There's a bright, white flash of light. And then—
"This is a rather interesting approach to rehabilitation, Aberfield."
It's like an out of body experience on the other side of the memories. But within them, he's the subject. The focus. The unarguable theme.
Graham's eyes glaze to his left, and he watches as Quincy Aberfield places the tip of his wand on Lucius Malfoy's left forearm. His own arm stings like he's just been burned with something, but after lightly massaging the site of his own implantation, the throbbing sensation wanes, and he's left with a small, red imprint on his skin. Right on top of his Dark Mark.
"It's a new approach to healing," Aberfield explains, raising his eyebrow and smiling as the beam of light settles against Lucius's pale forearm and then seeps through his skin. "It's going to help us regulate the amount of dark magic present in your body." A small portion of the beam bleeds out again, and Aberfield collects it with a small vial. "Totally noninvasive. Just helps us keep track of your physical progress."
Unconvinced by that explanation, Graham looks away and inconspicuously shakes his head.
"And it's been… approved? By the Ministry?"
Narcissa Malfoy's voice is almost like a whimper. It's softer than Graham has heard in the past. Whereas before she held this sophisticated and resilient tone, it's now evident that Narcissa is wispier. Feebler. Even physically paler. The blush of her cheeks doesn't exist anymore; it's replaced by a ghostly hue, which only strengthens the deep, purple bags that are settled under her icy eyes.
Aberfield smiles at her. "Of course. Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Malfoy."
"And just how many more of these meetings are we to attend?"
The woman who asks that pestering question is tall and beautiful, with slick black hair and accentuated cheekbones. Her posture is unmatched, and her gaze stoic. A spitting image of her daughter, Mrs. Parkinson crosses her arms over her chest and taps her fingernails against her biceps, impatiently awaiting Aberfield's answer.
"As many as it takes before the Ministry approves each of you for temporary house confinement," Aberfield explains, taking a step back and examining his work. He settles the eighth and final vial into a small, wooden rack, and then he sighs with relief and slips his wand back into the pocket of his blazer. "Associates of the D.M.L.E. need to see that at least some progress has been made in this program before it can be launched into a fully-fledged rehabilitation effort, equipped with proper funding and a broader network of employees."
"So, we're—what—your guinea pigs?" a man to Graham's right asks. He's colossal, and his brown hair is perfectly tidy on his head. But it's the tone of the man's comment—sardonic and cynical—that reminds Graham of his son: Adrian.
Chuckling at the insinuation, Aberfield clasps his hands together behind his back. "You're more like… vessels of discovery. An example to all of the possibility of restoration."
"Sounds rather complicated," Mrs. Parkinson argues with a roll of her jade eyes.
As he indignantly tips his chin up in the air, Mr. Parkinson tsks at the air, as if he's tired of listening to what his wife has to say or nitpick.
"You always find a way to complain about things, don't you?" he mutters under his breath, but it's just loud enough for his already irritated wife to scoff back at him.
"Well, excuse me for wanting to ensure that whatever we are doing here is actually going to be of any benefit to me or my life," she snaps back, placing her hands on her waist. "I am a woman of needs and refinement, and I refuse to be dragged into this insulting course every day if it is not going to do me any sort of good. I'm already exhausted."
"And what other plans do you have to attend to, hm?" Mr. Parkinson retorts. "Don't tell me the dirty fucking house elves break the wards so that you can host your little man-whores whenever you and your wretched cunt pleases."
"Oh, you righteous, entitled bastard," she spits back, flaring her nostrils. "And I suppose the Floo is completely void of your little sluts?"
"On the contrary, it's riddled with them. And each one of them has done me ten times better than you ever have!"
"I pity the sluts that have to shove your infinitesimal cock down their throats—"
"Mrs. Parkinson," Aberfield warns, tipping his head to the side to guide the argument to a close.
At the sound of her name being used in such a patronizing tone, Mrs. Parkinson groans. "I cannot be in the same room as this insufferable arsehole."
"Believe me, there's nothing more I'd like than to never see your repulsive face again—"
Graham begins to dissociate from the situation, because it's all too much to handle and process. With a sigh, he longingly stares at the wall in front of him, wishing that it would open itself up and swallow him whole so he wouldn't have to suffer through the Parkinsons' incessant bickering. Arguments are exhausting to him and his soul. With every malicious word that spews from the Parkinsons' mouths in a series of spits and growls, Graham feels like he's been thrust in the center of an unbridled tornado. It's one that relentlessly sucks the whole world into it and just twirls and twirls until a person can't feel their limbs, can't process the scattered thoughts in their mind, can't even tell where their body starts and where it stops. They're simply being stretched and compressed by the elasticity of the wind, the bend and curve of the gyrating, monstrous twister, and that's cause enough for mental exhaustion.
Graham wouldn't touch confrontation with a ten-foot pole, so he ignores it to the best of his ability. Instead thinks about being escorted back to his home by his assigned Auror, tossed into his living space like garbage, and then left in his confinement. It's the same routine every damn day, and Graham imagines that if things don't change soon, he's going to lose his fucking mind in his tiny, one bedroom loft.
