Only Human

Only Human

Chapter One: Angels and Demons

"Harry! Look out!"

The brightest light he's ever seen washes over him like a tidal wave, knocking him over out of sheer anticipation. He hears a hideous crunch as he falls, and prays nothing has been damaged beyond repair. Everything hurts; it's impossible to distinguish the most recent damage from any other incurred that night.

If only he never followed Harry. If only he stayed behind. If only he wasn't a wizard, he wouldn't be dying on the ground like this. Like an animal. Something less than human.

But he could never have let Harry go on his own. And no matter how many Aurors follow them that night, Ron knows he had to be by Harry's side, and in the end, no matter what, it's all worth it.

"I think he's coming around," said a familiar voice by his ear. Ron's eyes blinked open, then immediately closed again against the blinding glare of the lit room. Where was he?

Was this Heaven? Where were all the harps and clouds and such?

He chanced opening his eyes again, discovering the face of Hermione Granger only an inch away from his own.

'Ah,'

he thought deliriously, 'an angel. So I really have kicked it then.'

"Ron?" Hermione said, leaning back slightly now that his eyes were open. "Can you hear me? Are you conscious?"

"What kind of ridiculous question is that?" Ron mumbled, unaware that he was speaking out loud. "Bring on the harps and halos."

She snorted. "He's awake. Whether or not he's sane is an entirely different question."

As Ron struggled into a sitting position, some clarity returned to him, and he discovered that he was in a room in St. Mungo's, surrounded by nearly every member of his family, Harry, Hermione, and half the Order as well. Being who he was, he couldn't resist making a quip about the situation.

"All this for me, why you shouldn't have."

Relief was apparent in everyone's eyes, most particularly those of his mum and Harry, both of whom were staring at him like he'd briefly grown three heads, but was all better now. He chanced a look at Hermione, who had known by his first words that he was fine. She was grinning, but he also noticed how tightly she clenched Ginny's hand. His sister's face was flushed, whether with worry or from standing so close to a half-naked Harry, Ron wasn't sure. He wondered briefly why someone hadn't offered his best friend a new shirt.

He closed his eyes briefly. "All right then, tell me, how bad is it? Am I scarred for life? Do I look like Potter? Is it that bad?"

Did any of them notice the effort it was taking to make these jokes? They could at least show a little appreciation.

"You're fine, Ron," said Bill, who of the entire group probably looked the most composed. That was Bill, cool to the very last. And what was he wearing? Had Ron's confinement to the hospital pulled him out in the middle of a date? "The Healer said that your arm was broken, but they repaired that right away. You had a mild concussion, too. Nothing else has been damaged."

"But Healer Murphy wants you to wear a sling for awhile," his mother broke in. "Apparently there is some question as to whether it was set properly."

Well, that would be a deuced inconvenience, but it would probably make him look rather dashing. He'd heard the way the girls fell all over themselves for Malfoy back in third year; if it worked for the ferret then it would be sure to work for him.

The entire group still looked rather fidgety, like they were hiding something. Oh Merlin, what was it? Nothing else was damaged, but what if he really had grown a new body part? A head would have been instantly noticed, but what if he had another arm, or two hearts?

"So what is it?" Ron croaked, his voice tired and rough from medications. "What's got you all looking so gloomy?"

Harry spoke at last. His glasses hung crookedly on his face and nearly every part of him that showed was streaked with blood, but at least he was walking upright. 'Mission accomplished.'

"You took a hex for me," Harry said, sounding meek and frightened, definitely not normal. "Straight in the chest. We all thought you died, you were out for hours."

"The hospital is going to run some tests, and you're to return immediately if you feel any different in the next few weeks," added Tonks, who'd had some experience with St. Mungo's, so Ron knew he could trust her words.

"Oh," Ron replied, not knowing what else to say. "Is that it then? Sorry to worry you. Somebody get Harry a shirt, would you?"

He heard Fred and George snicker, and felt the pressure of someone's hand in his before passing out again.

When he woke up the second time, it was dark, and there was a shadowy figure by his bed. It took him a few moments to recognise the moping shape of Harry.

"What's up, mate? Mum and Dad know you're here? It's late."

