V.
The cold halls of the clinic greeted Rose again the next day.
Rose was a bit embarrassed to discover that she hated it there. It was so terribly cliché and common to hate hospitals. She volunteered at St. Mungo's, and had always been quick to tell people that she was indifferent to the intimidating atmosphere there, but she was now keenly aware that that had been a lie.
Her first breath of the sterile air within calmed her nerves, but the constant buzzing of bells and the scurrying of medi-witches in white hats left her nervously drumming her fingers against her knee-caps as she awaited her turn.
It didn't matter that she was a patient, or that she'd checked herself in—she felt like an intruder. The plain white walls and pristine emptiness left her feeling like an obstacle in an otherwise purposeful and insulated community. The healers bustled about, reciting stats and unfamiliar terms. Nurses carried balloons to the rooms of young patients. Potion makers ferried vats of foul-smelling medicine to and fro.
She really didn't want to be there.
There were children in the waiting room with her, pale-faced and teary-eyed, and that made Rose feel vaguely nauseous. On a whim, she played exploding snap—a game she hadn't enjoyed since she was in second year—with a young girl until a stern-looking nurse entered.
"Weasley, Rose," she called, tapping her clipboard with her wand.
Rose smoothed her pleated skirt down and stood. "That's me," she said hurriedly, feeling strangely worried that the nurse would disappear if she didn't call attention to herself quickly enough. She handed the nurse her wand. The nurse examined it from a moment and confirmed her identity before handing it back.
"Come with me," the nurse said, and exited the room without another word. Rose followed, and was led her down a corridor. "Here we are," the woman said as she stopped before an open door. "Have a seat." She gestured to the leather-backed chair in the center of the small room they'd entered.
"Thanks." Rose threw herself down rather dramatically and examined the room. There were vials on the shelves, and a bin of syringes on the countertop next to an ominously smoking cauldron.
Rose's eyes widened. She cleared her throat. "That's not for me, is it?" she asked worriedly.
"Of course not," the nurse snapped and straightened her hat. "I'm Nurse Francesca. Healer Figgins will be with you in a minute," she said briskly. She flipped through the sheets attached to her clipboard as if to show she was engaged in serious work and was not to be disturbed.
Rose sighed loudly. Nurse Francesca cast her a disparaging look. Rose quieted obligingly and fiddled with the buttons of her blouse, compulsively unbuttoning and rebuttoning the topmost one. The nurse made a disapproving sound in the back of her throat then turned her back to adjust the vials on the shelves so that their labels were facing front.
Rose stuck her tongue out.
Nurse Francesca turned back around.
Rose examined her fingernails.
Nurse Francesca frowned.
It was then that Rose took a moment to study the woman before her, and came to the surprising realization that she was, in fact, more of a girl than a woman. Her pinched features, tightly pulled back hair, and permanent frown all served to conceal the fact that she couldn't have been much older than Rose. In fact, Rose was quite sure she recognized her. Nurse Francesca must've graduated from Hogwarts recently.
The door opened, and a short, bearded man in traditional wizard's robes swept in. His wrinkled face and over-large nose made him look a bit like a gremlin.
"Well, hello!" he exclaimed, his hat bobbing up and down. "I'm Healer Figgins. How are you today?" He flipped through the file in his hands and arched a silver brow. "A Weasley, eh? Still have a headache?"
Rose pushed herself up in her seat, hoping his enthusiastic greeting indicated that the news was good.
"Hello," she said, smiling. "No headache today, thankfully. I'm actually feeling much, much better. And my magic's been as strong as ever—"
"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," the aged wizard tutted, and Rose blushed.
"Sorry." She would've sworn that Nurse Francesca was smirking at her from over the healer's shoulder. Bint.
"It's not a problem," he said as he read through her file. "It seems that our facility was ill-equipped to deal with your case," he said at last.
"Beg your pardon?" Rose asked, nervously tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
"We weren't entirely sure of what your results meant, so we sent them to a consulting healer at St. Mungo's. They reran your diagnostics."
"I see," Rose said, feeling slightly irritated. "So you're saying that…you really weren't qualified to interpret my test results?"
The healer shook his head kindly, setting the file down and knitting his spindly hands together. "It wasn't our fault. It was your results that were…"
"Yes?" Rose prompted, though she was sure she didn't want to know the answer.
