almost been the same as leather pants whispering across a stone floor, crawling towards him...
A sudden irritated squeak startled Harry from his thoughts, and he looked down at the wyvern, fluttering angrily over the otherwise bare parchment, and Harry hastily sketched some mountains in the background. It soared over its new domain happily, landing on an outcropping and crowing in what would probably be a fearsome manner for a real wyvern.
A simple change, really, a few strokes of his quill and his little ‘pet’ was instantly content. He doubted that anyone else was going to be as pleased at the end of the day. Not his students, who were worrying a little too long over their answers on what should have been a fairly straightforward exam, not Harry, and, if he came back, probably not Ron.
Harry closed his eyes briefly, overcome by weariness that wasn’t entirely from lack of sleep as he remembered the look in Ron’s eyes when he begged Harry to promise not to hate him again.
At the very least, Harry could still promise that. For whatever reason Ron had cut him out of his life all those years ago, whether or not he ever learned the complete truth, Harry had forgiven him. It still irritated him to think about it, itching at the back of his head in a mixture of partial truths and unintentional resentment on both their parts.
Harry rested his chin on one hand, sketching a passable facsimile of a tree as he allowed himself a moment to brood. Something very wrong was going on with Ron, of that Harry was sure, and if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own selfish needs, he might have noticed it before. Instead, he’d passed it off as Ron simply being ill, trusting Ron to know what was best for himself.
The very idea was absurd and surely Harry had had enough experience with Ron’s brand of taking care of himself to know better. Harry stabbed his quill into its holder so hard he almost broke off the tip, frustrated with his own stupidity over the past few weeks. And then he’d gone off and made things between them even worse.
Early this morning he’d been so caught up in the giddiness of it all, the novelty of a new relationship, of anyrelationship and maybe he was being a bit hard on himself. It had been simply brilliant, all of it, and it wasn't that sex with Cho had been bad; in fact that was probably the only way they'd really been compatible.
This had been nothing so pale as compatible.
The sight of Ron crawling across the floor to him, the whisper of his knees against the stone, the look in his eyes, of someone who was finally getting something they’d wanted for so long that they couldn’t quite believe it was true.
To be wanted that much by someone, someone he knew, someone he cared for...he would have done anything Ron asked of him at that moment, just so long as he didn’t leave.
He hadn’t, had instead crawled right into Harry’s lap, straddled him and pressed his face against Harry’s neck, breathed against his skin before suddenly biting him. Teeth worrying Harry’s shoulder, hard enough to draw a gasp of pain before Ron relented, sucking and mouthing the abused skin, scraping it raw with morning stubble, leaving a bruise that Harry would see hours later in the mirror and afterward have to turn his morning shower to cold.
Harry bit his lip, hard, trying to distract himself from his memories before he was forced to teach his classes the rest of the day without standing up. He was already squirming a little in his chair, unable to stop remembering how cold the floor had been, rough and uncomfortable and completely forgotten with the heat of Ron’s mouth, rougher than the floor. The night before had been an exercise in desperation for both of them, but this...this had been Ron taking what had wanted, what had been offered, thoroughly and with something almost like cruelty, would have been if Harry hadn’t wanted it so much. If Ron hadn’t revealed with every touch how terrified he was.
It was only afterward that Harry had seen that. The look on Ron’s face that said he knew what was really happening. No one else had ever be as utterly available as Ron was to Harry, and they both knew it without a single word. Utterly available and reluctantly willing to be used, and Harry couldn’t even tell him he was wrong. Five years ago he would have said he knew Ron better than anyone but now he wasn’t even sure he knew himself. He didn’t hate Ron, wasn’t sure that he’d ever hated him, but Harry couldn’t blame Ron if he hated him now for what he’d done.
"Clausulae," Harry murmured distractedly, pointing his wand at the paper again, and the wyvern shimmered to a halt and returned to its original position, again nothing more than a creature of ink. He stared at it for a long time as he listened to the quills and his own breathing; it was nothing more than a paper dragon, a creature that was only alive when someone else allowed it, just a borrowed lie of a life.
