Monologues

àR/Hr fic by L. Morningstar

Monologues Part 1 out of 2 – Whispers of the Sleeping

I don't think I've ever seen you cry…no, not like this. Not with sobs that are so loud, so painful, so soul wrenching, that you're shaking already.

You cry for a long, long, time. I'm not sure exactly how long, I'd lost track of time. Could have been hours, days, or even weeks. All I know is that I didn't move, I continued my charade of falling into a seemingly endless slumber, and I kept silent, waiting patiently for your tears and you agony to subside.

Does being near me really cause you that much bitterness? That much misery and torment?

You looked up from your spot in the corner of the room, furiously wiping at your cheeks as you stare straight at me.

Your eyes…I don't think I've ever seen them that empty, that hollow, like a winter night in which the stars hadn't shown up in the sky. It's like all the emotion has been sucked out of you and its left you desiccated, tired.

I'm still not moving.

You slowly, almost hesitantly, rest your soft hand on my arm, gently moving it up and down in a caress. Your touch is comforting and warm and I'm grateful for it. I wish I could tell you how much I appreciate it. You brace your other hand on the edge of my bed and lean over me, scrutinizing me with as much vigilance as a hunter would watch its prey at first.

You lean over me, unmoving, simply satisfied with watching, for the longest time. Then, once again, the tears begin to fall out of your eyes. The droplets fall upon the skin on my face; one of them slides between my lips. I can taste its brackishness; it somehow reminds me of how your lips taste against mine when we kiss.

You run your fingers along the side of my face, tracing a gentle, loving line along the curve of my jaw. You're still weeping, I can still feel your tears falling upon my skin. I don't like it when you cry, it pains me to see you do so as well. Especially when I know those tears are for me.

Perhaps if I hold perfectly still, you'd get tired of trying to get my attention and give up, and maybe after that you'd stop crying. I'd do anything to get you to stop crying.

"God," you whisper in a voice that sounds so unlike you, "I'm sorry. I am so sorry that I…" You trail off and you press your face against the side of my neck, the moisture of your tears running along it.

Sorry? Sorry for what? I don't understand exactly what's going on. I'm only asleep, there's nothing to be afraid of.

I can hear your whisper again; your lips are barely a centimeter away from my ear, I feel your breath before I hear your voice.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when it came after you," you tell me, in a soft voice.

Sorry that what came after me? That's it, I need to wake up and knock some sense into you.

My decision, my thoughts, my intended words all come to an abrupt halt when you close your eyes, curve your neck in a graceful arc, and press your lips against mine.

The kiss is wonderful, breathtaking and ardent. And yet I can still tell you're sobbing. I don't understand, Ron. I can't comprehend why you're crying.

After all, I'm only asleep.

Part 2 out of 2 – Cries of the Wakened

You're still sleeping.

Harry sent me an owl yesterday and told me about you, did you know that? That's the only reason I'd actually known you were sick, too. I came back here from Romania as fast as I could the moment I heard. I'm sorry it took me so long to come here, and I'm sorry I wasn't here with you.

I'd read about the plague that Lord Voldemort—yes, I've outgrown my fear of his name—had spread throughout the whole magical world over the summer. I mean, who hasn't? The plague is fast, but not quite lethal…though it comes close enough. People call it the Slumbering Plague, did you know that? I don't know if you know what happened to you, but I might as well tell you, right?

I'm sure that if you were awake you'd agree. You've always had a thirst for information. It's one of the things I love about you.

Anyway—the Slumbering Plague. Voldemort sent it out early this summer "his own creation," from what I've heard. It's like a warning, an omen, the harbinger of his coming, and it's horrible. They say it's just like gentle fingers creeping over your eyes, your mind, tenderly lulling you to sleep, tempting you to rest for just a moment. They say it's impossible to resist, even for people like you, I guess. And anyone who succumbs to it sleeps, like the one in that muggle story called Snow White. Except there's no dashing prince here, just me. And the only way to waken you isn't by just some kiss; we have to actually kill its source, or to at least somehow get his mind off this realm of reality.

You may find it funny, but I even tried kissing you to get you to awaken. I wasn't expecting it to work, or anything…I'm not insane, just desperate. Crying too much does funny stuff to your brain, do you know that?

Okay, so pretty much the only way to get you back to me, to Harry, to your parents, to everyone, is to kill Voldemort.

Dammit, if only we knew how.

But I promise, Hermione, I will wake you up. I will wake you up before this summer ends and our last year at Hogwarts begins.

Bloody hell, I'm crying again. I touch my lips to yours one more time, still praying that you would show a sign that you can feel me, hear me, see me. Yes, you may not know it, but anyone afflicted with the Slumbering Plague sleeps with his or her eyes open.

But what really terrifies me, what reality I'm so scared to face, is that I've read in the Daily Prophet about the some victims of the sickness dying—something about their minds just plain delving too deep into the realm of dreams that they never come back again. Their eyes close for the last time, their hearts cease beating completely, and their breathing stops forever.

That's why I'm hoping that you're still listening to me. That's why I'm still hoping that you're somewhere near me.

I gently squeeze your arm one more time, and wipe away my tears. Harry's waiting for me outside. We're going to try and see what we can possibly do.

I get up and walk out of the room, closing the door behind me. Harry regards me with jade-colored eyes that are darker and heavier with anxious worrying. And together we walk out of the hospital.

And you continue to sleep.

Author's notes: Bloody weird, I know. I'm not even sure it made sense. Sorry. Technically my first HP fic that I actually finished. Maybe I'll branch this out into a real story, maybe I won't. I don't know just yet. Please review! J

I'm also working on another piece, much more fluffy and light-hearted this time. :Þ