"Well, they were rather extraordinary. Have a look," the healer urged gently. Rose reached over and took the folder he'd been perusing. She opened the file and glanced at the first sheet. It cataloged basic information pertaining to her. She flipped the page. In bold, red print was a column of numbers. Two were circled. Rose glanced at them.
Rose let out a low whistle. It was quite evident what Figgins had meant. She didn't know what they indicated, but even she could tell that something wasn't quite right.
It was a strange moment—one she would look back upon in later months and attempt to reconstruct and analyze. She was confused, of course. The numbers themselves seemed out of place on the thick, textured parchment she held in her hands; they appeared anachronistic—finely stylized and printed neatly as if from a typewriter.
Next was the odd hollowness that overtook her. It was as if she was at the top of a precipice, taking the proverbial deep breath before the plunge, or perhaps sniffing Auntie Muriel's floral perfume before kissing her powdery cheek.
Well, in any case, it was a foreboding moment, one that seemed to foreshadow the unpleasantness to come.
"This one right here," she said cautiously, the words getting caught in her throat. "Is it supposed to be this low?"
"That's your magiaparva cellular count. And, er, no. It's supposed to be several times that," the stout healer said, coughing.
"And the other? My…"
"Your procuronoma count," he supplied.
The smirk had slipped off of Nurse Francesca's face, and she was looking steadfastly at her over-polished shoes.
"Yes, that," Rose said, her voice flat. "Is it supposed to be that high?"
"That's the problem," Healer Figgins said, after a long pause. He scratched his bulbous nose thoughtfully. "It isn't supposed to be there at all."
VI.
In her first year, Rose was at the top of her class.
It was easy. All she had to do was read the chapters before they were covered in class, then take notes during lecture, then reread her notes and the chapter and do all the practice exercises. And then borrow a book or two from the library on the subject, and then perhaps ask her professor to explain any questions she had left.
That was all.
She really didn't understand why some of the other students were struggling when it was so simple. Albus had average marks in more than a few of his classes because he spent so much time with his new friends, "hanging out", or at the Quidditch pitch.
Rose thought he had his priorities all wrong.
Her only real competition came from Cory Wollmouth, a Ravenclaw that was enamored with Dom. That proved to be his undoing. All the time he wasted pining after Dom (who didn't show the least amount of interest in him) was time that Rose spent studying.
So naturally, she'd risen to the top. She loved being number one.
That was why she'd been slightly irritated when she'd been partnered with Scorpius Malfoy in Charms. Yes, she was in love with him (or she thought she was—she didn't even know him, but Rose figured that she shouldn't let something like that get in the way of her and Scorpius's destiny), and yes, she liked that he was close enough that she could admire his profile, but the boy was a terrible distraction from her studies.
Rose would catch herself stealing glances at him in the middle of her lessons, and be forced to mentally scold herself for not paying attention. To make matters worse, Scorpius wouldn't even speak to her.
To be fair, he wouldn't speak to anyone, including the professors. Which was rather odd, but Rose decided it wasn't a fatal flaw, especially since he had so many redeeming qualities (like his hair—Rose rather liked his hair).
It was the 4th of October when Rose Weasley spoke to Scorpius Malfoy for the first time. Her grade in Charms had been slipping, and she just knew Cory Wollmouth was laughing at her behind her back, eager for the chance to be number one.
Rose marched into Charms three minutes early, set her books down on the table, and turned to Scorpius, who had already arrived and seated himself.
"Scorpius, I'm breaking up with you."
He didn't seem at all surprised by this pronouncement; he simply nodded and picked up his books and moved two seats down. Rose sighed sadly. The deed was done, and she would not permit herself to feel any remorse. She would put the matter from her mind.
Albus, who had entered the room precisely as she'd spoken, however, didn't seem keen on letting it go. He threw himself down in the seat next to her.
"Rose? What was that? Did you just break up with him? Since when were you together?"
Rose sniffed. "Al, Scorpius and I have been partners in this class for over a month now."
"Wait, what? Partners in this class?" The dark-haired boy stared at her, bewildered.
She frowned. "Yes, obviously."
"And that's what you meant by breaking up with him? You didn't want to be partners anymore?" Albus's shoulders were shaking with laughter, and his green eyes had lit up with amusement.
"What did you think I meant?" Rose asked quickly, suddenly feeling worried that she'd said something untoward. Albus merely chuckled and slapped her good-naturedly on the back, causing her to squeak in surprise.
