Vicious Cycles Make You Laugh
(memories of never)

I stare out the window for the longest time before I heard the usual gentle knock on my door, followed by the nurse's chirp: "Miss Parkinson! I've got your medicine."

I groaned, eyes narrowing as I turned. "I don't need it."

The nurse smiles sadly before making a tching sound. "I'm afraid you have to, miss," she murmured, coming to stand behind me hand on my shoulder. "It's a long story, but it seems like you and another patient haven't been – er – doing as well as we hoped. So we're monitoring your pill intake."

I turned to stare at her, green eyes narrowed, and flicked a stray lock of hair from my eyes in an elegant gesture, and rpse, "Why? Why the Hell are you even bothering? If I weren't in this bloody place, I wouldn't be crazy at all!"

The nurse snorted, laying the capsules on my nightstand, "I don't think you're crazy. Not at all."

I glared at her for a moment, "Leave me. Now. I'm tired… let me rest."

"But –"

"I said leave." My voice broke on the last word, and I turn back to the window. "I don't need the medication. I'll – I'll be fine." Whatever that nurse said about me not being crazy might mean, it doesn't matter now. All that matters is that I need to get out of this place, and find a way to do so.

Suddenly, a scream caught in my throat, and my eyes slammed closed before opening again. I blinked rapidly – "Nurse –? Chass! Chass. I can't see.I CAN'T FUCKING SEE." My fingers ran over my face, waving in front of my (broken) blank eyes, nails gently running over my face. "Help me – Chass!" I backed against my bed, collapsing beside it in a heap, writhing and screaming like I was unsure what was going on.

I was beginning to see things – again, that was no lie. There were dark skies and continents built upon bodies and rivers – no, now oceans of blood ripping apart the world, flashes of blinding green lights and ohmygodjustenditnow. Oh –

"Oh – my – Merlin's beard, hang on, Pansy. I'll – I'll go get something for you!"

"Hurry…" I whimper, eyes squeezing tight, shoulders shaking from suppressed sobs as I heard the click of a high-heeled shoe in the hallway beyond my door. Slowly, ever so slowly, I raise myself into a sitting position, leaning against my bed and breathing hard. Even more slowly, my eyes open and scan the room as far as I can see, without turning.

Nothing but the white room and diagonal slices of even brighter white.

I rise slightly, onto my knees, and turn, watching the hems of the nurse's white robes lift off the ground as she turned into the hall. A delicate smile graced my lips, and I stood up. A chuckle caught in my throat as I rose shakily to my feet and took my first hesitant steps towards freedom (the thing lovedhatedwanted – all at once). All at once.

The room was too silent after my outburst, and as soon as I was free of it, I ran until I couldn't breathe, or – perhaps I heard the footsteps before my own pulse drowned out all thoughts, all at once. When I heard the footsteps and shouts, it took all I had within me not to cry out as I dove face-first into the closest doorway – it was surprisingly unlocked. Even more surprisingly, it was a cupboard. Not some lousy broom cupboard like there had been at Hogwarts, or some tea-cupboard in Trelawney's room (God, I had hated that woman and her subject with a loathing I saved only for Mudbloods and Harry Potter) but what looked like a wand cupboard.

There were shelves, rows upon rows of shelves, with boxes and cases, and even more interestingly, a case marked new arrivals. Now – don't get me wrong. I know that I'd been in this place, even if I didn't know how long it had been. I'd hazard a pretty good bet that somewhere in that case was a wand marked p. parkinson.

Slowly, I dragged myself through the spaces between the racks of wands, and stared at the display, eagerly devouring the names. Donaldson, no, Gresh, no, Lynch, definitely not, Malfoy, no, Mosima – WAIT. Malfoy? My fingers reached, pressing against the glass like a lover, staring at the tag. d. malfoy. I gulp, then, without a word, and without even looking to see if my wand is also in the case, smash the glass with my fist.

It didn't hurt nearly as much as I expected it to, and while I watched the grass splinted and eventually slid from the shelf in (broken) tears, I caught sight of my own name. Parkinson. I hesitate before grabbing my wand and Draco's, the wood of some forsaken ash tree feeling beyond familiar to my bleeding fingers, the hawthorn – not so much.

I let out a smile and a laugh that did not fit the gloom of the cupboard. After all, later –

– later, I would have to find Draco –

– later, when they would all ask me what happened – and they would – I would have to lie. I would have to say that I never loved him, that it was all a ruse, a three-year crush that never got past scribbling his name on the back of my potions notebook. But I would always mix a little truth into it. Hell. I existed outside of love, in all of the space that those four tiny letters could never fill, where the people I couldn't live without were the ones who'd save me or kill me, or both.

All at once.