Pleochroism

Additional Disclaimer: Summary quote from the genius WB Yeats's "He Mourns for the Change that Has Come upon Him and His Beloved, and Longs for the End of the World".

Story Text:

ple·och·ro·ism

n.

The property possessed by some crystals of exhibiting different colors, especially three different colors, when viewed along different axes.

i. can you let me, we have nothing save each other/a study in existentialism

Ron is not quite sure where all of the beauty has gone from the world; he ponders it as he drags his fingers lazily up and down the frayed edges of his blanket. It's a silly thing to think about, really, when one is lying down in bed, because the answer is a violent, tearing one unsuited for blankets and down pillows. It is death; he knows it is death, is quite aware of it and the way it suffocates more when the death is not one's own. It's a funny thing, actually, the irony of it. Ron tries not to think of that anymore. His mind slides over to thoughts of the little threads his hand drifts over and his lips part in thought. What tragedy has befallen these armies of string, wrapped around each other in a strong braid to hold and hold until some wear down, some die out, some are ripped forcefully to split ends while its comrades are left one shorter and one weaker.

He squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can manage, and does not think about blankets or edges or armies of threads anymore. There is a lack of color in Ron's days now, it is no more complicated than that. Since the death (it is never "her death" or "...Hermione", never given a gender or a personality or a name, even though it is such a disrespect to her memory and Ron knows that), things don't move as quickly. Sometimes, he thinks, they don't move at all, like time is stuck in quicksand and does nothing but lie on its back and float, waiting and drifting everywhere in its reach, which always tends to be nowhere.

It's Monday, Ron says to himself. He's not quite sure if it is. The days bleed together, like a child that spilled watercolors over a huge canvas, the only distinct lines being those of the edges. He wonders for a moment if he is in a muddy brown, or a dark red, or a putrid yellow, or a shade of almost-black blue. It's a silly thought, he declares to no one, then decides on a sick shade of green.

He doesn't hear the door open, perhaps he is too busy thinking about threads and armies and watercolors and how tightly he can squeeze his eyes shut. Perhaps it simply did not make any noise. Perhaps there is not a difference.

"It's Wednesday, Ron," Harry's voice announces, though Ron does not see him through closed eyelids and it is certainly Monday. There's a shift in weight as Harry sits not at the foot of the bed, but directly at Ron's side. It's disconcerting and more aggressive than Ron likes; he is going to talk about it. Him, her, the death. Ron does not want to talk, he finds it all obsolete. She is not she, gone is not gone, she is not gone gone is not she gone not not not not...

But Harry does not talk to Ron; instead he sighs, exhaling in little painful spurts the words Ron dreaded having swimming around in his skull, and they disappear into the air before they reach his ears. Ron still does not open his eyes, he's still seeing if they'll squeeze a little tighter, but he feels Harry lie down next to him and the room suddenly feels a little bit warmer. For a moment, Ron half-expects to feel a third body sidle up next to him on the other side, shoving him over to make room. His face crinkles into a little smile. It grows slowly into a grin, letting out a small laugh and then one a little louder, then louder and louder and suddenly he seizes up and he can't breathe he's laughing so hard, his lungs hurt and tears are rolling down his cheeks and all of the muscles in his stomach have cramped and his eyes are still closed and, by god, he has no idea what's going on.

"What the...Ron?" Harry says in a concerned tone, sitting up and hovering over Ron's face. For a moment he just stays there and watches Ron in red convulsions of laughter, unsure of what to do. He grabs Ron's hands in his and pulls the other boy into a sitting position, working against Ron's clenching muscles. And then, as quickly as it started, it stops. Ron's eyes fly open and he is still not breathing. His eyes glance across the room, then down to his bed with only two people sitting on it, then to Harry's face, then to his hands in Harry's, and then right back up to Harry's face again. A hysterical smile crosses Ron's face, and he is sure it makes no sense at all but he laughs and kisses Harry mid-smile. They're both laughing now, and Harry does not pull away but moves himself closer to Ron. Harry takes Ron's face in his hands, both of them shaking with laughter, and he can feel tears on Ron's cheeks. Harry laughs harder into Ron's lips and closes his eyes.

ii. ascension, based on a true story

Harry wishes that Ron would talk about it.

He doesn't think it's too much to ask, he knows that things just build up and build up until they break your ribs from the pressure; you don't explode (no, it's not that easy), but instead you just leak slowly and eloquently. Harry knows what that's like, and doesn't want Ron to hurt like that.

Harry doesn't notice that he won't refer to what happened as anything but "it", just like Ron.

It is dinner, and Harry and Draco are the only ones left at the table. Ron has gone back up to his bedroom, to lie on his bed and to think. It still bothers Harry a bit to be spending time with Draco, much less spend meals with him and live in close quarters. The Weasleys took him in only on McGonagall's request after the war ended (has it ended? Harry thinks he can still hear screams and they won't die down). He had killed a few Death Eaters and saved a few of the Order, though it was common knowledge that he only killed those who tried to kill him, no matter the designation. Harry gained more respect for the Weasleys after they agreed to take Draco in, the weekly allowance promised by McGonagall notwithstanding, for being bigger people than Harry would have been.