Company. Graham misses that facet of human life dearly. He's an introvert through and through, never the first one to initiate a conversation. But he has to admit that there was always something comforting about spending time with a friend every once in a while. Or, at the very least, and thanks to the restrictions of the program, conversing with them by means of letters. An owl still delivers to him weekly; he hopes that he'll soon be able to send mail out himself rather than just stare at the messages meant for him with the knowledge that he cannot respond. That kills him—not being able to explain why he's unresponsive.
He'd probably write to Adrian first. The second he has a pen and paper in hand and an owl perched on his windowsill, patiently waiting for him to slip a letter into his beak, Graham will write to Adrian and explain as much as he possibly can.
What Graham lacks in this program is a sense of comfort in another person. Being much younger compared to the other released Death Eaters, Graham has discovered time and time again that forming a connection synonymous to his with Adrian seems almost impossible.
The question of engaging with Adrian's father is nonnegotiable—there's no way in hell that Graham will ever willingly tolerate the bastard. He's unnerving to be around, and his harsh and objectifying humor sets Graham's insides on fire with intense discomfort. And the things he has said about Adrian and his mother makes Graham—passive, relatively docile Graham—want to hurl his fist into the man's face. Yell and scream with each strike about how much better Adrian and his mother deserve than the scum that he is.
Theo's father is almost a carbon-copy. He's cold and cruel, but the genesis of that demeanor stems from the moment his wife died. And that was years ago. Mr. Nott's exterior is tough and surly, and his demeanor is unfriendly and unsympathetic. He could put crushed glaciers and shattered icecaps back together with his callous, icy disposition.
Then there's the Parkinsons, and they are… something else. An enigma in a world that assumes a marriage between two people is built on everlasting love. It is clear that the two despise each other to the bone. Graham's less uncomfortable with that reality and more perplexed as to why they remain together if they're unhappy, because wouldn't everything be more serene if they just fucking up and left one another? There's no use trying anymore—too much baggage. Far too cataclysmic of a history.
Blaise's mother tends to squat in the corner of the room; occasionally, Graham will turn over his shoulder and gaze at her. He notices time and time again that no matter how hard she tries to hold her head up high—manifest some sort of positive outlook on her life—she can barely get through the days without having some form of a panic attack. Over Blaise. Over her husband. Over the fate of the family. Her thoughts are skewed and discombobulated, but they're always about her boys. About their addictions. About how her son survived the war while her husband overdosed. Died by himself in one of the guest rooms of Zabini Manor. That was the beginning of the end for Mrs. Zabini, but it was simply the beginning for Blaise.
The Greengrass' are exempt from the program. Rumor has it that Astoria's testimony in front of the Wizengamot was so tear-jerking, so tender, so emotionally driven, that they were far more lenient about their sentences. And at the end of six months, they were released from Azkaban. And they implored Daphne to join the three of them in Paris, where they'd permanently relocate, but she refused. Cited that staying with her friends was far more important. Loyalty rushed fiercely throughout her blood, and so the Greengrass' departed the second they could, leaving behind their oldest daughter.
The only people in the program that have a sliver of compassion for Graham are the Malfoys, and that comes in the form of complimentary cocaine.
There's the commonality between all of them. Everyone is a fucking addict. Have been for years now—ever since Voldemort's return. Coping took the form of that angelic powder in their systems, and it helped in several ways. The Death Eaters were faster and smarter. They were less fearful of Voldemort. When he'd stealthily stalk by their sides, threaten them, or taunt them with promises of dark fates should they disobey him, the Death Eaters would channel the cocaine in their system to counterattack their doubts and fears. It made them more cohesive. Ironic that a muggle substance is what kept them a unit.
Perhaps it's unfair to claim that the Malfoys only show Graham compassion by offering him free cocaine. In reality, the Malfoys, particularly Narcissa, are actually quite warm. And when she isn't plagued by incessant panic attacks and fainting spells, Narcissa molds beside Graham like she's his own mother. Possessing this innately nurturing disposition, like a mother lion who's just given birth to cubs, Narcissa insists on sitting next to Graham every day. Lucius settles himself right next to her, and even though he's still cold (his top priority is Narcissa—now and forever), he is cordial enough. That's all Graham needs, really. An earnest presence.
"Right, Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson," Aberfield interrupts, raising his right hand in front of him to sternly cease their bickering, "I think we've heard enough out of the both of you today."
Graham sighs a breath of relief when the couple surrenders midbattle.
Surveying the crowd once more, Aberfield continues speaking. "Your Aurors are waiting outside to take you upstairs to the Floo Networks and escort you back to your homes. I will see you here tomorrow morning at our regular time to assess your health levels. Until then, remember that you are a part of something big here. Something revolutionary, should you choose to accept my help."
Aberfield's language is fascinating to Graham because it's self-centered and righteous. There's an implication hidden between the lines—I, me, and my are used far too comfortably in his sentences. It's as if the aim of the program is somehow redirected to his eventual glory rather than the former Death Eaters' journey towards restoration.
