A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry my updates have been a little slow lately but I should be getting back on track a little more quickly from now on. Anyway, just as a WARNING, this chapter contains discussions of addiction and drug use, of addiction recovery and descriptions of mental disorders. Please be aware that this is a work of fiction but if you think it might be triggering for you please, please be careful. I don't want to upset anyone. I try to write as accurately as I know how and I hope that it doesn't hit a little too close to home as a result.
Enjoy the chapter xx
Chapter 19: I'm Too Lucky
"Aguamenti figurium."
The liquid rose clear and fluid from the bowl, climbing in twisting ribbons like a tangle of snake coiling around an invisible tree. As if scaling that tree, the last droplets of water lifted from the smooth whiteness of the bowl and seeped into the air. Not a drop remained behind.
I left out a sigh. Perfect. Now if I can just...
The head of the snake followed the directions of my wand, hypnotised as I gently waved it. I urged it into curling undulations to form a hovering bird, the letter S, a simplistic cottage that looked like a child's Lego house. Finally, with another gentle wave of my wand, I nudged it down onto the table top and into its final form. The bonsai-sized fig tree shaped as though growing from the polished oak table, sprouting branches laden with delicate, miniscule leaves. Peering at it closely, critically, I cast a quick glance over the finer points - it looked about right, all in proportion - before waving another sweeping instruction and freezing the tree solid. The water hardened instantaneously, transparent water becoming opaque and chilled. It looked like a perfectly carved little statue.
"Great! That was great, Al. Although your detailing on the tree is a little pretentious."
I glanced over my shoulder at Rose seated crossed legged on a dining chair propped against the wall. Her arms were folded, her wand wedged in the crook of one elbow, and there was a keen sharpness to her gaze that she always adopted when she was 'teaching'. It dropped as I met her eyes, however, and she offered me a smile in its place.
"I don't think it's all that pretentious. Aren't we supposed to aim for complexity?"
Rose nodded her head, ceding. "Yeah, but going above and beyond is probably a little excessive. I know you take pride in your knowledge of plants and all that, but don't focus on it too hard. You'd do better to concentrate on reducing the number of water droplets pulling from the end of your original Catch. Picture it more as the consistency of gel; then you're more likely to get it all in one."
I nodded in understanding before turning back to my fig bonsai, melting it and redirecting it back into the bowl to try again. There were a number of teasing remarks I could have said to Rose's comment but I didn't. I wouldn't. She was going out of her way to very altruistically offer me help with the practical side of my rather mangled education at the moment. I could hardly fault her for anything, even teasingly.
It had been three weeks since I'd retreated home from school. Four if I counted the week I'd spent dead to the world in hospital, which I didn't. Three weeks and a weekend that I'd been struggling to keep up with my studies while gradually wading my way from the foggy cloud that had settled upon me since awakening at St. Mungo's. That time was more than long enough for me to realise that, should I actually want to pass my N.E. , then I'd have to knuckle down. A lot.
Rose just about jumped at the chance to help me. I was a little surprised at her eagerness, but not too much. I don't like to play favourites but... no, whatever, Rose is definitely my favourite cousin. We're pretty different people, but though our friendship has waxed and waned repeatedly over the years and though we may experience temporary distancing, we would always cleave back together again eventually. Apparently now, mid-seventh year, was 'eventually' enough for Rose. It wasn't much of a stretch to deduce why she'd chosen now.
I couldn't blame Rose for that, though. How could I? Over the course of the last few weeks, my understanding of the situation had been splayed very blatantly before me. I'd come to realise just how foolish, dangerous and selfish my actions had been, even knowing that the slip up with the MA was an outlier in my habits, far removed from the normal effects of my using. But that slip up? Stupid. Irrational. Hasty, thoughtless, moronic – all of the above.
No one had said as much of course, but I knew it nonetheless. I'd been desperate, and freaking out, and even as a memory I knew that my panic, that the overwhelming emotion provoked indirectly by my classmates and the papers, had felt like the end of the world. But that couldn't excuse the fact that I'd hurt my family so much. That I'd terrified my friends. Up until now, I'd never really seen the fact that I dabbled in drug use as being a problem. It was a passing fancy that became a hobby but it was never really a problem. Not really.
I knew better now. No, I still didn't think I was - am - an addict. I didn't feel like an addict. There was no compulsive urges to hunt down a leaf of Harproot or a stick of Happy Gum and ease my nerves when I became particularly tightly wound - something that threatened more and more often of late given the wavering status of my schooling and future. It wasn't compulsive like that.
It wasn't. Like. That.
Even so, I did sorely miss it. Facing my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my friends weeks before, I could have definitely gone for some sort of strong Calming Draught or depressant of sorts. Something other than the medication I was already put on by the Healers at St. Mungo's. That want arose with each instance that I felt my nerves begin to grow frazzled in the moments before the medication shorted its climb, when my mind became cloudy. It was only when it was thrown into my face, spread before me how frequently I had relied upon such a crutch, that I came to realise how often I did rely on it. And that, well… that was startling to me. I wasn't an addict – no, I don't think so – but dependent? Maybe a little...
A little. Or a lot.
But though the urge arose at least daily, sometimes hourly with the train of thoughts my mind so frequently boarded, I wouldn't try them again. I couldn't, not after what had happened. Two weeks after waking up and I still felt heaviness weighing down my body, still felt that unshakeable lethargy when I let myself sit still for too long. I still looked ridiculously pale, and my pallor had changed so little since the first time I caught sight of myself in the mirror that I wondered if it would ever fade to normal. It wouldn't surprise me if it didn't; the Healers at St. Mungo's had said that the physiological effects of my 'overdose' would likely last for a time, some of them perhaps permanently. And those were the effects I couldn't see.