At that point, Professor Flitwick—who Rose thought was positively ancient—entered and told them both to be quiet because the lesson was starting, and even went so far as to threaten to dock points. Rose bit her lip and tried to pay attention to the lesson, but she couldn't but watch as a few seats away, her ex-partner perfected his levitation charm all on his own.
The first time Scorpius spoke to Rose, the circumstances were less than ideal.
The Gryffindor and Slytherin first years had been led out onto the Quidditch pitch and were being instructed on basic broom-care, and on how to properly mount a broom. Some of the students, like Albus and his mate Aaron Gregor, clearly knew what they were doing. Others, like Rose, were struggling to hide their fear.
Rose did manage to get the broom-care parts down. She had already done some light reading on the subject, and knew how to tend to one. She even managed to mount the broom properly. It was when the broom suddenly decided to take off that things began to go wrong. She wasn't entirely sure of how it happened. One moment she was mounting the broom and feeling inordinately pleased that things were going smoothly, and the next, the broom had jerked to life beneath her, responding to the slightest touch.
She was soaring through the air as her classmates laughed and cheered below, distinctly aware of Madam Hooch's voice screeching above the rest, telling her to get back down or else. Only she didn't know how to get back down, and that became terrifyingly clear to everyone seconds later when she lost her grip on the broom, and went tumbling through the air towards the ground.
VII.
It was the 16th of August, but James Sirius Potter didn't know that.
He'd lost track of the date a few days ago when he'd taken a buxom blonde named Amelia home with him from the Hog's Head. They'd spent the next two—or was it three?—days in bed together, lounging about his flat in varying degrees of nudity, and ordering take-out. At that particular moment, it was the mid-afternoon and she was sprawled across his bed, her limbs tangled in the linen. James lay next to her in his boxers, warily eyeing the ever-growing pile of unanswered correspondence on his dresser.
"Fuck," he muttered, and rolled over. He lay there a few moments longer, clearing his head and concentrating on the steady breathing of the girl lying next to him, then pulled himself up and headed to the kitchen. He ransacked the cupboards searching for coffee beans, and groaned when his search proved to be fruitless.
There was nothing in the fridge except a six-pack of muggle beer that had gone untouched since the day he'd purchased it a month ago. He was surprised it didn't have cobwebs on it by now.
James headed back to the bed. "Hey," he said loudly, shaking Amelia awake. She yawned and reached out blindly, grasping for him and humming contentedly. James grinned. "Nah, not now," he said much more softly as she tried to pull him down, presumably for a snog.
Her eyes opened and she pouted. "What's up?" she asked, her voice rough with sleep.
Fuck. She was sexy. James changed his mind and leaned down to kiss her, but she pulled back.
"Ew. Gross, love. Morning breath."
James laughed. "It's not the morning, though. It's the early afternoon, and we're all out of coffee."
"Bad," Amelia said, her voice muffled by her pillow.
"Yeah, very bad," James agreed, holding back another laugh. "I'm heading out to get food and stuff. Want anything?"
She shook her head, her blonde curls bobbing from side to side.
"Alright, then," James said, and rose. He pulled his shirt over his head and buckled on his trousers, side-stepping the clothes and trash that littered the floor as he made his way to the door. He stopped only to rinse his mouth out and grab his wallet and wand off the counter before leaving the flat.
The streets of Hogsmeade were packed. The village was a popular tourist location over the summer, as well as a home to its year-round residents. James had found a good deal on his flat and purchased it with the remnants of the money he'd been left by Grandpa Weasley in his will the day after he'd left Hogwarts.
He headed to the local grocery store and entered. The shopkeeper, a little old man who always wore his Sunday best, lowered his eyes when James entered. When James had first arrived, the shopkeeper—indeed, the entire village—had been quick to welcome him.
Then, as they'd learned more about him, as they'd seen him stagger home drunk on hot summer nights and bring home one girl after another, it had become evident that he was no longer welcome.
But he stayed. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go.
A toad-faced woman perusing magazines by the rack tutted loudly as he walked past, and James scarcely resisted the urge to laugh when he recognized her. "Aunt" Marie Marigold (who wasn't even an aunt, but always insisted that everyone refer to her as such) was the head gossip of Hogsmeade, and took great pleasure in cataloging and recounting tales to the rest of the villagers.
He strode past and headed to the back of the store, where he encountered an equally distasteful scene. A young boy lounged by the store's back entrance and was offering derisive comments to every female that walked past.