As they all turn to depart, Graham briefly looks over his shoulder at Lucius with entreating eyes.
"Lucius," he whispers, the allusion ripe in his voice and in the raise of his eyebrows.
Lucius is quick to dig his hand into the pocket of his pants and secretly pass a dime bag into Graham's hand. Graham is even quicker in shoving the drugs into his pocket.
"You're using the charms, yes?" Narcissa whispers as they begin to file out of the room.
Graham nods, his head facing forward. "Yes. But to a certain point, it just doesn't do the trick."
"I understand," Narcissa sighs, placing her hand on Graham's shoulder. "We all do."
"Don't let Aberfield see you touch him," Lucius hisses, and Narcissa drops her hand as they pass by Aberfield's focused glare. "Just keep walking. Do not stop walking."
Once they are just about to cross the threshold of the door and step into the corridor, Graham turns over his shoulder and quietly mutters, "Thank you."
"Everything will be alright," Narcissa whispers. "We will get through this together."
Before he has a chance to confirm what Narcissa says, Graham is snatched and dragged away by his elbow, and he turns over his shoulder to watch as Narcissa shifts closer to Lucius. Dips her head against his shoulder and sighs heavily.
And when they're out of sight, Graham remembers what it's like to feel utterly alone.
Because there are positive parts that embody and sustain the idea of loneliness. Time for oneself is like a gift in this world, and Graham intends to grab onto that reality as often as he can.
But he wouldn't mind writing a letter.
Perhaps soon he'd be able to do more than just savor the notes which Adrian sends him from time to time. Maybe—just maybe—Graham could one day write him back.
Two weeks later, Graham and the others are given the clearance to leave their homes. Go to a pub, a restaurant, a library, a park. It's under strict surveillance of their assigned Aurors who follows them like a shadow in the sunlight, so it's not perfect, but it's enough. If the price he has to pay for the feeling of the sun's rays on his cheeks is that his shadow is three-dimensional, then Graham will compensate. Enthusiastically.
He's having a pint in a local pub. He sips the beer at the long, mahogany bar, his back arched and his head low. Over his shoulder, Graham peeks at his assigned Auror, nestled in a booth towards the back. He's subtly reading the Daily Prophet and drinking his own glass of whiskey. When he turns his head back and lifts his pint to his mouth, Graham hears the door swing wide open and feels the pleasant summer air sweep into the interior of the pub. He glances towards the door as the resounding hum of laughter fills his ears and nestles around his aching heart, and then he notices a group of six stumble in with merriment in their smiles. Most of them pile into the third booth in, save a young woman who instead makes her way to the bar.
Graham's breath catches in his throat when he realizes that she's leaning her stomach against the edge of the bar just to his right. Her arms settle against the mahogany, and she raises her hand in the air to draw the bartender's attention.
"Your usual round, Olivia?" the bartender asks, streaking the wisps of her short bangs from the center of her forehead to the sides of her face.
Olivia. Gods, that's a beautiful name. Graham's never heard of that name before.
"Please, Alice," Olivia responds in a voice that sounds like a lattice of satin and silk, and Graham has to force the pint to his mouth to cover the pathetically bright smile that's forming with his lips. He takes a sip and places the glass back on the napkin, and then—oh gods—he can feel her staring at him now. She's definitely looking—he can tell out of his peripheral—and her gaze is like fire, and she's so pretty, and why's she looking at him of all people?
Her fingernails tap against the bar. Graham's stomach twists as he anticipates an inevitable chat.
"Hi."
That's all she says.
It's all she has to say, really. Graham's insides fade to mush at the sound of her voice, the cadence of that one word, one syllable, one fucking sound.
Slowly, at the risk of not appearing to eager, Graham cranes his neck and gazes at her, and gods, she's beautiful. Her dark, brown hair is creased in waves that even the ocean would be envious of, and it falls past her shoulders and onto a pair of dark, navy blue scrubs in cascades of unquestionable beauty, save two pieces at the front that are secured at the back of her head. She has these piercing brown eyes, but they're not boring like Graham's. Hers are hazel with a twinge of fire—a perfect window to her bold and effervescent soul. Her lips are as beautiful as the color of freshly bloomed rose petals, and when they curve up into a small smile, Graham confirms it all: Olivia is far too beautiful for someone like him. Someone whose features are stained with what lies within—a dark past, and a hopeless future.
Something within him surges forward, though.
"Hi," he responds, forming his own smile that he is positive will never match the beauty of hers.
"You don't come here very often, do you?"
Graham's eyebrows shoot up in shock. His lips stutter over his answer. "Oh. Erm…"
She giggles sweetly, alleviating the tension. "Sorry. It's just that I come here with my colleagues almost every day after our shifts at St. Michael's and I have never seen you here before."
His eyes wander to study her outfit, and then he connects the scrubs to the place where she works. St. Michael's—it's a hospital down the road.
