A/N: Things are starting to pick up now, and IWFYID is beginning to hit its stride. I'm finally catching up with the plot bunnies in my head, and I'm actually ahead on chapters, which is encouraging xD
Things are going to be getting a little darker in the future, so be prepared.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling graced us with the sandbox. I'm merely making sandcastles with Dungeon Bats and Know-It-All princesses.
Thank you to my reviewers, and those who have been adding IWFYID to your story alerts!
Jean had had enough of the hospital. She had had enough of her doctors. She had especially had enough of her medication.
The pills made her feel fuzzy and light headed, as if her mind wasn't her own. It robbed her of concentration, of rational thought, and it made her feel numb to the world.
The doctors insisted that they were for her own good, though she knew this to be untrue. If she had any say, she would live her life unmedicated, locked in a library, and living off of cup-noodles like American uni students.
Perhaps the doctors' opinions had some merit after all.
Another two weeks had passed, and she was itching to get out of the hospital and into her live-in program.
She would be in a boarding house with several other 'troubled' teenagers, whatever that meant. Jean had a feeling that they were in for far worse than she, and rumors went that they were delinquents whose hobbies were kleptomania and arson.
Looking at herself in a mirror, Jean looked herself over, biting her lower lip as she turned, examining her thin hips and lean frame. She had been told that she had been malnourished and much too thin for her age, and that when admitted, she had the appearance of running wild before finding herself on the streets of London.
Her brown hair wasn't fabulous – by all means it was a bit more frizzy than she'd like, and it fell well past her shoulders. The nurses at the hospital had given her a trim, with promises of letting her get it styled before she went to her live-in.
She plucked at her bangs, brows drawing together as she realized that they were uneven. Proper trim her arse.
"They can't do a decent trim, but they're entrusted with the mental wellbeing of hundreds of patients every day?" She scoffed, turning in a slow circle as she continued to examine herself.
The hospital had furnished her with the abandoned clothes of past patients. Lost and found, a second hand store or two, and hasty measurements had her outfitted in baggy shirts and jeans cinched tight with frayed belts, a pair of trainers half a size too big, and a bra that had seen better days long ago.
The shirts hung off her frame, the jeans were too big, and her undergarments long past second hand. But she was clothed, and out of those blasted hospital gowns.
Shuddering a bit at the memories of the gowns, she rolled her shoulders.
"Hi, my name is Jean. I'm seventeen, and I have no memories of my life past my time on a psychiatric ward!" She said brightly, though her expression was sour.
Taking another step closer to the mirror, she reached out, pressing her hand against the glass. "Hi...My name might be Jean...I might be seventeen...I might never remember who I am," she murmured, closing her eyes against the onslaught of tears that were constantly lurking.
"Severus...where are you? I need you to find me," she choked out, clenching her fingers against the mirror.
Straightening, she drew back her shoulders, taking a deep breath. She didn't need the doctors walking in on her crying. They'd sedate her, shuffle her off to bed, and tell her that they would wait on the live-in program. Again.
"Yo, Jean," a voice sounded from the doorway. She looked over her shoulder at the grinning visage of Thom Jenkins, a twenty two year old manic depressive who had landed himself on Ward 4 after experiencing a bout of mania that led him to take part in drunken revels across the countryside until he was caught using a maxed out credit card in London.
With sandy blond hair, blue eyes with a mischievous twinkle, and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, Thom was the epitome of that boy next door parents were afraid of corrupting their own children. His grin was contagious, and his penchant for trouble was catching.
Jean had assumed she was the 'goodie two shoes' type until Thom had demonstrated how much fun there was to be had in mischief making.
Thom was bright and funny, though Jean was wary of his mood swings. He rapid cycled and was a bit of an emotional wildcard most days.
"Hello Thom," Jean said with a smile, turning to face her 'friend'. They had quickly found that they were the highest functioning life forms on Ward 4, and had made a pact to keep each other sane till discharge.
"Rumor is they got a bunch of new puzzles from a continued care facility across the way. Apparently their old codgers over there got tired of Norman Rockwell, yeah?"
Jean wrinkled her nose. She hated puzzles. How she loathed them. Thom was of a like mind; they had been doing their damnedest to sabotage Ward 4's supply of them before discharge.
Thom grinned, but didn't come past the threshold of her door. Rules were rules, and male patients were not to fraternize with female patients in their rooms.
"How close are we now, Thom?" She asked, fingering the frayed hem of her t-shirt.
Thom thought on it. "Five days. We'll both be out of here next Tuesday."
"Think we'll get out on time to skip Chicken Patty Tuesday?" She asked, wrinkling her nose at the thought.
Thom chuckled. "Dear lord, I hope so. I can't take another day of Carl dipping his chicken patty in pudding and cheese sauce at the same time," he muttered, giving a slight shudder at the thought.
"Where will you go after this?" She asked, walking across the room and past him into the ward's common room.
"Ah, the age old question. Hm. I take it drunken revels are out?"
Jean glared at him as they walked, and was of a mind to waggle a disapproving finger at him.
"You came here for a reason, Thom," she admonished.
"So did you," he countered. "You're just lucky enough to not remember."
Jean shot him a warning look as she plopped down onto one of the threadbare couches, reaching for the war-veteran known as the telly remote.
"That's neither here nor there," she growled, flipping channels with a vengeance. Reports had been that the odd happenings over the past year had stopped, and that the nation was seeing a drop in crime rates. It seemed like this should be fairly important to Jean, but she couldn't bring herself to care. There were more important things to worry about, like finding that Severus fellow and remembering her life before the ward.
She glanced at Thom to find him studying her a little too intently.
"What?" She snapped.
Thom shrugged. "Just thinking. What'll you do if you don't get your memories back? Who will you become? There's no telling if that Severus bloke will ever ride up on his stallion and save you, you know."
Jean looked away again, her jaw set.
"Don't say that, Thom..."
Thom shrugged again. "All I'm saying is don't put your faith in other people. They'll always let you down. Especially some bloke you don't even know."
"Then what would you suggest? I travel with you after my live in and we spend our days getting drunk and high in hippie communes across the country side?" She spat, crossing her arms with a huff.
Thom grinned, nodding. "That's exactly what I was going to suggest. How'd you read my mind?"
Jean gaped at him. "No. Absolutely not. No way."
"And what else do you have to lose? Your shitty memories of this place too?" He asked, encompassing the ward in a sweeping gesture of his arm.
"I know some great people out in that big bad world, Jean. They'll help you forget all about remembering. I'll help. We'll make you a brand new set of memories, so you don't have to pine after a past that doesn't matter anyways."
Thom's smile was genuine as he leaned towards her, his elbows on his knees.
"You're a smart girl, Jean. Together, we could live the lives of wanderers. Backpack it across the continent, run off to America for a bit. See the sights, smell the smells, enjoy a toke here or there."
Jean leveled a glare at him.
"You're not getting me high, Thom," she stated, squirming into a more comfortable position in the ragged couch cushions.
"Eh, semantics. Fine then. I'll get high, and you'll record all our adventures for posterity. I'll expect photographic evidence, of course. Then you'll author a book, and we'll get rich off the royalties. You'll pay a hypnotist to get back those rotten memories of yours, and maybe a private eye to find that Severus fellow you're so keen on knowing."
Jean gave him a sidelong look, her brow furrowed.
Thom grinned, knowing full well he'd planted a seed of doubt in Jean's mind. There was a reason mothers kept their daughters, and some sons, from Thom Jenkins.
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