Pulse

Visiting

Sunday 24th November

Harry curled up on the chair next to Ron's bed, watching warily as his friend struggled to survive.

"Ron," he said quietly, surprised to find that his voice was thick and watery. "It's three in the morning. I shouldn't be here. Please wake up."

No answer from the boy in the bed.
Madam Pomfrey had said she would work on him more in the morning, adding ominously, "If he survives the night." And no night had ever been as long as this one.

Hermione and the Weasley's had seen Ron in the daytime, visiting time, but Harry had found himself awake in the middle of the night, much too aware of Ron's empty bed beside him. He had almost sleep-walked down to the hospital wing, as though he had been in a trance. The next thing he knew he was beside Ron's unconscious form, and he knew there was no where else he could be.

Madam Pomfrey was asleep in her office at the end of the wing. Harry was conscious of every almost silent squeak, rustle and crack, paranoid that a teacher would descover him here, holding his best friend's hand at his bedside.

But when he looked into Ron's face, there was no amount of worry or fear which was not worth seeing him.

They had been through so much together- Harry would never be who he was today without the youngest Weasley son by his side and he doubted he would even be alive... Harry knew him inside out, every fault and flaw, he knew exactly how to make him smile and what made him tick- his grudges and fears and secret hopes, how to make him cross or annoy him, how to calm him down and even how to stop his tears.

Harry knew that face so well... Those ears, which turned characteristically red when Ron was angry or embarrassed, that long nose and accentuated cupid's bow, his thin lips, always curved up, those smile lines... Always grinning, always happy.
Harry could dot-to-dot the freckles over Ron's nose and cheeks; he could have drawn each of them on in the exact place. And when his eyes were open, they sparkled and shone with a dancing ocean blue, which Harry could have pointed out on a colour chart.

Ron's face was passive, his breathing shallow and slow.

Harry was holding his hand in both of his, and it was cold and limp. While Ron's heart was fluttering feebly, Harry's was pummeling against his Adam's apple.

The night stretched on, blacker and thicker than any Harry could remember. At half past five he knew he couldn't risk staying any longer, and pulled himself away from Ron. His best friend's hand flopped onto the blankets like a dead thing as soon as Harry let it go, and Ron did not stir.

Harry ran back to Gryffindor tower, lucky not to meet anyone on the way except Nearly-Headless Nick, who told him sternly to get back to bed.

Harry pulled off his shoes and sat down heavily on his bed, his head in his hands.

What would he do if Ron didn't... make it? The thought alone make him very cold.

He lay back on his four-poster, but knew there was no way he was getting any sleep tonight. He stared at the dark canopy above him and took in a deep breath, feeling very empty and hollow without Ron in the bed beside him.