He subsequently glances around the bar and notices a few other patrons in their scrubs. The wall lining the side with booths is filled with pictures of nurses and doctors, and there are decorative signs thanking them for their service. Laughing at himself, Graham returns his gaze back to Olivia's eyes.
He clears his throat. "This is my first time here. I didn't realize it was a bar for Hea—doctors."
"It's for anyone," Olivia responds, tilting her head and offering a sunny smile. Her gaze lowers to his pint, and she points her finger to the drink. "How's the ale treating you?"
"It's a little bitter," he laughs.
"Figures. That's why I prefer a lager," she says. "Much smoother and lighter."
"I guess I don't usually drink beer."
"No?" she asks, intrigued by his forthcoming explanation.
"More of a whiskey guy, usually."
Yeah, firewhiskey. To drown out my fucking sorrows.
"Very classy of you," she jokes, and then she giggles and tucks a piece of her raven hair behind her ears, and that causes Graham's stomach to flip. How are such simple actions able to make him feel so warm and content? And how—Graham is still on this fucking question, because it's an absolute enigma to him—is she, arguably one of the most beautiful people he's ever laid his sorry eyes on, talking to him of all people?
Suddenly, her hand is out, ready for him to shake.
"I'm Olivia."
Take her hand, Graham. You dumbarse. Take her hand.
He settles his hand in hers and shakes it. "Graham."
"It's very nice to meet you, Graham," she says, releasing his hand. "Are you here alone?"
No, not really, Graham thinks to himself as he stares into Olivia's eyes, I'm actually here with an appointed officer of the Wizarding World because I was a part of an evil association of wizards whose goal was to eradicate your kind from the world.
Definitely not the route he should travel down. That would sever the connection in a moment.
Graham nods instead. "Yes."
"Do you like being alone?"
Graham hesitates. Thinks that his answer will sound unquestionably pathetic, but he answers Olivia anyways. "Sometimes, yes. Gives me time to think and reflect."
"I understand that quite well," Olivia says with solemn nods, her eyes glazing past Graham for a moment before returning to his. "We all need some time for ourselves once in a while to decompress and relax. No shame in that."
"Are you…"
His question falters—he never even knew where he was going with it in the first place. It's the way that she shines in the shitty lighting of the bar that causes him to stumble and forget his question for a moment. Graham knows that she's a muggle, but there's something bewitching about her features, and not just those on the outside, but also the ones on the inside.
He has to say something.
Graham's eyes wander to her friends, nestled in that third booth on his right. "So, you're… here with your friends?"
"Right on time for happy hour," she gleams, curving her lips in a devious smile. "We typically work morning shifts at the hospital, so it's nice to come here after and unwind. Gossip a little bit, too, but don't let my boss in on that secret."
A laugh escapes his lips as the bartender sets six beers on a round tray and pushes it across the height of the bar to Olivia, who dips her hand into the pocket of her pants, pulls out a card, and passes it to the bartender, verbally confirming an open tab.
Wrapping her hand around the edge of the tray, Olivia turns back to look at Graham again. A part of him begins to wither as he realizes that she's heading back to her table soon.
"Well, Graham, it was really nice to meet you."
Please, don't let that be it. Stay a little longer.
"It was nice to meet you too" is all he says as she sluggishly turns around.
But before she can even take her first step, Olivia spins again and places the tray of beers back on the bar top.
"Perhaps… one of these days… you and I could have a drink. Here. I can wear something a little more presentable." She giggles at that thought, then patiently awaits his answer.
Graham's too shell-shocked to speak. His mouth hangs open, desperate to exhales his answer.
Yes. Of course. Yes. Gods, yes.
He sees Olivia's expression shift, and then desperation takes over his body.
"Sorry," she says, shaking her head, "that's so… overconfident of me. We've only just met, and I'm already inviting you for drinks in the future. It's totally understandable if you'd rather pass on that opportunity, seeing as though I am a total stranger with no connection to you—"
"No, wait," Graham insists, instinctively reaching his hand out and touching hers. He pulls back almost immediately, thoroughly embarrassed by his risky action, but Olivia doesn't seem to mind. Her eye light up with hope, and that guides him to answer her request with a courage he never knew he had inside of him. "I'd really like that."
She breathes a sigh of relief, looks down, and then lifts her eyes again. "Great! How about… Thursday? Eight in the evening?"
Graham nods. "Okay."
"Okay," Olivia huffs in relief, and then she reaches for the tray again and picks it up, balancing it against her stomach and smiling one more time. "I'll see you then, Graham."
He smiles as she turns around and saunters back to her table. His head turned over his shoulder, his eyes follow her all the way back to her table, and when she settles into the rectangular booth, her friends reach for their beers and, clink their tall glasses together, and drink.
It looks so fun—drinking with friends. Graham knows all about drinking alone, but there's something about the camaraderie of sharing the nectar of the gods with a group of friends.
He remembers doing that once or twice at Hogwarts.
Christmas Eve, at the Shrieking Shack. The first year was right after the Yule Ball. The second year was because Adrian insisted that he tag along with the others.
That was… nice. He misses that.
