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lenas-oc-chronicles · 5 months ago

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Bring the Weight Down

Chapter 2: Awake

Chapter 1

When the sun shone through their windows and assaulted their eyes with its intense rays, nearly all in the Weasley household were awoken. Ginny grumbled and covered her head, curling up into herself. Once she remembered that she wasn't alone, however, she quickly stood to head downstairs. Fred and George each flipped over to avoid the light, determined to remain in bed longer. Harry's eyes opened and he looked around, nostrils flared like a madman. Arthur found Molly's hand in the covers and brought it to his lips, giving it a feather light kiss. That lightened her mood significantly, and she stood for the restroom.

Ron was the last to wake up. He yawned widely, like a lion, and stretched his arms over his head. He'd found sleep an elusive beast; his mind wandering to, by his consideration, their unwelcome house guest.

“You still here, Harry? Didn't get snatched up by Death Eaters, then?”

Harry, after putting on his glasses so that Ron didn't look like a smudged water color painting, shot Ron an unreadable look. He had conflicting feelings about the night before. He wanted to reply sardonically, but his mind was blank. All he could think of was the blood, and the indescribable feeling of seeing the girl who'd joined in on bullying himself and his friends looking to be on the verge of death. He was worried about her, yet angry that she were there at all. “No, no snatching. Unless we're both dreaming right now.”

After wasting as much time as they could, they all trudged lazily downstairs. Molly, her hair in a tangled mess, looked to the twins. “Boys, go ahead and get breakfast going.”

Fred and George, looking the most neat of all, acquiesced and went together into the kitchen. The clanking sound of pots and pans ensued, following by the two jabbering at each other about who would do what.

Meanwhile, Arthur prepared himself to meet with Dumbledore. He changed quickly into a pair of faded gray slacks and an old blue pullover. He had a warm wool jacket around himself, and brown shoes that didn't quite match anything else he had on. His spectacles were neatly on his nose, and he went into the fireplace. “Back by breakfast,” he said cheerfully before he disappeared in a swirl of green smoke.

“Ron, I want you to write to Bill to let him know not to come until Monday.” said Molly.

Ron murmured to himself and marched over to a cabinet, withdrawing a quill, ink bottle, and parchment, then drug himself to the table at the center of the room, plopping down on the floor with his legs spread out far and his shoulders slumped over.

“I'm done,” Ron called after a suspiciously brief time of scribbling. Molly picked up his letter and examined it.

'Bill,

Mum says to come Monday. There's a bloody Death Eater in the house.

Cheers,

Ron'

Molly frowned and looked down at her son. “Ron.”

“What?” he asked grumpily.

“Write it again.”

In a state of dramatics, Ron grabbed a new piece of parchment with fervor and set it down roughly. When he reached for the ink, he did so with too much effort, knocking the bottle over. It lolled back and forth on the table, spilling its contents into a pool that slowly made its way to the edge. It dripped onto Ron's pants, sure to stain both them and his skin.

“Ron, clean it up!” cried Molly.

Ron rolled his head back, staring miserably at the ceiling as he pushed himself off of the ground. He went to the pantry the room over to find a towel. He drug his feet with slouched shoulders, his slippers scratching against the floor. He did the table first, swirling the towel around lazily until it was mostly clean, then knelt down to the floor. He twirled the rag, putting as little effort into the action as possible. It dyed the wood, but he thought it looked good enough. When he was satisfied with his work, Ron went back into the other room, using his backside to open the door, and tossed the rag in the waste basket. After that, he squished himself between the twins to wash the stains from his hands.

“I'm going to change.” said Ron, not to anyone in particular.

He marched pathetically up the stairs and into the room he and Harry shared. He rifled through his drawers to try and find a clean pair of pants, but found nothing. All of his had been wadded up into a corner the day before, and taken down to the laundry bin. He let his head hit the top of the dresser with a thud. “Come on.”

He looked for an alternative, and decided he only had one option; Harry's pajamas. He'd wear them until his were clean. The pair he found were dark plaid and about four inches too short. He felt like Neville, with his matching pants and shirt that were both just a touch too small. Ron hardly even bothered to put all of Harry's things back into his bag. He'd drug everything out to find the garment and laid it all messily onto his friend's bed. He used force shoving everything back in. 'I hate today.' he thought to himself, dropping the bag onto the floor.