James shot him disgusted look. He'd seen the boys like him around before. The war had led plenty of wizarding families to financial ruin, and many of the children born in its wake had been abandoned or left at orphanages. At age fourteen, they would be permitted to leave the Ministry's custody, and often ended up in magical villages, roaming the area like street urchins.
The boy looked up, having sensed James's gaze, and scowled. "What are ya looking at?" he growled.
"You're one of Fletcher's boys," James noted dryly, not impressed by the boy's tough act.
"Aye," he said, brown eyes widening. "How'd ya know?"
"It's pretty fucking easy to tell," James muttered, glancing around. Marie Marigold was watching the exchange over the top of her copy of Witch Weekly with a gleeful expression on her face. Clearly, catching him associating with a shady-looking youth was good material for gossip.
James flashed her his middle finger and she dropped her magazine, horrified. He smirked. Served her right. He couldn't help feeling the tiniest bit of regret as she scurried out of the store, clutching her atrocious, yellow hat to her hair, but he dismissed the foreign emotion with a shake of his head.
The boy grinned, and seemed to take her departure as a sign that James was a kindred spirit. He skipped right to the sale's pitch that James had known he would inevitably receive.
"Ya up for some?" he asked, lowering his voice shoving a hand into the pocket of his grimy, dark coat and withdrawing a small pouch. He raised his eyebrows suggestively.
James, despite it all, found himself considering it. Amelia seemed like an interesting enough girl—she might think it would be a grand adventure to try some. He didn't want any, though. It wasn't as if the very thought of a hit made his limbs tense and his throat go dry.
Of course not.
He rubbed a hand over his face and heaved a sigh. "Not really," he said, and was proud of how steady his voice sounded.
The boy sneered. "Hogwash. It's the best kick ya'll ever have, mate. We only have the best stuff." He spoke too quickly and his voice was an octave or two higher than it should have been for a boy his age.
"Now that's bullshit," James scoffed and turned away, his resolve strengthening. He'd come to get coffee and milk, and that was what he'd leave with, not some half-rate snuff that one of Fletcher's boys had cooked up in a rusty cauldron.
The boy caught him by the shoulder.
"What the hell?" James spat, trying to shake the filthy youth off as he leaned in and wrapped an arm around James' torso. He felt something drop into his pocket, and then the boy pulled back.
"Courtesy o' Mundungus Fletcher," the boy whispered, and then announced loud enough for the passerby to hear: "and it was wonderful to catch up with ya, old chap." He turned his heel and walked away, but paused to call over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. "Ya know just where to find me."
"Like hell," James scoffed.
He rolled his eyes as the door jangled, signaling the boy's exit. How typical of Mundungus to hire a boy that was likely too poor to afford a Hogwarts education. No self-respecting, educated wizard would ever sell that particular product so blatantly in Hogsmeade, of all places. James had been able to recognize him easily: the boy's shifty eyes and hyperactive speech had been dead giveaways.
James, on the other hand, was fine—or so he told himself. His breathing had quickened, and the added weight of a few grams in his pocket seemed to be a painful burden. He'd have to toss it as soon as he had a chance. He went to the counter, his head ducked. He didn't want to receive any more pitying glances, and now that Marie Marigold had seen him converse with a filthy, bedraggled boy, the village would assume that he'd fallen even farther.
James finished his purchase and hurried back to the flat, wanting nothing more than to lose himself once more in Amelia's arms, or more accurately (and hopefully), her voluptuous curves. There was, however, someone unexpected standing outside his door when he arrived. Her red mane, as James liked to call it, was rather distinctive, and so he recognized his cousin from half-way down the street.
"Hullo, Rose. What are you doing here?" he asked uneasily, when he'd drawn close. "I've got company."
"You've always got company," Rose said, not bothering to greet him or even answer his question. "Send her away."
"Who says it's a 'her'? Suppose I've just got friends over?"
"What friends?" Rose quipped.
James pretended to scowl. "I have plenty of friends, Rose."
"You mean the blokes you go bar-hopping with? They don't count. You should get a job."
"Never," he said in mock horror.
"Why not potion-making? You were always good at that." James couldn't help it; he cracked up. Rose looked so adorably put out. "You're an embarrassment, you know?" she scolded, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Ah, Rose, you wound me."
"Nonsense. You're sort of okay, James. Sort of." James pouted. "Oh stop," Rose said, laughing. "You know I love you."
"Yeah, I know," he said a bit too seriously—because he did know. James Potter wasn't sure of much—not even of the date, to be quite honest—but he knew Rose Weasley was too sweet to see his many faults.
