Title:  Days of Awe
Author:  Lorien_Eve
Pairing:  Harry/Ron
Rating:  PG
Genre:  Drama/Angst
Archive:  You’re more than welcome, just let me know!
Spoilers:  Just from OotP.
Disclaimer:  They’re all J.K. Rowling’s.  Sadly, not one of them belongs to me.
Feedback:  Yes, please!
Summary:  Harry and Ron are separated in a battle against an army of Death Eaters. Harry thinks Ron’s dead. Ron thinks Harry’s not coming back. They find consolation in other people and places. Lives are changed and loves are destroyed when they meet again.

Author’s notes: A huge thanks to Lena, who, only through dedication and a strong stomach, was able to beta some of the later chapters.

Man has places in his heart which do not yet exist, and into them enters suffering in order that they may have existence.
-Leon Bloy



Ron gasped heavily, forcing his eyes to open.  It was difficult to breathe, and it hurt to look around.  His whole head ached.  Leaves and grass were obscuring his vision, and masses of broad, gray trees were blocking his line of sight.  He heaved himself up, but his arms gave out, and his chin fell harshly back to the ground.  He let out an arduous shriek when his jaw connected with the broken terrain.  He could see a knot, swelling and jutting into his peripheral vision.  His left shoulder was throbbing so hard that he thought he might get sick.

He had no idea how long he had been laying there.  He had dropped in and out of consciousness for what seemed like days.  Time had become immeasurable. The last thing he remembered was being hit by a spell.  After that, it was all fragments - men in dark robes gathering around, people far away yelling, a fist connecting sharply with his jaw.  He had a vague recollection of a bright light and a feeling of movement, but the details escaped him like a day-old dream.

His mouth was dry, and there was a nagging emptiness pawing at the insides of his stomach.  Knowing he had to find a way out, he tried picking himself up again.  He took it slow this time, only using his right arm, but finally found himself sitting up.  He pushed his torn, dirty robes off his shoulder, and pulled his shirtsleeve up.  There was a massive bruise, yellow and brown around the edges, and deep blue, purple, and black in the center.  It colored his entire shoulder, almost up to his neck, and halfway down his arm.  He went to touch it, but as his fingers got closer, he felt a raging heat coming off of his skin, and he jerked his hand away. 

His body hurt all over.  There were sharp, shooting pains darting down his legs and arms.  He felt light-headed, even with the small exertion, but he forced himself to stand.  His head started swimming and the ground beneath him felt like it was rotating.  He grabbed at the rough bark on the nearest tree to prevent himself from falling.  The sun was high in the sky, and fragments of it filtered down through the clusters of leaves above him.  He put a hand up to shield his eyes, but still tried to get an idea of his surroundings.  There were only trees as far as he could see, standing impressive like armed sentries, barring his exit. A knot condensed in his stomach as he was reminded of the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts.  He hoped these woods didn’t house the same gargantuan spiders.

He pried himself away from the tree in an attempt to make some sort of headway on his journey out.  He felt his legs start to shake and burn, but he stumbled forward a few paces until he could grab hold of another tree.  He continued in this manner, stopping every few minutes to sit down and rest, until the trees gradually started to thin out.  In the distance, he could see a small, thatched cottage with tiny wisps of dark smoke puffing from the chimney.  It was shrouded by trees on the opposite side, but the large yard around it was mostly flat.  It was the only sign of civilization he had seen so far, and it looked like his only hope.

Staggering on, he kept his eyes focused on that small house.  There were no trees, or very few, now to support him.  He had to keep himself motivated or he’d never make it.  His legs were still wobbling and his head was reeling.  If anyone passing by saw him, he would’ve probably frightened them.  He was meandering left, and then right, holding his arms out for balance.  He hoped he wouldn’t scare the residents of the cabin.  He licked his finger and scrubbed at the cuts on his face the best way he could, avoiding the lump on his jaw.  It wouldn’t help much, he thought, but it was better than appearing with a blood-splattered face.  As he got closer, he could see a female figure outside, hunched over in a frugal garden.  He tried to hold himself upright and slow his paces so that he wouldn’t take her by surprise.  Once he was in close enough proximity, he spoke.