"You're a fucking waste," Harry says, not looking up from his plate. He fingers the chip in the corner of the dish.

"It's not my fault, Potter," Draco remarks slowly, his voice laced with a bitter aftertaste. "I didn't kill her." Harry knows better.

It went something like this: Draco was in the corner (trembling, oh god, he was nearly quaking) with his wand somewhere on the floor (Bellatrix cackled and smiled, hyena-like, and raised her wand to him). There was a scream ("Avada Kedavra!") and another ("Expelliarmus!" Hermione yelled, and pushed Draco out of the way and onto the ground; she did not look at Draco once) and a crash (Bellatrix's wand flew from her fingers as a jet of green light hit where Draco had been and where Hermione was). And that was the end.

Draco opens his mouth to say something, but his words are halted as Harry slams his knife down on the table, The crash echoes through the Burrow, and Draco is surprised that no one comes running to see what the ruckus in the kitchen is (he then remembers that this is the home of the twins, and refocuses his attention on Harry with the knife). They sit there in quiet, the two of them, for what seems like ages. Neither says a word, they understand each other perfectly in their silences.

You killed her.

You're delusional.

She's dead.

People die in wars, Potter. They die meaningless, stupid deaths. They're not immune simply because they're your best mate.

Her death was not meaningless! She saved your filthy hide when she didn't have to.

Don't blame me.

You're a bastard.

Harry grabs his plate and heads for the kitchen in a storm, slamming his chair into the table. A sigh escapes Draco's lips and he follows not so silently behind, his silver clanging against the dinnerware in his hand in protest. He sees Harry standing at the sink, dishes in his hand, unmoving and statuesque. Slowly he approaches, gently placing his dishes in the sink, tenderly, lovingly, as not to disturb Harry standing over them.

The next thing he knows, Draco is on the floor with Harry's hands pinning his shoulders to the ragged wood floor. He can feel the splinters of wood slipping through his shirt and into his skin like little needles, grinding further and further in every time Harry sobs and shakes him a little harder.

"You aren't worth a quarter of her," Harry chokes out, collapsing on top of Draco, clawing frantically at the other boy, at air, at anything, at nothing. Draco does not know what to do; he wraps his arms around Harry, pulling him to his chest, and as he feels hot breath on his neck he counts the loose boards on the ceiling.

iii. what's it to me, we're all going to hell anyways

Behind the Burrow things are static, and Draco stands under the apple blossom tree in the dark and smokes a cigarette. It was temporary, staying there. His mother dead, his father dead, anyone else gone or fleeing. He didn't like being stuck there, it was nothing he wanted or nothing he asked for, but it was safe and with everyone he knew dying or dead, it was his best chance for survival. If they came for him at the Burrow, if any of them were still alive, he was not alone and he was more comforted in the fact that the others were likely to die in such a siege than the thought that one of them...any one of them...would even think once about trying to save him. He kicks a pile of dirt to the side and smiles.

When Draco hears the soft crackle of footsteps on leaves, he closes his eyes. He used to do that when he was young: close his eyes and guess who was coming around the corner. Draco loved guessing games. He loved them even more when he won. Potter, he predicts. But he is wrong this time, and nods his head to no one in defeat as he sees Ron turn the corner into the backyard.

"It lives," Draco announces, smirking and flicking his smoldering cigarette to the ground, then adds, "we're two for three." For a moment it was silent; death-like, electric silence, like nature itself had caught a hitch in its breath. It was dark, too dark for Draco to see how close Ron was (and how quickly he had gotten that close), too dark to see Ron's ears turn red, and too dark to see Ron's fist until it was neatly under his cheekbone.

Draco lifted his hand to his cheek and ran his fingers across the swelling skin, feeling each nerve ending throb and pulse individually, like each was fighting for his attention. He didn't dare look up at Ron's face, didn't dare do anything and the thought itself was like another blow to his face. It was still too dark, and he did not notice Ron taking out his wand until it was pressed up against his throat.

"I will kill you where you stand," Ron whispers, syllable by syllable, dragging his wand up and jamming it under Draco's chin. Draco winces. Ron presses harder.

"Put the wand down, Weasel," Draco manages, "you know I didn't mean it."

"I know you're a disgusting bastard, that's what I know." Ron gives his wand one more jab into Draco's throat before pulling it away, leaving Draco rubbing his throat and mumbling in pain. "You're not worth my time," he snarls at Draco, right into his face, breath hot on Draco's lips and so close Draco can taste the slight tinge of firewhiskey on Ron's breath.

"You're not worth mine," Draco retorts casually, and is not surprised when Ron pushes him against the tree. Draco bites Ron's lip so hard it draws blood.

iv. we (forgive me father, for i have sinned)

The door opens, and Ron walks into his bedroom. Harry is lying on Ron's bed, curled up, running his fingers up and down the frayed edges of Ron's blanket. Ron thinks of threads and armies and lies down next to Harry (Harry is not sick green but a blackish maroon, Ron decides). He grabs Harry's hand and closes his eyes. How tight can he squeeze them? Tighter than last time, he guesses.

Outside, Draco smokes another cigarette under the apple blossom tree.

The sun comes up. It is Thursday.