"Well? Aren't you going to let me in?" Rose demanded.
"Yeah, er—give me a moment," James muttered. He opened the door, entered, and shut it quickly behind him.
"For Merlin's sake, James. Open up right now or I will hex your—"
"Silencio," he muttered, waving his wand at the door. He kicked his shoes off and glanced around the flat frantically. "Amelia," he called, as he cleared the empty take-out boxes on the kitchen counter. "Ame—"
"What is it?" she called, appearing in the kitchen doorway. James glanced up. Shit. She wasn't wearing anything other than one of his old Quidditch jerseys, and she was leaning back against the doorframe in a way that exposed quite a bit of cleavage. James averted his eyes.
"Get dressed. You—you need to leave."
"What?" she repeated, this time incredulously.
"I said you need to leave," James said slowly.
She stared at him blankly. "Merlin, you're serious, aren't you?"
He grinned and ruffled his dark hair. "Actually—"
"Don't," she hissed. "Don't you dare." James frowned. People usually liked his puns.
Amelia shook her head furiously, pacing back and forth, muttering all the while. "Merlin. Holy Merlin—why do you want me to just—"
"It's a long story and I'll explain it later…" he cut in, growing worried. Rose was still waiting outside for him. Amelia spun on her heel to face him.
"Fucking hell, you twat, you think now that you've had your fun with me you can just send me packing?" Amelia spat.
James was incredibly relieved. "Yes!" he beamed. "Exactly. I'm so glad you understand. That makes this much easier."
"No," she said shrilly, "I don't fucking understand. Please, James, enlighten me."
James blinked in confusion. "Look," he said cautiously, "this was great. No—this was fantastic. These past few days I mean. And we should certainly do it again, okay? I'll floo you! It'll be fun."
She was still glaring angrily. Apparently that hadn't been the right thing to say.
He adjusted his glasses nervously, turned away to avoid making eye-contact with her, and continued cleaning up the flat.
"But right now," he whispered with his back turned, "my cousin's outside that door and she's quite possibly the only person in my family that hasn't written me off as a giant prick, so you need to leave."
"Are you fucking with me right now? Please be joking."
"I mean it. You have to go," he said again, more urgently this time as he shoved his correspondence—alright, fine, they were mostly unpaid bills—into a drawer, and set to work straightening the cushions.
She stared at him blankly for a second, as if unable to understand what he was saying.
"Leave," he suggested helpfully, for what felt like the dozenth time. "I'm asking you to leave."
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glared. "You're an arse, James."
"Whatever," he muttered, as she stormed out of the room. He heard the crack that rent the air as she disapparated only moments later. "Bitch."
James scrambled about, vanishing empty condom wrappers and throwing his dirty laundry back into the closet, then did one last check of the flat. Shit. His bong was lying on the couch, for fuck's sake. He threw that into the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink and then surveyed his handiwork, satisfied that everything looked presentable.
He knew he was being ridiculous.
He didn't really care.
He went back to the door and opened it. Rose had seated herself on the bottom step.
"Hi again," he said brightly.
"Hi," she said, standing up. She walked right past him, choosing not to comment on the shouting match she'd obviously just overheard. James stared after her. "Where's the food?" she called from inside. James shut the door and seated himself at the kitchen table.
He gestured towards the bag of groceries on the counter wordlessly. Rose snorted as she withdrew a half-dozen packs of instant noodles and some coffee powder.
"Seriously, James?"
"You know it, Rose," he said, shrugging. "I try to be highly serious about everything."
Rose snorted again and rummaged through the cupboards for a pot. James arched an eyebrow and pulled his wand out of his back pocket.
"Accio pot."
About ten pots of varying sizes flew from the cupboards and collided with James, knocking him off his chair. Rose stared down at him for an awkward second before they both burst out laughing.
"Idiot," she scolded.
He pulled himself up and handed her the right sized pot. "Say what you will, but my methods work."
Rose took the pot and pushed him off his chair again.
"What the—" Pause. He dusted himself off and pulled himself up again "That was highly unnecessary, Rose."
"Maybe," she conceded, then set some water to boil and emptied a pack of noodles into it. James watched, waiting for her to explain herself. This was how it usually went when Rose decided to pay him a visit. She'd scold him about his misdemeanors, make food, and then she'd vent about whatever it was she had on her mind.