“Excuse me…” he started, but his voice was low and scratchy.

The woman started up from her vegetables and stared at him in close examination.  She was a short, stout, middle-aged woman, with graying brown hair, tied in a loose bun at the back of her neck.  Ron could read the cautious look on her face.  She seemed half sorry for him, but half scared for herself.  “Yes?” she asked at last.

“I had, uh, a bit of an accident back there,” Ron started to explain, gesturing to the woods behind him.  He hadn’t taken the time to devise a story on why he was in this particular condition, and he had to do some fast thinking.  “I wondered if I could rest here, just for a little bit, until I feel better.”

The woman looked questionably at him, but after a few moments’ thought, she said, “Well, alright.”

Ron followed her unsteadily into the tiny house.  The bottom floor was one large room, but over to the left, he could see a loft with partitions and a few beds.  The woman set a large earthenware basin down on the table and threw a washcloth down next to it.

“You ought to clean yourself up,” she instructed.

Ron obeyed, and dipped the cloth into the basin.  The water was warm on his cold fingers.  The dull pounding in his shoulder started again.  He pressed the dampened towel to his face, and winced as the water stung in his cuts.  It felt good, though, to have the crusty blood and grimy dirt removed, and he continued scrubbing, rinsing and wringing when the towel became too stained.

He was so intent on his cleaning, that he didn’t realize the woman had set out a deep bowl of soup and a plate of bread and butter.

“Here, eat,” she demanded, when he removed the cloth from his face for the last time.

He had to grab hold of the rough-hewn table, but he staggered to the end where she had laid the food.  The soup was heated, and he could feel the warmth on his face as he bent down over it.  He sunk the spoon in and took a mouthful, not caring that it burned the roof of his mouth.  It was the first food he’d had in days, and it was delicious.  Between bites of soup, he tore pieces from the loaf of bread and stuffed them greedily into his mouth.  His jaw muscles were sore, but he was too hungry to comply with the pain.

The woman sat down on the bench opposite him and introduced herself.

“I’m Melia Clare.”

“I’m Ron,” he choked out through the crammed food.

“What in the world happened to you?”

Ron thought fast.  Actually, he didn’t fully remember what had happened to him.

“I was attacked,” he said.  It was the truth after all.  He just conveniently left out the fact that spells and Death Eaters had been involved.  “I made it to the woods, but then I blacked out.”

Mrs. Clare shook her head in sympathy, loosening a few strands of hair.  “Poor dear,” she said.

It reminded Ron of his mum.  He missed her, and he knew had she been here, she would’ve known exactly what to do to make him well.  He missed Harry, too.  He hoped Harry was alright.  His biggest fear of fighting had always been Harry.  He worried constantly about him, to the point where he often found himself looking down on the wrong end of a wand. 

He wanted to get back to Harry, but with his physical condition, he was afraid to try Apparating.  He’d heard nasty things about people who hadn’t done it properly and splinched themselves.  He was in a bad enough state already; he didn’t need to add splinching to the list. If he could just rest for a while, he thought, he’d feel more confident about it.

As the soup filled his stomach, he started to feel sleepy.  His head was bobbing up and down on his shoulders.

“I think we need to get you to bed,” Mrs. Clare told him.  He was too groggy to disagree, and he tried to help her as she lifted him under his armpits.

The walk to the cottage had taken more out of him than he had realized, and once he stood up, it hit him full force.  He wavered, but caught himself on the banister leading to the upper floor before he fell into Mrs. Clare.  They had to stop on every step for Ron to find his balance.  When, several minutes later, they had reached the landing, Ron lurched for the nearest bed.  It was small, but the mattress was comfortable, and his head had hardly hit the pillow when he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

****

“What do you mean, you took him in?” screamed a man’s voice.

“He was in a terrible state and he needed help.  I couldn’t turn him away,” said a woman in a soft tone.

“I don’t care.  You can’t just go taking in every stranger that walks by, Melia.  He might be dangerous,” said the man again.

“He doesn’t look the least bit dangerous,” the woman said.  “He’s not strong enough to hurt anyone, even if he wanted to.”