Graham ruminates his mind to confirm whether or not there's a rule against interacting with muggles while the program continues. Isn't it about… interacting with them? Accepting them? Recognizing their value in society as much as a witch or wizard's? His Auror watched the entire interaction—there's no way he was that invested in the Daily Prophet that his eyes neglected to look up for a second. And yet, Graham is still here. There were no infractions, no forced magic, no complaints. Perhaps meeting Olivia on Thursday will not be as difficult as he thinks. Perhaps the restrictions of the program will continue to subside as meetings go on, and then finally there will come a time where he won't need to be followed. Where he can simply live his life beyond the bounds of his past mistakes.
Tipping his drink back, Graham savors the last bits of his dark beer. It trickles down and satiates his parched throat—talking to Olivia felt like he was stranded in a desert for years. She made him nervous, but in a perfectly acceptable way. He's surprised but bloody relieved that his voice didn't crack.
After setting his drink on the napkin and passing it back to the other end of the bar, Graham rises from the stool. Almost immediately, his Auror rises from the booth and begins to follow him to the door. He can sense his Auror close behind him, but as he passes by that booth that Olivia is in and turns to look at her one more time, he thinks that they're the only two people in the room. She's already looking at him and smiling oh so sweetly. With a brief nod, Graham makes a nonverbal promise that he'll see her again.
And he does.
That Thursday.
And several more time after that.
His Auror is there. Watching. But there's nothing against interacting with muggles. There are rules in place, yes, but the program is still rather unstructured. No specific guideline exists that prohibits him from mingling with someone from outside the Wizarding World. If he was reprimanded for it, he'd argue that it's inconducive to the aim of the program, and then what would Aberfield say? No? That wouldn't pass. It'd be a complete juxtaposition to the idea of integration.
They consummate the integration when Olivia kisses him.
It's on a walk down the streets after a night of drinking. Her arm is wrapped through his, her head leant against his shoulder. It's in the middle of the sidewalk, midsentence, when Olivia stops, takes Graham's cheeks in her hands, and kisses him. Right there in public is where she showers him with her already arduous affection.
He's astonished, but there's no chance in hell that he's pulling away from her. His hands find her cheeks, and they're warm to the touch.
Olivia eventually pulls away, wraps her arm through his again, and continues to walk as if nothing has happened.
Graham's enamored by her confidence and gentleness, but he's also cautious. Because his baggage is full, he's clearly an addict, he has hundreds of secrets he can't even consider telling Olivia about. And as sweet and kind as she is, Olivia cannot possibly understand the things which he is going through. He doesn't want her to. Doesn't want to be a burden.
But even with those struggles, and with the hours of the program weighing him down, Graham starts to consider that there is light at the end of the tunnel. Happiness nestled in the horizon at the end of a long and winding road.
He's intent on crossing that road and finding peace on the rays of sun.
Adrian,
I'm sorry for only getting back to your many letters just now. Things have been complicated, to say the least. I wish I could share everything with you, but I'm not allowed. Secret Ministry business. Apparently, a conflict of interest. Even sending a letter has been advised against, but since you refuse to quit bugging me, I figure that I owe you an update. You were always rather invested in discussing our feelings. I can't imagine you are any different now about being "emotionally available" to "openly discuss our deepest, most palpable feelings." Merlin, you always had a knack for vocabulary, even when we were younger. The Quidditch team always got a laugh out of your ostentatious insults.
Graham pauses his note, letting his hand rest. He twirls the pen in his hand and occasionally compresses the button at the top to make the ink appear, disappear, appear, disappear, until finally he feels ready to continue writing.
I know you tend to worry about me. You always have. But I'm writing to assure you that things in my life are actually looking up. I've met someone really nice. She's a muggle, but I like that a lot. Because she doesn't know what I am. Yet. I'd like to tell her one day, though. You should see her compassion in action. I think it comes with her muggle profession, but it's also clearly innate. I'd like to tell her a lot of things, but I'm not sure how. You were always good with that stuff. Talking about your feelings. Sharing secrets. Being open. Perhaps your next letter will include something to help with that obstacle.
I do feel worn out by this program which I am in, but I like to think that there is light at the end of the tunnel. A reason for all of the pain. I hope the same is the case for you, wherever you are. I'm keeping as low of a profile as I possibly can, but it's hard when the world is hyper focused on you. Not sure if you've seen the papers, but it's been a crazy, few weeks. By the end of this, house confinement will be my fate, and then once I have fully rehabilitated, as stipulated by my advisor, perhaps we will be able to see each other in person again. I'd really enjoy seeing everyone again. Catching up at the Shrieking Shack like old times. I'd make the trip in a second.
I've rambled. Of course. Always enjoyed writing. I'm trying to stay optimistic, and this certainly helps. I hope you're doing the same. You did always have a penchant for glee.
Penchant. Thought you might like that word. Took me a while to come up with that one, but when I did, I thought to myself, good on your, Graham. Adrian will smile when he sees that you're using big words.
Here's to reuniting once I am free of this program. Until then, take care of yourself and the others. I'm sorry again for not writing more often. I'll try to be better about that.