He picked up the parchment and ripped it in half, ignoring the startled looks from his students as he shredded it, wadded it into a ball and threw it in the can next to his desk. Enough of this, enough of maudlin sulking and if he were brave enough to admit it, Harry knew he’d been doing it since his divorce. Ron had shaken him out of it somewhat when he'd arrived, and now Harry was going to face the rest on his own. He couldn’t change that he’d made a mistake and if Ron was going to hate him then they could deal with that later.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Ron but he knew he was tired of not knowing what was going on, and he’d had more than enough of being told to sit on the sidelines of his own life. More than that, he was tired of being Harry Potter and all that entailed.
Time to just be himself then, and he wasn’t about to let Ron run off alone and get himself killed. If he’d been any kind of friend that’s what he would have done the first time Ron had left, instead of sitting back and letting his anger hold him. Time to stop blaming this on Ron, when anyone with eyes could see it was just as much his fault. Ron may had left, but Harry had let him go.
Time to be more than just a paper dragon.
**
end chapter
A Lacking of Foresight -- Chapter 15
**
In which there are paper dragons and silver ink; memories in inopportune places; and honesty, if only to oneself.
**
Wednesday morning classes in Defense of the Dark Arts were for the first year students, four hours straight, one hour per House. On this particular Wednesday, the classroom was utterly silent except for the scratching of quills on parchment and the occasional thoughtful sound of tapping against a desk, which wasn’t helping the teacher stay awake.
Harry stifled a yawn, wishing he’d taken the time to at least get a cup of coffee before he’d staggered off to class. Most energy boosting spells he knew were short-lived, and only sidestepped the exhaustion, anyway. He had more important things to do this evening than be comatose.
He was doodling on a scrap of parchment, trying to give at least the impression of busyness to his students, using a bottle of silvery ink that he’d found on the bottom of his rucksack that he didn’t remember buying. Droplets that he’d shaken carelessly from his quill were shining wetly on the edge of the parchment like beads of mercury from a broken thermometer.
Most of his skill at drawing had come from repetitive sketching, occasional boredom making an amateur artist out of him. With a few careful lines he’d managed to make a decent representation of a wyvern. He blew softly on it to dry the ink, casting a guilty look at his students, who were still absorbed in their essays, before tapping it lightly with his wand and whispering, "Addolacer!"
The parchment shimmered lightly, the tiny wyvern slowly unfurling its wings as it woke. A many times as he had done this little magic, it never ceased to fill him with a moment of wonderment. The tiniest magics were so often taken for granted; Harry never wanted to forget how fortunate he was to be here, no matter how many turns his life was taking.
The silence of his classroom was reminding him rather unpleasantly of the newest kink in his life who wasn’t here. No tapping boots, no scraping chair as a person who was really too big for the desk tried to find some way to be comfortable. No rustle of a jacket when someone tried to shrug a cramp out of tired shoulders, and, really, that sound had almost been the same as leather pants whispering across a stone floor, crawling towards him...
A sudden irritated squeak startled Harry from his thoughts, and he looked down at the wyvern, fluttering angrily over the otherwise bare parchment, and Harry hastily sketched some mountains in the background. It soared over its new domain happily, landing on an outcropping and crowing in what would probably be a fearsome manner for a real wyvern.
A simple change, really, a few strokes of his quill and his little ‘pet’ was instantly content. He doubted that anyone else was going to be as pleased at the end of the day. Not his students, who were worrying a little too long over their answers on what should have been a fairly straightforward exam, not Harry, and, if he came back, probably not Ron.
Harry closed his eyes briefly, overcome by weariness that wasn’t entirely from lack of sleep as he remembered the look in Ron’s eyes when he begged Harry to promise not to hate him again.
At the very least, Harry could still promise that. For whatever reason Ron had cut him out of his life all those years ago, whether or not he ever learned the complete truth, Harry had forgiven him. It still irritated him to think about it, itching at the back of his head in a mixture of partial truths and unintentional resentment on both their parts.
Harry rested his chin on one hand, sketching a passable facsimile of a tree as he allowed himself a moment to brood. Something very wrong was going on with Ron, of that Harry was sure, and if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own selfish needs, he might have noticed it before. Instead, he’d passed it off as Ron simply being ill, trusting Ron to know what was best for himself.
The very idea was absurd and surely Harry had had enough experience with Ron’s brand of taking care of himself to know better. Harry stabbed his quill into its holder so hard he almost broke off the tip, frustrated with his own stupidity over the past few weeks. And then he’d gone off and made things between them even worse.