"I feel like a prize idiot," Harry said without answering Ron's question. "I'm sorry for getting you into this."

"It's not like this is the first time I've been in the hospital on your account," Ron replied, attempting to shrug. It hurt, a lot. He winced at his words; that hadn't been what he meant to say. He didn't blame Harry...well, not much, anyway.

"This is different."

"How?" He truly wanted to know. What made this different from all the other times? "Is it just because I'm in St. Mungo's and not the Hospital Wing? I'm only here because it's the summer holidays. Two more weeks and Madam Pomfrey would be shooing you away from my bed. Reminds me, I ought to get one of the nurses, apparently they let all sorts of riffraff in here."

Harry didn't smile. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the cloud over his head condensed just a little more.

"It just is. If I hadn't sneaked out of the Burrow chasing after some stupid nightmare then you wouldn't have followed and you wouldn't be here." His voice broke. "Damn it, Ron, you took a hex to the chest for me! Why did you follow me in the first place? Do you have a death wish, you idiot?"

"No," Ron replied, quite calmly considering the situation. "Do you?"

Harry stood and walked out of the room without any further words. It took Ron a long time before he could fall asleep again.

His mother was rearranging his pillows when he woke up in the morning, flushed and flustered.

"Oh, did I wake you, dear?"

Ron decided not to admit that aside from the blinding headache he had, he hadn't been able to get a full night's sleep since fifth year. He'd got so used to existing on five hours or less that he barely noticed, though he did have a tendency to nap in the middle of Divination when he was at school.

School. Ron decided to ask the most pressing question.

"The Healers say that you should be healthy enough to start your seventh year in two weeks time," his mother said, frowning slightly as if she longed to disagree. Ron knew that if she got her way he'd be bundled up in bed at home with a constant stream of soup and tea, which, he had to admit, didn't sound all that terrible. Except, of course, once his mum got her claws into him, he'd be in that bed for the rest of his life, which was slightly less appealing.

He was released from the hospital later that afternoon after extensive blood work. The Healers said they would owl if there was any pressing information, but that until the lab results came in there was no point in his just sitting around.

His mum, of course, insisted he go straight to bed (though not without a lecture about sneaking out of the house to fight Dark Wizards first), but he appealed to his father who agreed that so long as he didn't stay out long or go too high he could take a short flight out on his broomstick, with Harry and Hermione for company.

"When are you going back to your parents'?" Ron asked Hermione as the trio trudged to the paddock.

"Tomorrow," she replied. "I wanted to make sure you were alright before I went home. Then I'll be back here the day before we leave for school so I can go to the station with you."

Ron wasn't sure whether that had been Hermione's idea or his mother's, but he was hoping it was the former. Harry was his usual-as-of-late sullen self and made no comment.

After promising Hermione that they wouldn't be going very far, fast, or high (even if he wanted to Ron wasn't sure he could stay on his broom at a high altitude, not with his arm in the bloody sling), Hermione took one of the old broomsticks out of the shed and handed Ron his Cleansweep. Harry was already astride his Firebolt, looking as if he would kick off at any second.

But something was wrong.

"Come on, I said, 'UP!'" Ron practically screamed with frustration.

"Perhaps it's not responding because you're getting angry," Hermione suggested, who had got her broom into position on the second try. "Or it knows you're injured.

"That's ridiculous," replied Ron, giving the broom a small kick. "I wasn't angry the first time, was I? My broom isn't that intelligent. You'd better not be getting any ideas about freeing broomsticks, Hermione. Quidditch teams around the world would never stand for it. I've never had a problem with this broom before! It better not be broken. Ugh, garbage, everything I own is garbage!"

Harry and Hermione wisely said nothing. After a few more failed attempts, Harry quietly suggested they just go inside and finish their Transfiguration essays, a suggestion that made Hermione start sniping about leaving homework to the last minute and suitably distracted Ron from his broken broomstick.

They argued about the essay all the way back to the house where Ron surprised Harry by showing him the completed assignment.

"Fine," Harry snapped. "I suppose I'm the only one who's still got to finish. I'll be in my room then, forgive me for trying to save the world. Next time, I'll let the world go hang while I finish my homework and get a bloody gold star."

And he stalked off, still clutching Ron's essay.