As he made his way back to the living room, Ron paused at Ginny's room to take a peak inside. He could see her on Ginny's bed – the witch was still sleeping. He stared at the unmoving lump for a moment. He didn't know what he was waiting for – what he was watching. Maybe for a sign of life? Perhaps he wanted her to attack. He wanted it to be a ruse – an excuse to hex her for the nasty things she'd said and done. No, he knew that wasn't true. He didn't want to harm her. Not right now, anyway. He couldn't bare to think on it any longer, and quickly closed the door. He looked around for something to place in front of it. An alarm system, if you will. He found it in a brown vase covered in flowers of different colors that was held on the wall by a shelf, and placed it as close to the door as he could get it.

When he came back down, Ginny snickered at him. “Nice pajamas.”

Ron glared at her, then went to retrieve a new ink bottle. He plopped down beside Harry and started working on his new letter. The quill scratched the parchment roughly, as if he were in a hurry to send an S.O.S. overseas.

“I'm done!” he called to his mother.

She came and lifted it up from the table, looking down at Ron and shaking her head.

'Bill,

Mum asked me to tell you to wait until Monday to come over. We got a surprise last night. You'll see when you get here.

Cheers,

Ron'

“Better?”

“It'll do.”

Ron sealed up the letter and gave it to Pig, not trusting the older Errol. Bill wasn't set to arrive until late afternoon, so it would most likely reach him in time. Ron stretched his arms over his head and could feel the draft on his lower calves. He tried pulling the borrowed pants down as much as possible, but it didn't help much. They were so low it was almost offensive, and still the skin over his ankles was exposed.

“Are those my pajamas?” asked Harry.

Ron didn't answer, and Harry couldn't stop himself from chuckling.

Satisfied that what was taken care of could be, Molly headed upstairs to check on the girl. She kicked the vase when she opened the door, staring down at it in confusion. “What on earth?” She returned it to its spot on the shelf and headed inside.

Molly didn't want to disturb her too much. She knew that her body would likely need a lot of rest. She was alive, and breathing steadily. Her brow was furrowed in her sleep, and she clutched onto the covers as if they'd float away if she didn't. Molly placed a gentle hand on her head, lightly running it back and forth to soothe her as she'd done so many times with her own children. “There, there. It's only dreams.” Molly watched as her face settled and her grip loosened before she left, closing the door feather-light.

After some time, a call came from the kitchen. “Breakfast is done.”

The children all scurried to grab a plate. The smell inside was... overwhelming, to say the least. Spices, herbs, cooking oil, something burnt, and the sickly sweet scent of something rotten all blended together and assaulted their nostrils.

When Molly got in, they all moved aside to let her get the first serving. Toast, eggs, bacon, and beans were at their disposal and they were all in need of the nourishment. In the sink, there were pans and plates piled high. The things that had been made and discarded, it seemed.

“Should we wait for dad to get back?” asked Ginny.

“No, dear. I don't know when that'll be.”

After their plates were prepared, they sat themselves down at the table and dove in. The only sound that filled the room was the scraping of utensils and the gulping of juice.

When they were done, the dishes washed themselves in the sink while the others covered the remaining foods to keep them fresh until Arthur's return.

While they waited, Molly sat down to knit and listen to the radio, Ginny, Fred, and George went outside so that Ginny could practice some Quidditch moves, and the boys went into their room to have a discussion about the girl sleeping close by.

“Dahlia Archdaen....” began Ron. “I can't believe Ginny slept in the same room as her.”

“I know. She's the one that offered it, too.” said Harry.

“I mean, has she forgotten everything Dahlia's done? Might as well let Malfoy in there.”

Harry was reminded of something he'd been meaning to talk to Ron about. Actually, he meant to speak with a lot of people over the subject. “Speaking of Malfoy....”

“You're sure you heard Snape talking to Malfoy?” asked Ron after Harry had recounted the conversation he'd overheard after Slughorn's party.

“If you ask me that again, Ron, I'll-”

“I'm only checking!”

“Yes, Snape was offering to help Malfoy.” said Harry, dully. “He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother, made an Unbreakable Oath or something.”

“D'you mean an Unbreakable Vow?” asked Ron, stunned. “Nah, it couldn't be.”

“Yes, I'm sure. Why, what's it do?”

“It's just... you can't break an Unbreakable Vow.” said Ron.

“Funnily enough, I'd worked that part out on my own. What happens if you do break it?”

“You die.” Ron said flatly. He then went into a story about how Fred and George had tried to get him to make one when he was very small, and when Arthur had caught them, he'd been “as angry as Mum,” according to Ron.

“Do you think she knows? Dahlia, I mean - what Malfoy's up to?” asked Ron.