Ron could hear the conversation drifting up to the loft where he had been sleeping.  The sky was dark now outside the small paned window.  He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face.  He could feel the crevices of cuts, and a spasm shook the entire left side of his arm.  He hadn’t meant to cause any trouble.  He just needed some food and a place to rest until he could get back to Harry. 

He tried to pick himself up off the bed, but his head started swimming again, and he sat back down.  He knew Harry had to be worried; it had been several days, at least, since the battle.  He wished he could somehow send a message, but Mrs. Clare was obviously a Muggle, and didn’t have an owl.  Disapparating occurred to him again, but he still felt too weak to attempt it. 

There was a sound of footsteps, and a few seconds later, Ron could see the tops of two heads ascending the stairs. 

Mr. Clare was a tall, burly man with dark hair.  His features were sharp, and he had a broad chin with a deep dimple in the center.

“What do you want with us, boy?” demanded Mr. Clare.

“I-I don’t want anything,” said Ron, though his voice cracked sharply.  “Just some food and a place to lie down for a bit.”

The man eyed him warily, and Ron busied his hands with his hair, trying to flatten it down to look as presentable as he could.  It only made his shoulder ache worse, and he hunched over, cringing noticeably.

“Still not any better, dear?” Mrs. Clare asked him, in a much gentler tone than Mr. Clare.

“A little, maybe,” said Ron, slowly turning to her.

“Just how long do you plan on staying?” asked Mr. Clare.  “We don’t run a bed and breakfast, you know.”

“I had hoped to leave tonight, but I don’t think I’m quite up to it yet,” Ron tried to tell him in a brave voice.  “Maybe by tomorrow, though.”

Mrs. Clare looked at him doubtfully.  “You had a nasty incident.  You’re not leaving until I know you’re good and ready.”

“Melia, I told you--” started Mr. Clare.

“And I told you, too, Maurice.  I’m not turning him out in his present condition.”

Mr. Clare seemed to deflate slightly at this.  He ran his large fingers through his dark hair as he turned to go, muttering under his breath.

Once Mrs. Clare was sure her husband was downstairs, she turned to Ron.

“Don’t mind him,” she said, waving her hand.  “He’s a little paranoid about strangers.  Living so far out of town, we often see odd folk out this way.”  Ron wondered if she would think he was one of those so-called odd people if he told her he was a wizard.

“I didn’t mean to be an inconvenience,” he said, looking down at the blue and white checked comforter.  The pattern was similar to the sofa in his and Harry’s flat.

“An inconvenience?  Not a bit!” exclaimed Mrs. Clare.  “It’s kind of nice, actually.  I don’t usually get to meet good, young men like yourself. Are you hungry, dear?” she asked suddenly, as though the thought had just occurred to her.

Ron wouldn’t have asked, but now that she mentioned it, he was rather empty.  The soup from earlier had lost its potency.

“Some food would be nice,” he said timidly.

“I’ll be right back,” she said briskly.  She turned and stomped off down the stairs.

She seemed extremely gracious, and Ron breathed a sigh of relief that he had the good fortune to come upon so nice a person.  When he thought of the myriad of people he might have encountered, he definitely considered himself lucky.

Mrs. Clare returned several moments later, carrying a flat wooden tray with another large, steaming bowl.

“I’m afraid it’ll have to be soup again,” she said, sounding somewhat apologetic.  “It’s about all we’ve got.”

Stew was more than okay with Ron, and he watched longingly as she placed the tray down gently next to him.  It was just as good as it had been earlier that day, and he ate as ravenously as he had before.  Mrs. Clare stood a few feet away, smiling down at him contentedly. He made short work of the stew, and when he had finished, Mrs. Clare walked over to remove the tray.

“You ought to get some more rest,” she said tenderly.  “Good night, dear.”

“Thanks,” murmured Ron, as he snuggled under the covers.  He felt a bit stronger after eating, but having a full stomach made him increasingly sleepy.  He closed his eyes and though wistfully of Harry.  He had to get back to him.  Maybe tomorrow. 

He drifted off to sleep, imagining that Harry was next him, and the blankets he was wrapped in were Harry’s arms.

