A/N: This story was written for the International Wizarding School Championships—an amazing forum I highly encourage you all to join. Looking for a great Harry Potter writing competition? Look no further! Amazing prompts, no bullying, and incredible writers and friends!

School: Mahoutokoro School of Magic

Theme: Quidditch—Seeking

Prompts: 20. [Word] Vertigo (main prompt), 18. [Song] I Believe I can Fly - R. Kelly (additional prompt).

Year: Year 7 (Part-timer standing in)

Round: 10

Word count: 3777 words (Google docs; using +10% leeway)

Beta: A huge thank you to the lovely Lisa (heidlebergchick) and Sophie (3cheersforidiots) for betaing!

Additional A/N: Trigger warning: This story deals with cancer (indirectly) and notions surrounding its treatment. Whilst by no means is cancer a dirty word, I do know there may be a lot of people reading this story who may have been affected by cancer (whether themselves, family members, pets, friends, etc), and I don't wish to further any pain with reminders.

So as not to give away the plot, I have included additional A/N at the bottom for anyone interested (and most certainly not important to the story/ it's judging :)).

Vertigo

Vertigo was a strange feeling, one that plagued Theodore Nott's life.

Theodore paced the hallway, wincing every time his father's muffled voice rose from behind the bedroom door. He wanted more than anything to go inside his parents' bedroom and see his mother, but he knew his father would turn his anger on him.

The eight-year-old focused instead on the broken broomstick in his hands. The once smooth, ebony handle was now in two splintery pieces. It wasn't really his fault that he'd fallen off; he simply hadn't been able to help it. As he'd hovered in the air, the world had seemed to spin around him, even though his broom had been fairly still. When he'd tried to right himself, he'd accidentally sent the broom crashing back to the ground.

"Don't you turn this back on me!" his father shouted, causing Theodore to jump.

He tiptoed closer to the door.

"You can't force me to take them; you know how I feel," his mother said.

Although her voice was softer, he could hear the anger within. At least they didn't seem to be arguing about him.

"I'd like to try. Why are you being so stubborn? You need them! It's not a choice!"

"It is a choice—my choice! I'm not the stubborn one. Can't you see that this will be best for all of us?"

"I'm the one who is thinking about us; you aren't. You—" His father's voice cut off, and when he spoke again, it was croaky. "Please, Rose, I can't lose you."

"You won't, but I'm not taking them anymore. Besides, just think of the benefits if I don't. I'll have more time with both of you, and will actually enjoy it. We'll also save money—they are expensive for what they are."

Theodore gulped and looked down at his broken broom. His parents had given it to him for his birthday, his father telling him that he'd needed the finest broom money could buy. The man had never cared about him breaking anything before; he'd just buy him a newer, better version of the item. Maybe, though, he'd been so angry that morning because they no longer had that much money…

As though he could hear his thoughts, his father said, "And since when do we care about money?"

Footsteps then came towards the door, and he quickly leapt back against the wall. His father soon burst through it, not seeming to notice him as he stormed down the hallway. Theodore saw that his eyes were red, as were his cheeks. He waited until his father turned the corner before running into the bedroom.

"I'm not—Oh, Theo, it's you. What have you been up to?" his mother asked, propping herself up on the bed.

Just like his father's, he could see that her eyes were red, although her face was much paler. She wiped her eyes and smiled at him, patting a spot next to her.

He hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes travelling to her hair. A few chestnut-brown strands had come loose from the ribbon holding her bun together, and as she ran a hand through it, they fell onto the bed. Her hair was always falling out lately; he'd found a big chunk on the sofa the week before. His father had told him not to say anything, but he wished it would stop. His mother still looked pretty—for a girl—yet he worried that if it kept falling out, he wouldn't recognise her anymore.

"They'll grow back," she said, giving him another small smile. "Hang on, I'll just get my scarf…"

As she stood up, however, she swayed on the spot and clapped a hand to her forehead.

"Mummy?"

"Actually, could you grab it for me?"

He nodded and retrieved a bright yellow silk scarf from her dresser. She took it and, sinking back down onto the bed, wrapped it around her head.

"That's better. Just a little vertigo, nothing to worry about," she said, smiling.

"Vertigo?"