Warmly,
Graham Montague.
A week after his uplifting letter to Adrian, Graham's optimistic spirit begins to dwindle, and the program swallows him whole yet again.
His left forearm begins to hurt. His mark stings and burns, the skin around it red and enflamed and bumpy. Graham doesn't know where the sudden surge of pain and discomfort is coming from, and because he doesn't want to worry anyone, he forces himself to wear long sleeve shirts in the middle of summer. He wants to avoid questions, so he layers himself physically and figuratively. Conceals the pain with some cocaine and then carries on with his day.
But at the meetings, Aberfield is borderline erratic. He's bringing up completely off-based ideas about rehabilitation, and it's confusing to Graham but somehow intriguing to the others.
He feels uncomfortable, like he's impeding on a meeting he shouldn't be attending. Like he's right back in Malfoy Manor at that long, dinner table, listening to Voldemort himself spew such bullshit.
And why is Aberfield talking about Voldemort like he's his lord and fucking savior? That no-nose bastard ruined Graham's life—ruined all of their lives, really—and now he has to sit through a lecture where Aberfield is passionately discussing the fascinating qualities which he possessed? And a majority of the others here are… intrigued? It's odd.
"A wizard like that does not come around often," Aberfield says, huffing in disbelief and placing his hand over his heart. "You all were quite close to him. Knew exactly what he sounded like. Smelled like. Felt like. His power must've suffocated you all. I can only imagine how potent his leadership was."
What the literal fuck is this bastard talking about?
"He was enchanting," Mrs. Parkinson says, staring at the floor. "Charismatic without question. And everything which he stood for aligned with my own principles."
"His message aligned with all of us," Mr. Nott interjects.
"You all do not have to kiss his arse anymore," Lucius groans. "He is dead now. Can't hear you."
"That's rich coming from you, Lucius," Mr. Pucey retorts, and that causes Lucius' jaw to grit. "O-oh, m-my Lord… p-p-please use t-the manor as y-your d-d-d-domain. You were scared shitless of the man."
"And that's precisely what makes him so intriguing," Aberfield continues, his eyes unfocused as he reflects inwardly. "He ruled with fear. Fear drives us all, wouldn't you agree?"
Graham's fingers begin to twitch. He's physically uncomfortable, and Narcissa notices.
"Graham," she hardly whispers, extending her hand and securing it over his. "Relax, darling."
His whole hand judders now. The way that everyone is speaking is too disconcerting. A storm brews in his head, constructing a pressure like no other, and he releases a loud exhale to try to dispel the terrible thoughts. Because it seems like the program is all of a sudden going backwards. He thought this was supposed to be about forgetting their past and forging a new life. But if they continue to talk about Voldemort like they miss him dearly, then how is he ever going to be able to move forward with his life?
Narcissa tightens the grip of her hand over his. "Please, Graham. Try to stop shaking."
"I can't," he whispers back, his eyes lifting to latch back onto Aberfield. Aberfield, who is still deep in contemplative thought, staring at the center of the circle and slowly allowing a devilish smile to form across his lips.
That look—it's petrifying. It's confusing. Chilling to the bone.
He can't be here.
He wants to leave.
So, he gets up.
"This isn't right. I have to go," he says, darting across the circle to the door.
Aberfield rises, his hands already bunched into fists. "Graham—"
"I'm sorry," he croaks over his shoulder, glancing at Lucius and Narcissa briefly before storming out of the door, the last image in his mind being Narcissa's panicked expression. He hates that he's walked out on her, but he can't sit through that without wanting to scream at everyone involved in the perpetration of the praise.
His Auror isn't waiting outside the door, so he rushes through the corridors by himself, stampedes out of the dim basement into the stairwell until he reaches the atrium and is free of the anti-apparition wards. As soon as he steps foot on those liberating tiles, Graham disapparates. Lands in his living room and desperately combs through the air for a breath of fresh oxygen. His mind moves a million miles a minute, yet all he can think about is how deranged that lesson turned out to be. How he never wants to return to that little room, tucked away in the confines of the Ministry. Never.
Olivia comes by later that night for the first time, and she immediately notices something is different.
Graham knows that he's acting more closed off and drained than usual. His responses are curt, and his energy levels are at rock bottom. He doesn't want to be so cold and callous, especially with Olivia, but he can't stop the gushing feelings of fear and anxiety and anger colliding within him and stamping their presence on his heart—holding him captive from the happiness that was just an inch away from seeping into his soul.
She finally pushes him enough to briefly open up.
"I don't want to die," he mumbles, fiddling with his hands in his lap as they rest on the couch, "but I feel like this program is dragging me under."
Olivia has her right arm wrapped over his shoulders, and she sets her forehead against his damp cheek and sighs.
"I thought you were telling me that things were beginning to look up."
He shakes his head. "I thought so, but… there's something not right. I can feel it."
Her left hand finds a home on arm, and she strokes his skin with soft caresses. It's near his mark, but he doesn't let her know. Just tries to take in the sweet touch of her fingers right atop the throbbing skin, as if that will somehow act as an ailment to his physical and mental strife.
