Devil's Due [h.s.]

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

HARRY'S P.O.V.:

I always slept better when she was with me.

It was infuriating. The most frustrating revelation I'd made in a while and something that had taken me quite a bit of time to come to terms with. Yet here I was again, after having tirelessly tried to convince myself that the first instance had been a fluke and that the plane incident was only because I hadn't slept the two nights prior, waking up beside her to realize I'd slept the whole night through.

This morning, however, contrary to the others, I woke up before her.

Burnt orange light peeked through the cracks in the curtains, flooding the small expanse of floor directly in front of the window and carrying over to the girl sleeping soundlessly on her side before me. River was tucked close to the wall of pillows, her body flush up against them all, with an arm still draped between us – both of our pinkies tightly locked together.

Her other arm was held rigidly against her chest, fingers balled inadvertently into a fist and tucked right below her chin. Her knuckles loosened only a fraction with every slow breath she drew in, only to close right back up once she exhaled. It was like she refused, even in her sleep, to let them stray anywhere else.

While she'd seem to respect the fact that there was a physical barrier between the two of us for a reason, I apparently couldn't say the same for myself. My own free hand had somehow drifted across the pillows in the middle of the night and was now laying on her waist, just inches above her hip. And if that hadn't been enough to make me go completely still, send my heart hammering in rushed, panicked beats against my ribcage, the fact that our ankles had also gotten tangled up among one another's certainly would have.

A sudden pressure in my head built – had me quickly and quietly pulling my hand back, unlooping our pinkies and detangling our legs from below where the pillows had ended.

She'd trusted me. She'd trusted me enough to sleep beside her, to be with her when she was at her most vulnerable and incapacitated, only for me to turn around and completely disregard that. She'd trusted me. She'd trusted me and I –

"Who did this to you, Harry?" The woman's voice was kind. Gentle. Nervous.

Another voice. From somewhere I couldn't place. Maybe behind me. In front of me. Maybe from another room altogether. "Has he spoken at all yet?"

"No," the woman's response was hushed. Not directed me. "He never does. Not until a few days later."

"Someone mucked him up pretty well, hm?" A heavy set of footsteps carried through the room. They stopped directly before me – the darkened, dirty boots right in my line of sight. "Christ, look at him. Shaking like a leaf and sweating like a fucking junkie. What's with you, kid?" Fingers closed around my arm, jerking me up from the chair. "You fucking around with the others? That it?"

My head ached. Everything was dizzy. Blurry. Lucid.

"Stop." It took me a few seconds to realize that the weak excuse of a word had come from my own mouth. "Don't touch me."

"Daryl," the woman's voice was back. Closer this time. Maybe she was standing beside me. "I don't think it's his fault. Why would he do this to himself? Just take it easy on him, he's still in such a fragile state–"

"Not doing it to himself?" The man barked out a humourless laugh. "Kid fucking comes back looking like this every few weeks, the hell he isn't doing it to himself." The man's hand slid up to my shoulder, closing so tightly that it stung. "You better open that fucking mouth of yours and tell us where you're running off to or–"