“Maybe. I think I need to ask her, anyway.” said Harry.

“Yeah that'll go over smoothly.”

“It's worth trying. She does owe us a lot. I'm going to talk to your dad first and see what he thinks.” Of course, Harry knew that it was likely Arthur would defend Snape, saying that he was offering help as a ruse to get information. But he still had to try.

“Either way, I've got your back, Harry. I'll ask her with you.”

“I don't think that'd be a good idea, Ron.”

“Why not?” asked Ron, offended.

Harry sighed and picked that moment to bathe himself and get dressed, leaving Ron to yell at him as he left the room, “Oh so now you're not gonna answer me, are you?”

Around eleven thirty, Arthur emerged from the fireplace tailed by Dumbeldore, and to Molly's surprise, Snape as well. He carried with him a handsome black leather case that clanked lightly when he walked.

From upstairs, Harry and Ron could hear the arrival of their headmaster and quickly jogged down. Everyone that remained inside throughout the morning had gotten themselves ready for the day; bathing, dressing, brushing their teeth and hair. But when the twins and Ginny came inside, they were dirty and breathing heavily. They'd been outside all morning.

“Good morning, Molly, Harry, Ginny, Ron, Fred, George. Good to see you all.” said Dumbledore, taking a moment to look at each of them, smiling happily.

“Good morning, Professor.” They said in unison, completely on accident.

Harry caught sight of Snape and furrowed his brow. He'd have to wait for him to leave before he could say anything to Arthur; and if he and Dumbledore left at the same time, he'd have no chance of speaking to the Headmaster until he returned to school.

“Professor Snape has brought with him a few potions that should help to coax the young lady awake. Molly, would you take him to see her?”

“Yes, of course.” she sat down her knitting and gestured for Severus to follow her. He kept his eyes forward and marched with straight posture up the stairs.

“While we wait, I hope you don't mind if I have a seat.”

“Of course not. Go ahead.” said Arthur.

“Dad, there's some breakfast in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Fred.”

“Would you like a cup of tea, Professor?” asked Ginny.

“Why, yes. That'd be delightful. And some sugar, if you please.”

“Do you know what happened to her, Severus?” asked Molly.

“No.”

Snape had sat himself down on the bed and with Molly's help, turned Dahlia onto her back. He worked more gently than Molly expected to ease the potions down her bruised throat. One to restore her blood loss, one for pain, and one to assist the healing.

“Is that it, then?”

“For now.”

“She had... well, she had some wounds on her back and I'm worried she might have some internal issues.”

Severus bent down to dig through his wares, plucking an orange looking vial from the case. He guided that one down, then replaced it back with the others.

“If she isn't internally wounded, she's going to have cotton mouth for the rest of the day.” said Snape blandly. “Anything else will have to wait until she's awake.” Severus was not going to perform a full examination on a sleeping girl. If anything were broken, it would be evident soon enough. He stood, and the two went back downstairs.

“She'll be awake within the hour.” said Snape as they entered the living room.

“What'll we do until then?” asked Arthur.

“You'll have to wait.”

And wait they did. The entire party sat awkwardly quiet together. If it weren't for the radio, they'd be able to hear the grass grow.

After a while, Molly went into the kitchen to make lunch. She even prepared enough for Snape, Dumbeldore, and Dahlia for when she woke. The eating silence was almost worse than the sitting silence, and all except for Snape crowded into the dining room.

“How is your business going, Fred?” asked Dumbledore. “I hope with our recent outbreak of boils, your sales don't suffer, George.” He looked through his glasses at the two, his eyes twinkling knowingly.

The twins grinned. “Yeah, it's going alright.” said Fred.

“And that's too bad about the boils. It's a good thing our dear Ron hasn't suffered form them.”

“Yeah, we don't know anything about them.”

“Nothing at all.

“We sell party gags mostly. Punching telescopes,”

“Spell checking quills,”

“Love potions,”

“Pygmy puffs,”

“Puking pastilles,” added Dumbledore.

“Puking pastilles,” They each went silent, and their cheeks flushed.

“Actually, I've quite enjoyed them. The taste is superb, although the after effect is less than desirable.”

After they were done, Molly set aside two plates of food; one for Dahlia and one for Snape, too, if he happened to change his mind. The mess was cleaned, and they went back to waiting; Molly to her knitting, Fred, George, and Ginny upstairs to clean up, and Harry and Ron to the floor, where they played a game of chess.