But he can barely take it.
"I'm in… so much pain," Graham whimpers.
"Oh, Graham," Olivia sighs, drawing him into her and placing a delicate kiss on the side of his head. "Have you written to your friends lately?"
"I don't want them knowing about this."
"Why not?" she asks. "They would help you if you asked."
He shakes his head. "No. They'll worry too much. I don't… I can't have them bear that burden. They have enough to deal with."
"We all have things to deal with," Olivia says. "None of us are perfect. But I'm sure if you just reached out, they'd be able to help you in some way."
"I just… Olivia… I can't."
"It's okay," she whispers. "I know I don't know exactly what it is you're going through right now, but I'm here for you. As fresh as this—" she gestures her finger between the both of them— "is, I am here for you."
That confirmation sounds like a blessing he doesn't deserve, and so to show just how thankful he is, Graham lifts his head, meets Olivia's eyes, and gently kisses her. When he pulls away, he drops his forehead against hers, dying to stay in this position forever.
Eventually, he pulls away. Because a voice starts to ring through his head.
You're either going to drive her away, drag her down with you, or kill her.
"Shall I stay?" she asks.
He wants more than anything in the world to say yes. Beg her to spend the night wrapped in his arms and hold him tight—make him feel somewhat important. He needs that someone, as unhealthy as it might be. And so, he totters between placing a burden on Olivia and also accepting her help, because where the hell is the line? What if he crosses it and can't come back? That thought is too dreadful to consider.
It's why he shakes his head. "You have work early in the morning."
"I know. But I could stay. You just have to say so."
She's offering her help, you fucking arsehole. Why aren't you saying yes?
Because you'll ruin her. You don't deserve her. You don't deserve anyone.
"No," he croaks, shaking his head again and again. "I don't want to be a burden. I'm fine."
Adrian would be disappointed that you're not opening up.
I can't open up. I can't be as strong as him. I'm sorry.
"Graham," Olivia starts, taking his hand in hers, "you're not a burden. Why do you think that you're a burden to me?"
He doesn't answer. But he does whimper, attempting to hold back tears.
"I can help you," she says, "but that means you have to let me in."
Let people in! Graham can hear Adrian's voice speak to him as if they're right back at Hogwarts. It feels like shit to keep feelings bottled up, man. Let people in, and they can help.
"Can you at least tell me what sort of program you're in?" she asks, treading as lightly as possible on the request.
He initially stammers, but eventually gives in. "It's like a rehab. But… not exactly."
"Okay," she says with a nod. "One step at a time. You're in something like a rehab. That's wonderful that you're getting help."
"It's not," Graham responds, dragging the balmy palms over his eyes and then down his face. "It's exhausting. I'm exhausted. And I'm scared."
Olivia purses her lips. "Rehab is hard work." She pauses, holding off for a moment before finally muttering, "My… dad was in rehab, too. Alcohol addiction. The first time, he was in there for sixty days. He got so much help from therapists and social workers who were so patient with him. They really wanted him to get better. They cared about him. And it took several more trips to rehab, but he's clean now. Almost five years without a drink."
Graham didn't realize Olivia could be even closer to him.
"So… there's hope, Graham. I know it can be difficult, but there is hope. And there's people who will do anything to make sure you get better."
Admires is an understatement. Graham venerates Olivia's positivity and strength. Wishes he could emulate it and be just as resilient.
But it's not the same. There are so many other challenges in his life, and he can't tell her about them just yet. They're too shameful—far more than an addiction, and that says something. If he's more ashamed of his past than he is of his present—his present, which is dragging him down below the depths of the earth—then how can he ever pull himself up just enough to be able to tell her about what got him here in the first place?
For now, he'll bite his tongue.
"You should go," he whispers. "You have a twelve-hour shift that starts soon. I don't want to keep you."
Olivia sighs. "Are you absolutely sure?"
He nods. "I'll be okay. It's just a rough patch. I'm sorry for bothering you about it."
Reaching out her hand to cup his cheek and turn his head to face her, Olivia smiles. "You're not bothering me. I swear. I'm still here, aren't I? And if you need me…"
She trails off, and Graham knows why. Her hours at the hospital are relentless, and so as much as she wants to promise she'll be there for him, Graham knows that reality is still too far-fetched.
"It's okay," he whispers. "I'll be okay. I promise."
Olivia nods, and after lingering for several more seconds, she rises from the couch with Graham. Hugs him like she'll never hug him again. Then kisses him once more before making her way towards the door.
Graham watches her walk away, and it's painful. It's like his heart is twisting and coiling into itself. But he doesn't want to burden her, because he thinks that might be even more painful. To watch her burn to the ground with him. He can't have that.
Before she leaves, Olivia spins on her heels and says one last thing. "I admire you, Graham. I don't know what led you to this moment in time, but you are a wonderful person. And you deserve to be happy. You deserve some peace."
She departs right after, closing the door softly and leaving Graham in solitude.