His mother pushed herself further onto the bed and laid against the pillow. She motioned for him to lay down with her, wrapping her arm around him when he quickly complied.

"It's like dizziness… a special kind of dizziness, I suppose. It comes and goes when I stand up, making my legs feel a bit like they're jelly."

He giggled at the thought of his own legs turning into a wiggly red desert. "That happens to me when I'm on a broom," he said, and his laughter quickly dissolved. "Like today."

His mother squeezed his shoulder, not looking the least bit disappointed in him. "It happens to everyone, especially when they're high up. It'll go eventually, and I know you'll get the hang of flying one day; I believe in you," she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He sighed and let his gaze wander around the room. When he landed on a glass phial with a few drops of bright green liquid inside, he was reminded of a bigger problem. He was sure that it was what his parents had been arguing about.

"You don't have much left," he said quietly.

His mother turned her head to the potion, her own smile fading. "No…"

"Do they make the ver—the ver-ver—"

"—Vertigo?"

"Yeah. Do the potions make it go away? They're supposed to make you all better, aren't they?"

His mother sighed and closed her eyes, pulling him closer to her. "They're supposed to."

"And they cost a lot?"

"A fair bit," she said, stifling a yawn. "And they make me tired. Wake me if your father comes back, alright?"

Theodore stared up at the ceiling, listening to his mother's ragged breathing. It was just as he feared: his parents couldn't afford the potions she needed to get better. She had to, though; he missed her reading bedtime stories to him and playing with him. He needed her to be happy again and to tell his father not to be so cranky with him.

Closing his own eyes, he vowed to find a way to get her the potions, no matter what it took.

It made Theodore feel as though he was spinning, twirling, tripping—falling.

"Come on; it's not that hard! You're only two metres off the ground!"

Theodore's hands trembled as he tried to keep a steady grip on his broom. His sweaty palms kept slipping down the highly-polished handle, making his stomach flip each time they did. He was tempted to close his eyes, yet he feared that if he did, he would topple to the ground again.

"Pathetic! Are you a wizard or a filthy Muggle? When I was your age, I was ready to play Quidditch!"

Blocking out his father's shouts, Theodore tried to focus on a spot just below him. It was probably the worst thing he could've done, though, for as soon as he did, the ground seemed to come up towards him. The grass began to swirl around, moving like waves lapping on the shore. He swallowed, trying to remind himself that it was just the stupid vertigo his mother had told him about, but the ground didn't stop spinning.

"That's it! Down! I don't have time to muck around like this," his father said, kicking the ground. When Theodore descended, he added in a mutter, "There's never enough time."

He glanced down at his broom, his cheeks burning. He couldn't believe his father had bought him a new broom when they couldn't afford his mother's potions. He'd tried to tell his father to take it back to Diagon Alley, but the man had glared at him and told him he needed all the help he could get to fly.

Still, he'd realised there was something he could do to help, and he looked back up at his father. "Father, I have something for you…"

When his father raised a thick eyebrow, he jogged over to the small bench where he'd flung his coat. He dumped his broom and picked up the small Niffler money box his mother had once given him to encourage him to save money. He gave it a shake, smiling as he heard his collection of coins clinking around. He figured that there were at least enough coins inside for two hundred potions.

His father tapped his foot as he walked back. "Well?"

"Here…" He gave the box to him.

His father's thin lips rose into a small smirk, and he reached out to ruffle Theodore's hair. "Well, I can't say that this'll be enough for a proper bribe, but I'm impressed you've at least learnt something from me. Perhaps you'll make it onto a Quidditch team one day."

"Oh, no, it's not a bribe. It's to buy Mummy's potions," he said, grinning.

His father stared at the money box for a moment before a shadow crossed his face and his smirk disappeared.

"That's no good to us," he said softly. Then, pushing the box back into his chest, he turned and stormed away.

Theodore stared after him, clutching the money box to his chest. His father hadn't even looked inside the Niffler's pouch; how did he know there wasn't enough money? He shook it again, keen to hear the Sickles rolling around. They didn't sound nearly as impressive as they did before, though, and his arm slumped by his side.

His mother needed the medicine… He couldn't lose her…

Vertigo turned Theodore's entire world upside down. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't sleep...