When the food was on the table, James examined his cousin uncertainly as she poked at her plate with a fork. Her face was pale and wan, and her eyes dull.
"You should eat," he suggested. "You'll feel better."
Rose set her fork down and frowned. "Who says I'm not feeling well?"
"Um," he gulped.
Rose rolled her eyes to but gave him a small smile to show him that she was just teasing. That worried him. Rose's smiles were generally cheeky and obnoxious. Not small and sad like this one.
"What is it?"
"James," she said at length, "do you ever think that magic isn't the best way to go about doing things?"
"No," he answered without a thought.
Rose watched him curiously for a moment then reached into her bag and pulled out a folder. She handed it to James.
"Open it."
He set down his fork and eyed the folder warily before accepting it, then opened it and flipped through the pages, feeling more than a little confused. He turned to a random page and began to read.
The patient exhibits symptoms of chronic inimicia; loss of magical ability symptom of ailing magiaparva count; unfettered division of procuronoma cells choking off blood and growth & division of regulators.
"Rose? What is this?" All traces of humor were gone from his voice.
"Keep reading."
Suggested treatment; targeted therapies and potions cocktail. Combination TBA. Delivered to bloodstream; restrict division.
Cost of diagnostics: 576 Galleons | Projected cost of treatments: - | Projected cost of clinic visits: -
"What the fuck does this even mean? You know I don't understand big words, Rose—"
"Not in the mood, James. Keep reading."
He flipped back to the front.
Patient Info; 5'6, female, medical history: unavailable, age: 17, name: Rose Augusta Weasley.
Oh.
Prognosis; 6 months without treatment, 18 months with.
No, that didn't quite make sense. He read it again, and this time the message registered. His hands shook as he set the file down.
"James?" Rose prompted tentatively. But James couldn't really hear her.
No.
No, no, no. This had to be a cruel joke.
"James?"
"If I'm reading this right," he said, staring down at the table, "you're in a spot of trouble."
Rose nodded. "It seems that I'm very ill. Possibly dying." He said nothing, and Rose frowned. That was a very ambiguous statement coming from her, after all. "And not in a figurative, metaphoric way, Jamie. I'm actually dying," she explained.
"In a painfully real, inescapable sort of way, then?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on the tabletop, his voice uncharacteristically low. He didn't think he was capable of looking up and meeting her eyes just that moment. Not that he was going to cry. James Sirius Potter never cried.
Of course not.
"Yes, that's the sort," Rose said.
"Hm," James said, only he was painfully aware of the fact that the noise he made came out a bit more strangled than that—rather like he was choking, or perhaps doing a poor job of holding back a sob.
"I don't know how I'm going to pay for treatment," Rose said conversationally.
James looked up at her. "You're loaded."
"My parents are loaded," she corrected. "I'm not planning on telling them about this though."
"Oh." He rubbed a hand over his face, still too numb to grasp the reality of the situation at hand. "Okay. But why?"
"Er, well, seeing as, you know, I haven't got all that much time—"
He didn't want to hear this. He cut her off. "Rose—"
"No, let me finish," she snapped, placing her hands flat on the table before continuing in a more confident tone. "I haven't got that much time and I want these months to be good. I don't need our entire family—"
"Yours. Your family. Not mine," James cut in bitterly.
"James, shut up for a moment. There are more pressing issues than your teenage angst that need to be dealt with."
And for some reason, that made him irrationally angry.
"This isn't funny Rose! How the fuck did this happen? You think you can just come in here and tell me you're fucking dying? What is this?"
"James," she whispered worriedly, reaching across the table to try and rest her hand on her cousin's shoulder. He flinched away. "Merlin, James, I'm sorry. I suppose I didn't know who else to go to."
He could hear the strain of her voice; he could sense the tears she was holding back.
He cleared his throat. "Damn it, don't apologize. I'm sorry. I—" he cut off and stared down bitterly. He had to do this. There was no other choice. "I'm going to get you the money, Rose, and you don't have to tell anyone else if you don't want to."
"Honestly?" she asked, her eyes lighting up.
"Honestly," he said, nodding. He smiled back. "I'll just head over to the bank. Don't worry about it. Relax. Try and get well. I'm—I'm really glad you told me."
Rose beamed. "James, you are utterly fantastic!"
"I know," he said solemnly. "Now, don't you have some sort of SPEW auction to attend?"
"You do read my letters!"