Upstairs, Dahlia slowly drifted back into the world. She kept her eyes shut, but she was awake. Somewhere soft, warm, and nice smelling; orchids or lilac - very light but pleasant nonetheless. She knew it wasn't where she'd left the night before. She could see the sun shining through her lids and wondered how long she'd been asleep. Was it through an entire day? Or had she really woken up the next morning? That would only be possible if they'd used strong potions. But that meant she was inside a magical household. If that were true, she'd be incredibly thankful. She was worried she might've ended up with Muggles, and they would discard her wand thinking that it was just a stick.

She opened her eyes slowly, allowing herself time to adjust to the light; and time between being so comfortable to the questions that were soon to come. She stretched her limbs a little at a time so as not to cause herself distress, and sat up slowly while moving the covers aside. Every part of her ached, though it wasn't nearly as bad as she might've thought.

Dahlia looked around the room. Posters hung on the walls, one of the Hollyhead Harpies. She smiled to herself. This was definitely a magical household. But whose was it? By the look of it, the room belonged to a young girl. Possibly around her age. A dark wood dresser with a mirror over it was settled nearly directly across from her, a matching side table beside a bed that sat to her left with a lovely white candelabra resting atop it, knickknacks and jewelry were scattered here and there, and on the dresser was a fluffy pink ball rolling around of its own accord. It was a cute room, much different from her own. She could see the door to a closet to her right. Leaning against it was a broomstick. It was tidy, organized, easy to move around in. Much different from her own room at home; a large and opulent space, filled with sterile elegance. Everything had a place; nothing mismatched. Even her clothing was placed evenly spaced in her closet. This room looked lived in. Though it was clean, it was full of personality.

She turned to the side and set her feet on the floor, resting her hands on the bed and hunching her shoulders forward. They'd changed her clothing. Gone was her navy gown – replaced by a cotton night dress. It was loose enough to be comfortable, but it didn't seem like it were the right size.

Dahlia stood and wobbled uneasily. She waved her arms out to catch herself, took a deep breath, then started to walk. She found that she had a limp to her left leg which didn't come as a surprise. She went to the dresser and the mirror that sat above it. She looked herself over with a grimace. At least she'd been cleaned off a bit. There was still makeup smudged beneath her eyes but she decided to leave it. It wouldn't matter to the darkened skin on the right side, and the left would grow red if she applied pressure and scrubbed the stains off. Her hair was a ratty mess, and she did her best to rake her fingers through to smooth it down.

The fluff ball rolled in front of her, squealing happily. She looked down and studied it, beady eyes meeting her own. A pygmy puff. She couldn't help but smile. It really was cute. And then it rolled too far and fell onto the floor with a squeak.

She took that moment to make her way out. She stopped at the door and held the knob, shutting her eyes. With one last squeal from the pink fluff at her feet, she opened it, slowly, and stuck her head out to get a look. She didn't see anyone coming down the hall, and could plainly hear a radio from the floor below. She tiptoed around the door and shut it even slower than she'd opened it.

She ignored the pictures on the wall. She wanted to see the person, or people, who'd saved her in person first. She walked slowly down the stairs, holding onto the railing firmly for support. Going down the steps hurt much more than walking. Although she'd been bandaged, the skin on her back was burning uncomfortably, and all around the wounded flesh was sore and throbbing. Not to mention the ache at her side that she'd felt from the moment she sat up. But she didn't slow, or turn. She stayed exactly how she was.

Closer she drew, and heard a voice talking. A man, by the sound of it; old and speaking gently. It sounded incredibly familiar and she stopped to listen in. He was telling a story, but it was hard for her to catch. She walked further and heard another voice, a boy, less familiar than the one before but still her mind attempted recognition.

'Is that... Dumbledore? Couldn't be.'

She was a little worried over who she'd face at the bottom. Would it be someone she knew? Someone she went to school with and their family? Her stomach flopped, making her nauseous.

Down to the bottom she went, then turned to see those that had helped her.

“Hey, she's up.” said Fred.

“Hello missus,” said George.

“Ah, hello Miss Archdaen.” It was Dumbledore. And the Weasley family, Harry, Potter and Professor Snape. She tried to hide it, but seeing him immediately caused her to panic.

Harry and Ron looked up and instantly had daggers for her while on the other side of the room Arthur and Molly looked both worried and frightened while the twins and Ginny met her gaze. She kept her face passive and tried to focus solely on the Headmaster.

'Oh, good. A house full of people who hate me, and a man who will likely give my location away. No reason to fret.'

Tagging: @ocappreciationtag

Author's Note: Fuck J.K. Rowling

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