Theodore stared at his bedroom ceiling, urging his brain to think. He'd spent all day trying to put two thoughts together, yet he still hadn't been able to come up with an idea to get his mother her much-needed potions. The closest he'd come to a solution was thinking about going to Gringotts and asking the goblins if they'd lend him the money. There were two problems with that, though: the first was that his father seemed to be shut in his office all the time to take him to Diagon Alley, and the second—and more problematic—reason was that it would mean speaking to the goblins. His father always said the creatures were beneath them, but after seeing their pointy, sharp teeth, Theodore was sure they wouldn't hesitate to eat him if his father wasn't around.

Shivering, Theodore climbed out of bed, trying to forget about the goblins. If he wasn't careful, he'd have nightmares about them all night—if he ever got to sleep in the first place.

He tiptoed into the hallway. He paused every now and then as he crept towards his parents' room, listening for signs that they were awake. When he pressed his ear against their door, he was relieved to hear that they were both snoring.

Settling down against the door, he continued listening to them. His father's heavy breathing was punctuated by loud snorts, whilst his mother's was a little more ragged, as though she was gasping for breath. It seemed to be more uneven than it'd been the last week when Theodore had checked, but any sort of breathing was better than none at all.

Taking a deep breath of his own, he stared out the large window opposite him and tried to think of something—anything—he could do to make sure his mother kept breathing. It wasn't a full moon that night, but the slither of silver was bright enough to light up the sky and show off the thousands of twinkling stars. The sky looked nothing but beautiful; it was most certainly not scary from where he sat, safely on the floor. He didn't think he'd ever learn to fly without feeling like he was going to throw up, and yet, somehow, his mother believed that he would.

He closed his eyes, listening to his mother's breathing. It sounded a lot like she had some sort of cold, like her nostrils were full of boogers or something. If only he could do something to make her better again, to make her snore like a normal mother again, to make her stay forever…

To make…

"That's it!"

Theodore's eyes flew open and he jumped to his feet. After checking that his cheer hadn't woken his parents, he tiptoed back down the hallway, bi-passing his room for his father's office.

If he couldn't buy a potion for his mother, he could make her one.

Yet no matter how difficult vertigo made his life, he refused to let it get the better of him. He would fly, not fall.

Theodore bit his tongue as he stirred the potion, sloshing mud against the pail he'd turned into his cauldron. It was his fifth attempt at making one like his mother's medicine, yet just like the other mixtures, it was an ugly brown and not the bright green he needed.

Frowning, he examined the Potions book he'd snuck from his father's office. He wasn't entirely sure that the page he was on was for the same potion as his mother's medicine, but the picture under the title showed that it was the same colour, and it had a person smiling after drinking it. He scanned the list of ingredients, finding the picture of a spiky-looking plant. The best he'd been able to find was a few leaves from his mother's rose bushes, but he was sure that didn't matter.

None of the words made sense, though, nor did he know where he could find half the other ingredients; where was he supposed to get fairy wings? He needed help, but he didn't dare ask his parents. His father was even more cranky than usual, perhaps because Theodore had hidden from him before their flying lessons so he could have more time making the potions.

Holding the stick he was using as a stirrer, he sighed and picked up some of the dead flies he'd gathered from the window sills and stirred them in. He couldn't stop now; they weren't fairies, but at least they had wings.

"Theodore! Where are you, boy?"

Theodore awoke with a start, his heart thudding against his chest. It took him a moment to realise that it wasn't a hungry goblin shouting his name, but his father. Scrambling to his feet, he made sure that all evidence of his late-night potion making was stored safely under his bed, quickly dressed, placed the small potion vial in the pocket of his robes, and ran downstairs to his father.

Even though the man didn't look happy with him—his dark eyes were narrowed and his thin lips were pressed together—Theodore couldn't help but feel elated. He'd done it! He'd finally done it: he'd managed to make a potion the same colour as his mother's medicine. His stomach had felt a little funny when he'd tested it, but he supposed that was because he wasn't the one who was sick; if he was really sick, he'd not be sick anymore.

If anything, he felt more confident than ever before, and when his father hurried him out to the grounds to practice flying again, he didn't feel too scared.

"Alright, let's hope something will finally go right," his father said. "Into the air with you!"

Gulping, Theodore thought yet again to what his mother had told him: she believed he could fly. And if she thought he could, then so did he.