"He just gets more charming every day," Ron murmured. "I hope he doesn't try to vanquish my essay, I worked rather hard on it."

Hermione collapsed on the sofa with one hand to her head. "Pity we can't do magic during the holidays. Harry could use a few cheering charms."

"This house is full of magic," Ron said with a wicked smile, wanting to do something, anything, now that his plans to fly had been thwarted. "They'd never know who cast the spell, especially if I swipe Mum's wand. She might even be willing to do it herself, you know how worried she is about Harry."

"Who isn't?" Hermione replied, and all thoughts of cheering charms evaporated. Ron frowned as those words came back to haunt him. She ought to have known better; only Hermione knew how it bothered Ron that they always had to think of Harry.

"Don't frown at me like that, Ron Weasley," Hermione said, even though her eyes were closed and she couldn't possibly have seen him. "I think Harry's finally gone mental, like you said last year. I thought fifth year was bad...it's like walking on spilt cereal around him; every step and you hear his soul crunch."

The headache was back. Possibly it was because they were discussing a topic they had discussed ad nauseum with no solutions. Perhaps he was still worn out from the hex. Or perhaps he just wanted to lock himself in his room with a tin of chocolate biscuits and not come out until it was time for school. The last option seemed especially appealing.

"I'm going to bed," he suddenly announced, startling Hermione. "I don't feel all that well."

It wasn't a complete lie.

"Is it the hex?" Hermione asked worriedly.

"No, just worn out from the hospital and such. I'll see you later, don't let me sleep through dinner."

The sounds of muffled cursing echoed in the hall as Ron passed the twins' old room which had been given over to Harry. He resisted the urge to check inside and just kept walking, figuring it was best to let Hurricane Harry struggle by himself.

His mother fixed a huge meal that night, claiming that Ron had lost weight in the hospital, despite the fact that he had only been there over-night and had been well fed while there. Since Harry was looking gaunt and Hermione seemed a little pale, he made no comment.

"I'm sorry that you'll be leaving tomorrow, dear," Mrs. Weasley said to Hermione, scooping some casserole onto her plate.

"Well, Mum and Dad have been complaining that they don't see me enough, which is a fair complaint. I know they regret that they can't have a bigger role in my magical life."

"They're good people, and that's what matters," Mr. Weasley said firmly. "Give them our regards, and ask them about their spatulas."

"Absolutely, Mr. Weasley," replied Hermione, stifling a smile. "And I'll see you all again the night before. Thank you again for taking me to Kings' Cross."

"It is a shame your parents' dental conference is that day," said Mr. Weasley, looking proud that he'd remembered the term. "I would have liked the chance to speak with them again."

"Perhaps you can all go out to dinner in Muggle London sometime," Ron suggested, not without an ulterior motive.

"That's a lovely idea," Mrs. Weasley said. "We'll set it up."

Hermione looked at Ron oddly, but he just smiled disarmingly.

Ron was both sad and relieved when Hermione went back to her parents. Relieved because at least then she wouldn't be nagging him about his health and feelings, but sad because she was the only one around the house worth talking to, when she wasn't nagging.

Harry was even more emotionally useless than before, and no matter what Ron said or did, he couldn't get Harry to tell him what had made him leave the Burrow that night. All Harry would say was that aside from Ron getting hurt, it had all worked out for the best.

No one seemed able to talk to Harry, to tell him he was a bloody great fool who had almost got himself killed. Ron came close, but always backed away from that haunted glare.

The last two weeks of the summer holidays passed quickly; most of the time was spent convincing Harry to be human. Ginny helped; Harry actually seemed brighter in her presence, so Ron threw them together as often as was possible without seeming obvious. Ginny seemed to guess what he was up to, but didn't raise any objections and spent pleasant afternoons talking to Harry about Quidditch. Sometimes they would go flying, tossing apples for the other to catch. Ron, still grounded with the sling, was content to let them go off by themselves, secure in the fact that romance was the last thing on Harry's mind.

Thanks to Hermione's influence Ron had actually finished all his assignments in the first half of the summer, so he spent the last two weeks reading comics and testing pranks Fred and George sent him.

He didn't tell a soul that at the end of those two weeks he still had a raging headache, and a sharp sense of loss.