****

Ron barely felt any better the following two days.  In fact, he never got out of bed.  Just making himself sit up to eat drained what little bit of strength he had.  His feeble physical state depressed him, and it didn’t help that his thoughts were almost constantly on Harry.  It discouraged him even more because it was obvious he wasn’t capable of Apparating yet. 

Through the snips of conversation he caught, Ron had gathered that Mr. Clare worked at a lumberyard several miles away.  He doubtlessly worked all through the daylight hours, so Ron was allowed to sleep undisturbed, except when Mrs. Clare would creep upstairs to check on him.

Mr. Clare seemed to gradually warm up to him, after seeing that he truly wasn’t some vagabond with bad intentions.  He was even friendly with him the next evening, when he came in and found Ron sitting downstairs at the rickety wooden table.

“You’re better, I see,” he said jovially.  “Nice to see you up and about.”

Ron smiled.  Just his luck for Mr. Clare to become fond of him now that he felt more like leaving.  He had improved a lot today, and although he was careful not to tire himself out, he could get up and down the stairs by himself.  He had rested in the loft most of the day, though, devising a way to disappear without arousing Mr. and Mrs. Clare’s suspicions.  His plan so far was to sneak out that night, after they had gone to bed.  It’d be difficult, as their beds were only separated by a thin partition, but Ron had learned stealth when training to be an Auror, and if he used caution, he thought he could do it.

“I’m a little stronger today,” agreed Ron.  “I ought to be able to go home tomorrow.”

Mrs. Clare looked somewhat downcast at this announcement.  “Are you quite sure, dear?”

“Yes, I think so.”  Ron felt a little guilty at not saying a proper good-bye to her.

“Where do you live, son?  I don’t think you’ve ever told us,” said Mr. Clare.

“London,” Ron informed him.

“You’re a bit far south, aren’t you?” asked Mrs. Clare.  “What brought you down here?”

Ron thought fast.  Again, this wasn’t something he had been prepared to answer, and the truth was undoubtedly out of the question.

“Business,” he finally coughed out.

“What business are you in?” asked Mr. Clare.

This required even more thinking on Ron’s part.

“Umm,” he stuttered, “Textiles.  I’m in textiles.”

He knew this sounded odd, and the puzzled look on Mr. and Mrs. Clare’s faces proved that, but it was the first thing that popped into his head.  They didn’t ask any additional questions, and Ron hoped the matter was closed.

Half an hour or so later, Ron moved to go upstairs.  He wished them both good night, and climbed the stairs slowly, careful not to spend too much energy.  He curled up under the blankets and remained still, feigning sleep.  It wasn’t much longer when he heard Mr. and Mrs. Clare come upstairs and shuffle past his bed, into their own room.  His adrenaline was flowing now, and he felt like darting up out of bed and Disapparating on the spot. He didn’t know how long he’d been away, but he reckoned it was several days at least.

He’d be seeing Harry soon, very soon.   He had never been away from Harry for more than a day or two before, and he missed him terribly.  He knew Harry had to be extremely worried, and he regretted that there wasn’t some way for him to let Harry know he was alright.  That would all change tonight, though, when he turned up in their flat.  He’d throw his arms around Harry, pull him close, and kiss him until their lips were sore and neither one of them could breathe.

It had been several minutes, and the only sounds Ron could hear coming from the adjoining room were soft breathing.  Now was his time to go.  He pulled the covers back slowly, and pushed himself up from the bed.  He held his breath, waiting for the mattress to squeak, but luckily, it didn’t.  He tiptoed towards the stairs, and stopped, listening closely.  There were still only quiet inhales and exhales.  He took the first stair slowly, afraid that it might creak under his weight.  It didn’t, so he took the next one, grabbing on to the banister to prevent himself from falling. 

Once at the bottom of the stairs, he stopped again, but at this distance, he couldn’t hear anything.  He was in the clear now; just a few more steps to the door.  He crept forward quietly and reached out his hand, groping for the door handle, and opened it silently.  He was out.  He was going home to Harry.  Unheard by anyone, Ron Apparated to London with a soft pop!