James rolled his eyes. "Just go," he said, his laughter bellying the tightening in his chest, and the perspiration collecting at the back of his neck. She grinned and reached up to ruffle his hair.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She jumped to her feet and gave him a quick hug before rushing out of the kitchen, and out the door.
James stared after his departed cousin.
Fuck.
That word aptly summarized the situation.
James had, in fact, headed to the bank last week to make a withdrawal, but he'd been denied by the goblin behind the counter.
The teller had eyed him warily. "Perhaps, Messr Potter, it would do best if you would approach private lenders. Gringott's has placed a hold on all withdrawals from your account," the goblin had said.
James had known he was in debt. He'd spent all the money he'd been left by his grandfather—and more. But he hadn't realized it was this bad until recently. And now this. Somehow he had to pay for Rose's treatment. There was no fucking way he could back out now, and he felt horrifically guilty for feeling resentful that Rose had chosen to burden him, of all people, with her secret.
She should have known better than to trust him. The rest of their family did.
James bit back a curse. He wandered into the living room, tossed his jacked onto the floor and sat down on his ratty old couch and wondered if he should drop by the bar, or go out for a ride on his broomstick. He couldn't find the energy to do either, though, so he simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how everything in his life had managed to go to absolute shit since he'd graduated.
A mole-skin pouch lying next to his jacket on the floor caught his attention. It took him a second to remember what it was. The boy at the grocer's had given it to him earlier that day.
He reached down and retrieved the pouch. His fingers hovered above the drawstrings. It would be blissful to light up now. One hit and he'd be in another world, one where Rose Weasley wasn't dying, where he wasn't a debt-ridden failure, where he hadn't peaked at Hogwarts.
He dropped the bag to the floor and kicked it beneath the couch, then headed into the kitchen. James grabbed a can of old beer from the fridge and took a swig.
Tasted like shit.
He gulped down the entire thing, and decided he didn't give a damn. Maybe a Weasley could be felled by something as stupid as a physical illness. Maybe the son of the Chosen One would be sent to fucking debtor's prison. Who cared? As James drank his third beer, he came to the conclusion that he certainly didn't.
Not that he truly believed that.
Of course not.
VI.
In those terrifying split-seconds, Rose realized she was falling. Tumbling, plunging, descending, dropping. There were plenty of words for it, but what it came down to was that Rose was plummeting towards the ground and a velocity that would likely leave her with serious health concerns, and a howler or two from her mother. Her robes billowed about her, and she couldn't quite reach her wand; panic gripped her and her heart thundered in her chest, her throat constricting until she couldn't breathe as she realized that she was probably going to—
Her fall came to a sudden halt as a voice cried out across the pitch.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
She was gripped by an invisible force that jolted her to a stop in mid-air. Slowly but surely, she was lowered to the ground, where she crumpled into an undignified heap and covered her face with her hands, humiliated beyond belief. Madam Hooch checked to see that she wasn't physically harmed, then hurried away, up to the castle to fetch Madam Pomfrey. Rose sat there, willing the ground to swallow her up. The crowd of students gathered around her didn't seem interested in letting her be, though.
Someone prodded her with their wand, and Rose peaked between her fingers to see who it was.
A blonde-haired boy stood before her. "Merlin," the boy breathed. "I nearly didn't get my wand out in time. I thought you were going to...you know. Are you alright?"
Was she? Rose wasn't quite sure how to answer that question honestly as she blinked up at the quick-witted boy that had saved her. She was still very shaken, but she pulled herself to her feet and dusted off her robes.
"Oh, it's you!" she gasped.
Scorpius gave her an odd look, as if asking who else he could possibly be, but to Rose's delight, a slight blush tinged his cheeks.
Rose had barely opened her mouth to continue when her dratted cousin ruined the moment.
"That was wicked cool!" Al exclaimed, as he pushed himself between them and grabbed Scorpius's hand. "You're the man," he informed him as he shook his hand vigorously. Scorpius offered Al a tentative grin, and didn't resist when Al dragged him over to meet his friend Aaron. Rose stared after them as an irritated looking Madam Pomfrey arrived at the pitch, muttering beneath her breath about the perils of mixing first years and Quidditch.
Rose consented to being led off the pitch to the hospital wing. Nothing was broken or bruised save for her ego, and at the very least, she thought she could do with a Calming Draught to settle her nerves. Her sudden fall, coupled with the startling grey eyes of the boy who'd saved her, had proved to be a bit much for one day.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a review, it makes my day :)