(AN: As I said in the last chapter, this chapter goes somewhat into detail about a situation involving domestic abuse. If this may trigger you, skip the section that is italicized.)

Jenna knew it was only a matter of time before they'd have to face Davies again. He was going to ask questions. He was going to push and prod at them. What could they say?

Sure enough, Davies trailed after them to the library during their first study break, sitting wordlessly across from them at their table.

He looked at them expectantly.

"PTSD?" he asked after a moment. Wordlessly, Jenna nodded. "What was the trigger?"

"…Nightmare." Wyatt didn't look at him.

"What triggered the nightmare?"

"Why do you know anything about this?" Jenna stared at him.

Davies frowned.

"We all have brains, Jenna. We all have… personalities, minds, selves… It's not practiced much in our world, but that doesn't mean it's not acknowledged… How do you know about it, then?"

"…When… when things first started happening, we started reading a lot… researching."

"Why didn't you go to a specialist? They have Healers specially trained to deal with this sort of thing… Isn't that something you ought to know, Jenna?"

Jenna lowered her eyes, embarrassed.

"We can't go to anyone."

"Why not? What… what happened?"

"We can't tell you, Davies." Wyatt kept his voice steady. "We can't."

"I want to help you two." Davies stared at them. "Please. I'm the Head Boy, for Circe's sake…"

"Precisely." Jenna didn't meet his eyes. "You're in a bad position to even know this much. Isn't it in the… guidelines or whatever that… if you know something's going on, you have to report it?"

"Well, yeah…"

"And as the Head Boy, you have to uphold those guidelines to the letter, to set the example for everyone else."

Davies was silent for a moment.

"Then… then, I'm not asking this as the Head Boy trying to solve an issue." He finally said. "I'm asking this as someone who considers himself your friend, even if you don't consider him yours. Anything you tell me… it won't leave this table. Please. Let me help."

"There's no way you can help with this, Davies… Roger." Wyatt shook his head. "It can't be undone."

"Maybe not, but… if you have two people to help you through this… I've studied this sort of thing, Wyatt."

"Why? You play Quidditch. Aren't you going into that professionally after this year?"

"…No. Quidditch is my big thing now, but… a career in that can end out of the blue if you get injured. I might continue to play just for fun, but I'm on the track for a Healer, as well. I have an apprenticeship lined up at a specialty clinic in Germany that deals specifically with psychological illness."

"…Oh."

"Which you'd know if you took the time to talk to me about things other than school." Davies sighed. "Look, I'm not going to force you to tell me. If you think, Jenna, that this is something that the two of you can handle on your own, then I'll step back. I won't ever mention it again. But… My grandfather fought in the first Wizarding War. He saw his friends murdered. He developed PTSD. That's why I began studying it in the first place. I wanted to understand, and I wanted to help. And… if you ever even think you might need help, I want you to know that you've got someone here."

The twins turned to each other, their conflicted expressions mirroring each other. After a moment, they both turned to Davies.

"If someone overhears…" Jenna began hesitantly.

"I fancy a walk, don't you?" Davies gave an exaggerated stretch. "Maybe go down to the Quidditch pitch for a bit?"

…

As far back as they could remember, Jenna and Wyatt's father had been a very angry, violent drunk. Abusive, cruel… Their mother had been on the receiving end of his rages for the entirety of their marriage, and by the time the twins had turned five, they were receiving it, too. The constant fear that their father would snap one day kept them all on edge.

It had been the summer after their third year at Hogwarts.

Their next-door neighbor Stephen was sitting at their kitchen table. Stephen was a Muggle and, while their father didn't care for him, the rest of the family found him wonderful. He was middle-aged and lived alone, and took great pride in maintaining the beautiful flower beds in his back yard. That was why he was there, actually; he'd brought over a vase of scarlet bearded irises, freshly cut from his garden, for their mother. She was six months pregnant, and he was always bringing little presents over to her to make her smile. He knew that their father wasn't the nicest man, but he didn't know about the abuse. He only heard the shouting.

Jenna was modeling the new, bright red sundress they had bought at a secondhand shop in town, spinning around like a dancer and marveling at the way the skirt twirled. Their father was at work, and the house was peaceful.

However, their father came home early.

He and Stephen had exchanged a few stiff words before Stephen reluctantly went home.

Their father had immediately started screaming, shoving Wyatt out of his way as he stormed towards his wife. He accused her of cheating on him, of sleeping with all of the men on their street. He called her horrible names, and then he had started shoving her, slapping her. She had stumbled backwards, landing on her bottom, and he started kicking her, aiming straight for her belly. He demanded to know who in the neighborhood had fathered the baby.

Without thinking, Jenna had run forward, begging him to stop. He had rounded on her, backhanding her across the face and calling her a stupid little freak, saying that she was going to turn out to be just another whore like her mother. He'd grabbed her by the hair and thrown her to the ground, then kicked her hard in the face, breaking her nose.

Wyatt had moved before he'd even realized it. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten the knife so quickly out of the drawer. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to drive it so hard through his father's neck that it protruded from the other side.

He'd stared down in confusion at his father's body as the man's blood had pooled onto the linoleum floor.

Jenna had dragged herself over to her mother, who was whimpering and clutching her stomach. Wyatt had run to the only person he could think of.

Stephen had buried their father's body under his peonies.

Wyatt had begun having the nightmares a few days after the burial, often waking up screaming and flailing, lashing out with his nails. He'd grown increasingly paranoid, convinced that he was going to be punished by some outside force for what he'd done. Stephen had briefly suggested consulting a specialist, but who could they trust? Any counselor would want to know about the cause, about what had traumatized him. That could get tricky. Wyatt had killed his father. Sure, it had been to protect his family, but would the law see it that way?

They began reading up on the condition themselves, developing their own amateur therapies. For the most part, things were almost normal. Wyatt had the occasional flashbacks, and the nightmares came and went, but they managed.

…

At dinner that night, Jenna tried to catch Dolores' eye at the High Table, but it was as if she was intentionally ignoring her. The older woman only looked at her once in passing after the meal, and the icy scowl she gave her made Jenna's stomach twist.

What had she done wrong?