𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒

Chapter 11

Chapter 11: The Earring

It was a calm Sunday afternoon in London. White, gray-washed clouds gently floated by overhead accompanied by a soft breeze that rustled the trees outside in the Muggle world. Harry, having recently acquired a cup of tea from the fifth story tearoom, seated himself down in the familiar chair situated besides Lupin's stainless steel bed.

The thin and sallow man blinked as a grin slowly sprouted precariously on his features, struggling to remain afloat amongst the pain.

"You're looking better," Harry lied with, what he hoped was, a reassuring smile. He placed the steaming cup down upon the side table, and leaned against the bed, feeling out for the man's cold hand to hold it loosely.

It had been like this for two days now: this constant struggle to remain cheerful; this battle to prove to him - to prove to anyone - that he believed that Lupin could overcome this spell. But, deep in his heart of hearts, he didn't know what to believe-he didn't know what he should believe. Lupin was sick, ill, dying—all of these things. There wasn't a clue what was the matter with him, and, in Harry's tortured dreams, all he saw was the crowds of black as he was tortured at watching another burial.

"Really, Harry, you are the worst liar I've ever met. And considering I knew James and Sirius that is saying quite a bit." The werewolf chuckled softly to himself, a tired, strained sort of laugh.

Harry winced slightly. Every time he heard Sirius' name, he still felt cold as if a Dementor had walked into the enclosed room. However, he did not give anything away; he tried to hide it as best he could, for Lupin's sake just as much as his own.

Picking his tea up in his free hand, the worried teenager sipped the liquid softly and closed his eyes. He had been in Lupin's room until three in the morning - much to the nurse's dismay - until he was practically carted back to his room at The Leaky Cauldron. The nights sleep had been unsurprisingly unrestful - waking up between dreams of dark funerals; or images of Draco dripping in blood. Those dreams possessed Harry'sbody and caused him to wake, covered in layers of cold sweat, entangled in his bed sheets.

"You don't have to be here, you know," Lupin began again, his tired golden eyes closed now, only his lips moving.

Harry did not reply; his thoughts were distant - a cold marble floor, a stainless steel bed highlighted by rays of silver moonlight streaming in from large open windows, and the rustle of quiet fabric from...

Closing his eyes, Harry sighed more loudly than he wished to. He didn't know why he felt so anxious-everything would be fine. If not now, then later, if not then, well, someday. He wouldn't let his world go tumbling down, even if in the end he was only grasping at straws in a fading darkness. He wouldn't allow himself to loose control. He couldn't.

He was nearly jolted out of his reverie by the strained voice of Remus who had begun to babble mindlessly. It had been like this off and on for the past few days. Sometimes Lupin seemed almost jovial, spurning out-dated jokes at Harry who laughed politely. Other times the man seemed dead already, his chest hardly rising at all-so slightly that often Harry had to check his pulse to ensure that nothing unforeseen had happened. And often times, as it was now, he was being referred to as his father.

"You...," Remus began shakily, reaching for Harry's hand and holding it as tightly as his strength would allow him, "You look so much like him I can't tell if I have died yet."

Harry squeezed his hand. He couldn't speak. He could find no words.

"Yes...you have Lily's eyes, and if you only had that damn earring of his then I would...," Remus began to go into a hysterical coughing fit, and offering him a handkerchief Harry closed his eyes and wondered if this scene would die before his eyes and he would be somewhere safe-somewhere protected, anywhere but here.