Graham doesn't care about his dramatics—he throws his back onto the couch and sighs, whimpers, and cries. Sobs, actually. Then screams. Throws his arms over his eyes to stop the tears from flowing but instead just feels them grow damp with his sorrow. He's exhausted, he's hurting so badly all over but particularly on his arm, and he just wants some fucking cocaine at this point. It's been tough trying to shield her from that part of his life, because it feels like he needs it at every moment. Can't be without it just as much as he can't be without her.
But Olivia was so…. thoughtful. Understanding. Not repulsed by him. She doesn't even know exactly what his 'rehab' is, and yet she still responded with compassion and care. Graham never knew people like that existed in this cold and cruel world. And he certainly never thought anyone could care about him like that in such a short amount of time.
He's lucky to have met her when he did.
He might've given up, otherwise.
It's in the late hours of the night when the moon begins its descent and promises the advent of another day that Graham hears a sudden gush of wind hiss at the foot of his bed.
Suddenly, that new day is stolen right out from under him.
A spell is muttered as Graham regains his consciousness: "Muffliato."
His torso rises off of the bed in the speed of lightning, and in the dim light of his room, the only source of luminescence coming from the glow of streetlights outside of his window, Graham makes out two distinct silhouettes. They're both tall, but one is broader than the other. That's all he's able to distinguish between them before the larger one marches to the right side of his bed.
Panicking, Graham turns over his left shoulder to reach for his wand, settled right on top of his nightstand. His efforts are thwarted as he feels two hands wrap around his bicep and jerk him the other direction—drag him from his bed and toss him on the floor.
The sole of a shoe settles on his back, and Graham shrieks as the side of his head is kicked in by another foot.
And then one of them bears their voice, and it's indisputable. There's no doubt in his mind who is speaking to him right now.
"You think you can just walk out of my program?"
Graham's ribs are kicked in with the top of the same shoe, and he groans in agony. Feels his lungs beg for air and release.
"You think you can just speak to muggle scum whenever you please?"
He tries to answer. "There… there were no rules against it—"
Thump. Another kick to the ribs. Then, a hand flattens against the back of his scalp and yanks his head up by his hair.
"You've missed a day of your medicine, Graham."
He sputters. Shakes his head. Cries. "Please, I don't like that potion. It makes me feel bad."
The man drops his head without care, and Graham faceplants back onto the hardwood floor. The other foot on his back digs deeper into his spin, and he croaks and drools against the floor.
"It's for your own good," the man says, and then Graham hears the uncorking of a small vial—a little pop in the air. He panics, because he can already smell the sins of that wretched potion.
"I don't want to take it anymore," Graham begs as the scent grows stronger. "Please, please don't make me take it."
"This is the only way you can feel happy again—"
"No, no, I'm happy in other ways. I don't need this please—"
"Lift him up."
"No, no—"
The foot on his back disappears, replaced with two hands underneath his arms that heave him up to his knees and then hold him firmly in place. Graham's head is tipped back, his jaw held wide open, and he stares the other bastard right in his erratic eyes. Even in the darkness, they're threatening. Unpredictable. More terrifying than the slits in Voldemort's.
A moment later, Graham feels the liquid being poured into his mouth.
He gargles, trying everything he can to spit it back up. It trickles down the sides of his mouth in hot spurts of desperation, and for a moment, Graham thinks that he might escape that desolate feeling it stirs inside of him.
But then they force his mouth closed, and it stings so damn bad as it drips down his throat.
It's not supposed to sting.
It's never stung before.
It's tasted horrible. Time and time again that antidote was a pain to ingest. But it's never stung.
Now, Graham feels lightheaded. Fatigued. Cold. Almost lifeless. His limbs lose their robust nature and wilt under the antidote's dominance.
"There, there."
His voice is so condescending.
"Just relax, Graham."
His body heeds the command quite literally as it wilts to the floor. Graham's chest lifts up and down as his eyes rapidly flutter. He can feel himself glide across the brink of unconsciousness.
A tiny dime bag hits the floor in front of his face, and Graham's eyes fall to behold what looks like an eight ball. It almost glows within the dark room.
"I'm fully aware that you typically procure this from the Malfoys. However, seeing as that bastard took off with his pathetic wife, I suppose my concoction will have to do."
He kicks the dime bag closer to Graham's face.
"Trust me. All you have to do is listen to what your body tells you, and that cocaine will make you feel great."
Graham doesn't have much time left. Insentience is just a moment he can respond, his eyes shut.
And when he comes to a minute later, he's alone, except for a voice in his head:
Go on, Graham. It's so simple.
You're right, he thinks to himself, too tired to fight it. It's so, so simple.
Graham Montague glares at the shadowy, black serpent and skull etched into his left forearm. The mammoth design is impossible to ignore; even though it has faded slightly, it still stings like a bitch, and it feels like his whole limb is submerged in scalding hot water. No amounts of drugs or alcohol can numb the overwhelming pain bursting from his arm to the rest of his body. It coils around his veins, infiltrates his muscles, and melts his bones with ease.
And he can't fucking take it anymore.