As he kicked off from the ground, the familiar feeling that he was spinning out of control came back. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of the ground rising up to greet him, of the grass turning into rolling green waves moving back and forth...

"None of that nonsense now! You're a Nott! Concentrate!"

He sucked in his breath and opened his eyes. His broom was still hovering above the ground, yet the grass was still swaying and his stomach was still churning. Patting the potion in his pocket, he gripped his broom tightly and tried to ease his breathing. He was being silly. If he could make a potion, he could learn to fly.

"Come on!"

The ground continued to spin beneath him, making him feel as though he was on a ship rocking from side to side. His palms were a little sweaty, but he gripped the handle tighter and, very slowly, he urged his broom forward a few centimetres.

"Finally! A bit faster then, come on," his father called.

"I can fly, I can fly, I can fly," he whispered under his breath, urging his broom forward a bit more.

He wobbled a little, but soon the world seemed to straighten itself out again, and he was able to focus on what he was doing. Concentrating on his father's commands, he carefully guided his broom around the field.

"That's more like it!" his father said as Theodore landed.

He staggered off his broom, his heart beating fast against his chest. He hadn't flown that far, and certainly not performed any tricks, but he'd managed to conquer his dizziness. His father's lips were slightly turned up, almost as though he was smiling.

"I'm going to tell Mummy," he said, grinning. "Oh, erm, if we're finished…"

His father's lips were pressed together again. "Maybe it'll change her mind."

Theodore tilted his head, but his father simply waved him off. Shrugging, he turned on his heel and tore back across the yard and into the house.

"Mummy! Mummy! Guess what?" he said, running into his parents' bedroom. "Youwon'tbelievewhatIjustdid!"

His mother was lying in the bed, dark circles beneath her eyes. Adjusting the yellow scarf around her head, she sat up and motioned for him to come closer. His smile grew as he curled up next to her, his breathing heavy from all the running.

"Catch your breath… Good boy. Now, what's happened?"

"You won't believe what I did!" he repeated, taking a deep breath. "I flew!"

"Did you? Oh, I knew you could do it!" she said, squeezing his shoulder. "You didn't feel dizzy?"

He puffed out his chest. "Nope!"

"Well, you're all grown up then, aren't you?"

"You'll have to watch next time!"

His mother sighed. "Maybe one day."

Even though she was smiling, he thought she sounded a little sad. He knew exactly what would make her feel better though, and fishing around in his cloak pocket, he pulled out the potion vial.

"Tada! Now you'll have lots more energy!"

"What's this?" she asked, examining the bottle.

"Your medicine! See, it says so." He pointed to the label he'd tried to copy off his mother's empty potion bottle. "Doxies! Now you can get better and watch me!"

"Doxil," she whispered. "I see…"

He looked down at the quilt cover and fiddled with the hem. "I heard you and Father talking and you said you didn't want potions. Father wouldn't let me give him money and I know we don't have lots of money to buy the medicine but I can make potions and I borrowed his book and I'll make lots more and—"

"Oh, oh, Theo, sweetie, don't you ever worry about money, okay? We have more than enough."

"Oh…" He looked back up at her and returned the smile she was wearing, relieved that they weren't poor after all. His smile turned into a frown, though, as he asked, "Why don't you take them then? Do they taste yucky?"

His mother stroked his hair, her blue eyes slightly watery. "Yes, they taste yucky." When he didn't say anything, she wrinkled her nose and added, "Disgusting, really, like liquorice-flavoured Bertie Bott's Beans."

He giggled at her expression and pointed to the vial. "Medicine's always yucky. Don't worry, though, that one doesn't taste funny… not really. You have to be a big girl and let it make you better."

"I'm sure it tastes wonderful," she said, winking. "Well, why don't you go off and practice some more flying, hmm? Or clean up the mess I'm sure you've made, young man."

He giggled again. "Alright…"

He went to leave, but his mother tugged him back. Wrapping both arms around him and squeezing more tightly than before, she whispered, "Thank you for trying."

He hugged her back and clambered off the bed.

As he left the room, his father entered, shutting the door behind him. Rather than heading down the hallway to his own bedroom, Theodore decided to stay behind and listen, his heart soaring as he thought of the day's accomplishments. He wondered if his father was finally going to say something good about his flying.

