The password to the prefect's bathroom hasn't changed, and even if it had Ron would have given the new one to him. If he'd asked. He's here because he needs something, and doesn't know where to find it. He's here because he got lost looking for nothing and ended up running water in the middle of the night, just like this time last year, only Cedric wasn't dead and his scar wasn't blazing off every few minutes and things only sucked about halfway as bad then as they do now.
He draws water into one of the smaller tubs, off to the side. It's vertical and round and looks Asian; there are a number of different styles but he chose this one. He doesn't put bubbles in it this time, but the water comes out smelling fresh and sort of sweet, which is at odds with him mood. It doesn't matter, anyway. He isn't really smelling it.
His clothes slip off of him too easily. They're stretched and pulled by both his body and magic to try and fit his growing frame. If he wanted, he could by new robes. If he wanted, he could buy the Weasley family everything they'd ever need. He wonders, sometimes, where his parents got their money. He doesn't buy new robes because it's too hard to concentrate on mundane things when death looms over him like a recalcitrant boggart. The old ones fall into a limp pile on the floor.
When he steps into the tub, the water splashes over the edge. He put too much in, but he wasn't paying attention anyhow. He's tall, taller than he used to be, and thin. He's not gangly like Ron; he'll one day be well-fit to his size, but right now his feet seem too big and his chest too skinny to please him. He looks just like his father, and he tries to figure how his father was so good-looking when his son is awkward and beaten.
The water comes up to his chest, and he rests his back against the curve of the bath. His knees fold up nicely, and his toes spread and find purchase against the other side of the tub. The water feels good, like something larger than he is. He is immersed and can't see anything past the rim of the tub, except for the ceiling. His vision is truncated, narrowed down to the white porcelain of the tub's interior, with its delicate designs in blue patterns on the wall.
He slips lower and lower until the water is past his nose, until he's looking up at the ceiling through water that covers his eyes. He curls up a little, makes himself into a ball and lets himself lapse into stillness. When the water finally stops moving, he can't hear anything. He can't smell anything. He closes his eyes and can't see anything. All he knows is the warmth of the water and the sense of being somewhere other than here.
It hurts when he finally has to move to take a breath, rupturing his peace with his own thrashing movements. He's never been particularly graceful, and now his body and his mind protest his movements. There's probably something disturbed about wanting to stay underwater forever.
Tomorrow he has to wake up and go to classes. He has to prepare for tests and talk with his friends, curb his temper and worry about Sirius and Dumbledore and the fate of his world. Tomorrow he has to ignore the burning presence of his scar and the dreams that haunt and thrill him. Tomorrow he has to eat breakfast and learn more curses to teach the D.A. Tomorrow never ceases to be. It's no wonder that he'd rather not meet tomorrow.
words © SA. characters, show, and people not mine. no infringement is intended.