When He Comes Out to Play (Harry & Niall Fanfic)

What They All Know, But Won't Say

Hello everyone! How's it going? Okay, so here were are, another chapter. It isn't the best, I'll admit, but we needed a filler chapter; otherwise, it would have mashed with the next one and be WAY too long. Hope it's not too bad. Some freaky things should happen shortly. :) Thank you for the reads and the comments and the votes. Taylor and I go crazy everytime they increase, even in the silghtest bit. We love you guys and hope you enjoy!

Next one should be up soon!

Thanks lovelies!

Jessie&Taylor

**Jordan POV**

Feeling absolutely helpless is one of the worst feelings in the world. I realize this now as I can do nothing but watch my best friend as she lies limp in a pair of robust, familiar arms, terror molded deep within the crevasses of her face; the skin shocked white. It hurts to watch her be in such a lifeless and petrified state, forced to sleep because of the pure exhaustion the panic has pushed on her. I would say it looked like she saw a ghost, but it hardly fit appropriately. To say she saw several ghosts and had a full on conversation with them would be more suitable. Why she was so frightened was beyond me entirely. All I know is that when we found her in the river, she must have been dead, if not partially, for a while. Half alive. On the border of death. It’s a miracle she came back to us; that she’s here now, safely in Harry’s arms. I just don’t understand how: how she ended up in the water in the first place, how and why she seems so spooked, and why she won’t say a word about the situation.

None of it makes sense. None of the ends come to meet.

When we meet the clearing of the campsite, a sigh of relief seems to wring itself from every lung in the group—well, besides Tayrn who sleeps against Harry’s chest, exhausted and tired breaths falling from her blue tainted lips instead.

“I’m going to go lie her down,” Harry’s voice is barely above a whisper, the slight waver of apprehension that had been left to hang on the last word making my stomach churn with discomfort. “She needs to rest.”

Harry was just as scared as we were. Maybe even more, if it were possible.

 

“Let me help you,” my voice is undeniably quiet too, but at this point, everyone was. Everyone was spiked with that same feeling of horror and confusion and tenseness; the fog of haunting flattening over our conscious minds and lingering on our skin like a sticky sweat. There was no denying it. Its presence didn’t go unnoticed even when we chose to speak nothing of it.

I rush in front of Harry and to the tent he was hauling Tayrn to, unzipping the front and holding it open for him and his love to squeeze through. Once both were safety inside, I couldn’t help but stand by and watch Harry gently lay a flaccid Tayrn on the soft, padded floor of the tent. She resembled a wilted flower being laid on the risen dirt of a grave.

Grave.

I grasp now, that if Harry hadn’t found her the split second he had, she would have had a grave of her own; tons of wilted flowers from loved ones sitting on the risen dirt where she sat six-feet under, laying peacefully in an embellished coffin. One of those flowers would have belonged to me—

“Jordan,” it was Harry speaking now, his voice breaking the barriers of my sorrowful thoughts and brain-racking realizations. He was perched by her side as he finished tucking her in a yarn wound quilt, his green eyes fuzzy. His voice sounded stronger than before, a mask of reassurance. “She’s fine.”