"There's hope for him yet," his father said. "Pity you're going to miss it."

"Belanus, please don't start…"

"Why shouldn't I? I don't suppose you told him the real reason why you're not taking your medicine?"

The soaring feeling in his chest halted, and instead, his heart began to beat fast. The real reason?

"They wouldn't work even if I did start taking them again," his mother said.

"But you don't know that! How could you, when you haven't even tried? You went on and on about stopping so you'd have more energy and time with us, but that didn't work either, did it?"

Theodore closed his eyes, his heart still thudding against his chest. He willed his father to go back to talking about his flying lesson, not this.

"I can fly, I can fly," he muttered to himself, wanting to leave.

His feet wouldn't move though, and his parents' voices grew louder.

"I'm not taking them! Please understand that, Belanus… I don't want to go through this anymore."

"I can fly, I can fly, I can fly…"

"Aren't we worth it, Rosalie? Aren't we worth fighting for? You have to at least try!"

Stars were now appearing behind his eyelids from squeezing them shut, but he continued chanting. "I can fly, I can fly…"

Maybe if he went back in the room, he could convince his mother that the potions would work, that she would be cured. He'd been able to fly, so why didn't she believe she could get better?

He stopped chanting only when silence rang throughout the hallway. Opening his eyes, he tried to steady his breathing as he listened for his mother's voice.

He could fly, she could get better…

After what felt like ages, she finally spoke. "I'm sorry… I just can't."

All at once, the world began to spin around again, and his heart plummeted. His mother didn't want to try to stay for them? Even if the medicine would make her better? His stomach flipped over and over as the vertigo reared its ugly head once more.

Although Theodore's feet were firmly planted on the ground, he was definitely falling.

Extended additional A/N: Like a previous story I wrote (An Act of Kindness), this story in particular deals with the topic of whether or not to accept treatment and fight, or to stop treatment in the hopes of leading a better quality of life, even if it's shorter. This time, I've gone from the perspective of a child and how it affected him. The reason why I am writing this note is because I don't wish to use the story as a tool to make people feel guilty about their choices at all (my personal opinion on the matter is not reflected in this story), but just to explore different perspectives briefly (and in this case, a naive child). The choice to continue treatment or not to) is entirely up to the person undergoing treatment, and all I wish is that anyone who is affected is able to smile again. I have tried to be as respectful about the topic as possible, so if there are any problems, please do not hesitate to contact me. The 'doxies' too was Theo's attempt to spell one of the chemotherapy medicines often used, Doxil.

I hope I managed to capture the voice of an eight-year-old… I've been working with them lately, but I forgot how hard it was to write them :p This, hopefully, explains why some of the words chosen in the prose itself were simpler (?) than I'd normally use (for example, 'croaky' voice vs 'hoarse' voice).

If you haven't read the book (or seen the movie), Looking for Alibrandi, I highly suggest you do. It is beautiful in itself and helped inspire the whole listening at the door for parents' breathing (something I also used to do as a child when I couldn't sleep—but to make sure the monsters didn't get them...).

I used both the theme and lyrics from the song prompt for the story. Whilst many of it was literal (i.e. Theodore learning to fly on a broom), my main aim was to convey him believing that he could help his mother in a figurative sense. The word prompt, vertigo, was also used with some trepidation (including using 'the' before it; grammarly flagged it as removing the article, but it makes no sense without it). Many people confuse it with normal dizziness, but it's kind of hard to describe actual vertigo (something caused by the inner ear or by different medical conditions, or, temporarily, when children try to induce it on themselves by spinning really fast). I therefore used what I've experienced from vertigo (I get it when climbing stairs or on escalators where my legs are jelly and I feel like I can't breathe), what I've heard others say about their experiences and quick web searches. The theme of course is Theo working by himself to help his mother.

Finally, this is most likely the last story I will publish for this competition (and perhaps, forever). I sincerely thank you all for your support and for reading this story. I'd like to also thank the moderators and judges (and my Mahoutokoro teammates) at the International Wizarding Schools Championship forum for running such a wonderful competition and providing helpful feedback with each round. If you are looking for a competition to join, please look no further.

Thank you for reading, Xx.