Early this morning he’d been so caught up in the giddiness of it all, the novelty of a new relationship, of anyrelationship and maybe he was being a bit hard on himself. It had been simply brilliant, all of it, and it wasn't that sex with Cho had been bad; in fact that was probably the only way they'd really been compatible.
This had been nothing so pale as compatible.
The sight of Ron crawling across the floor to him, the whisper of his knees against the stone, the look in his eyes, of someone who was finally getting something they’d wanted for so long that they couldn’t quite believe it was true.
To be wanted that much by someone, someone he knew, someone he cared for...he would have done anything Ron asked of him at that moment, just so long as he didn’t leave.
He hadn’t, had instead crawled right into Harry’s lap, straddled him and pressed his face against Harry’s neck, breathed against his skin before suddenly biting him. Teeth worrying Harry’s shoulder, hard enough to draw a gasp of pain before Ron relented, sucking and mouthing the abused skin, scraping it raw with morning stubble, leaving a bruise that Harry would see hours later in the mirror and afterward have to turn his morning shower to cold.
Harry bit his lip, hard, trying to distract himself from his memories before he was forced to teach his classes the rest of the day without standing up. He was already squirming a little in his chair, unable to stop remembering how cold the floor had been, rough and uncomfortable and completely forgotten with the heat of Ron’s mouth, rougher than the floor. The night before had been an exercise in desperation for both of them, but this...this had been Ron taking what had wanted, what had been offered, thoroughly and with something almost like cruelty, would have been if Harry hadn’t wanted it so much. If Ron hadn’t revealed with every touch how terrified he was.
It was only afterward that Harry had seen that. The look on Ron’s face that said he knew what was really happening. No one else had ever be as utterly available as Ron was to Harry, and they both knew it without a single word. Utterly available and reluctantly willing to be used, and Harry couldn’t even tell him he was wrong. Five years ago he would have said he knew Ron better than anyone but now he wasn’t even sure he knew himself. He didn’t hate Ron, wasn’t sure that he’d ever hated him, but Harry couldn’t blame Ron if he hated him now for what he’d done.
"Clausulae," Harry murmured distractedly, pointing his wand at the paper again, and the wyvern shimmered to a halt and returned to its original position, again nothing more than a creature of ink. He stared at it for a long time as he listened to the quills and his own breathing; it was nothing more than a paper dragon, a creature that was only alive when someone else allowed it, just a borrowed lie of a life.
He picked up the parchment and ripped it in half, ignoring the startled looks from his students as he shredded it, wadded it into a ball and threw it in the can next to his desk. Enough of this, enough of maudlin sulking and if he were brave enough to admit it, Harry knew he’d been doing it since his divorce. Ron had shaken him out of it somewhat when he'd arrived, and now Harry was going to face the rest on his own. He couldn’t change that he’d made a mistake and if Ron was going to hate him then they could deal with that later.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Ron but he knew he was tired of not knowing what was going on, and he’d had more than enough of being told to sit on the sidelines of his own life. More than that, he was tired of being Harry Potter and all that entailed.
Time to just be himself then, and he wasn’t about to let Ron run off alone and get himself killed. If he’d been any kind of friend that’s what he would have done the first time Ron had left, instead of sitting back and letting his anger hold him. Time to stop blaming this on Ron, when anyone with eyes could see it was just as much his fault. Ron may had left, but Harry had let him go.
Time to be more than just a paper dragon.
**
end chapter
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2002-11-09 04:14 pm (UTC)i love this fic *_*
no subject
Date: 2002-11-13 04:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-11-09 04:18 pm (UTC)I have to take it all in. I'm glad Harry's finally starting to realize he can act instead of letting thigns happen to him. And i'm glad that he knows how fragile this new relationship with Ron (and maybe even Ron himself) is.
As always, you leave me sated and wanting more all at the same time.
no subject
Date: 2002-11-13 04:20 pm (UTC)Thank you! Things are going to get interesting in the next chapter. I've got it almost outlined now.
no subject
Date: 2002-11-09 05:56 pm (UTC)sixteen? do i hear sixteen?
O:)
no subject
Date: 2002-11-13 04:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-11-11 12:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-11-13 04:21 pm (UTC)Yeah!!
Date: 2002-11-13 12:31 pm (UTC)Re: Yeah!!
Date: 2002-11-13 04:21 pm (UTC)Hopefully it won't take too long for the next chapter!