I don't know the nuts and bolts of what happened to my body. Not exactly. That scared me a little, so I tried not to think about it too much, with 'try' being the operative word of the equation. Healer Mendez had said something about the heightened sensitivity of my sympathetic nervous system and an increase and often unfettered release of adrenaline and noradrenalin. All of it compiled together served to heighten my tendency towards experiencing the joys of a panic attack. That, as well as a fucked up pineal gland and melatonin release – a direct result of the clash between the MA and Harproot – left me jumping between tightly wound and neurotic and slumping on the edge of sleep for the first week of my return home. It was all a little technical and passed way over my head, mostly I thought because I had no prior interest in human bodies. All I knew was that yes indeed, I'd struck a nearly critical blow to my body with one foul swoop. Brilliant. It was just brilliant.
And no, it was not comforting in the slightest to know that I'd done this entirely to myself. With my own stupidity.
That was where the medication came in. I didn't like it, but I supposed it was better to take it than to not. Mendez told me that my recovery, the lingering symptoms of my, um... illness, would only become more pronounced without it. He called the potion a Maintenance Draught – simple enough, right? – although it was apparently a little different to the one that was communally used by most 'normal' people. That was the thing about that particular brew; it was so versatile that additional elements could be included to refine it and tailor it to specific needs. For me? I thought of it as a sort of mix of that Maintenance potion and a very, very strong Calming Draught. And maybe something else, I wasn't sure, but whatever it was tasted faintly minty and not at all in a good way.
Whatever it was, I felt the effects. I could actually felt them, sort of like how swallowing too much water can leave a sloshing feeling in one's gut but in this instance it was on a neuronal level. It was supposed to be mixed with a beverage - which subsequently made whatever beverage it was so combined with taste like crap - and taken with a meal. The effects kicked in almost straight away. I likened it to being wrapped beneath a thick, heavy blanket and lulled into dazedness while simultaneously locked into my own head and contemplating every possible thing that was even the slightest bit nervous-inducing and discomforting that I could possibly conceive in that moment. All from an observer's perspective, too – it was like I was looking at pictures and listening to a narration of my personal and mostly irrational fears, nodding and acknowledging each one quietly before placing them to the side and moving onto the next one.
I hated it. Or I hated it at first. I still hated that dazedness, and I knew Mum disliked it too. She sat next to me every morning for the half-hour or so it took for it to wear off and for me to return to a semblance of normalcy. Her face was always tense with worry, eyes tightening in sympathetic sorrow when I swum back into awareness enough to actually recognise her expression. I really, really hated the whole experience, even just because of what it did to my mum. In regard to the detachedness? No, it was not exactly an unpleasant experience. Not really, but I still didn't like it. It was terribly discomforting to have so little control over my own body.
But I couldn't deny that the Maintenance Draught worked its magic. Yes, there was the initial infliction for about thirty minutes, but after that I was basically back to normal. Or at least as normal as Me was, what with the lingering effects of my illness and all.
But… no, it was more than that, even. It was the thing that Mendez called my 'anxiety disorder' – yes, I wasn't an idiot, I knew it for what it was. I'd just never quite considered myself 'disordered' before. It was a horrible feeling, to acknowledge that. I likened it to a chimaera on a leash. Every so often, more frequently to my notice now that the issue had been brought to the fore, the beast would rear its head. Slowly at first, as though awakening from a doze, and I would tighten my fingers around that leash. But within moments, from no further provocation other than that which had initially awoken it, it turned into a snarling, snipping, straining creature, pulling at its restraints and only becoming more demanding as I attempted to foil its aggravation.
In the past, that anxiety had gotten away from me. There was one of two results: either I would succumb to a panic attack, or a milder bout if I was lucky, or I would stave off the rising madness with Harproot. And my Harproot had worked. It had.
But now I didn't have that anymore.
Instead, it was as though the situation was simply... taken out of my hands. As though a strong pair of magical fingers would loosen my grasp from the restraining chimaera's leash and batted that crazed creature on the nose with a firm fist. And it would quell. Just like that. It was unnerving at first, to have control of my own body so gently but firmly taken from my grasp. And yet unnerving as it was, with each instance I found myself easing into it. It was just such a relief, to have the battle taken off my hands for once. If nothing else, I was thankful to the Healers for that Draught; I doubted I'd have survived the following weeks from waking up without my Harproot and retained my sanity otherwise.
Apparently I'd wean off the Maintenance Draught eventually. Mendez said that was how it worked. I could only hope he knew what he was talking about, because I didn't want to risk being cast out to have a go at it on my own. I was scared that being set adrift would just make me turn back to using once more, and the guilt that clung to me over what I'd done had not eased even slightly over the course of my continued recovery.
Harproot was different, yes. But even that… I couldn't use that. And not only because it would feel like a betrayal of the trust to those I cared for. It was because… my Harproot, it was…
No. No, I couldn't think about that either. I couldn't turn my mind to my little purple plant, to my Tipsy Toes hybrid, to any of the nurtured and adored herbs that I'd kept both alongside my bed in the Hufflepuff dorm and in Neville's greenhouses. Because they… my plants were probably…
It would be understandable – it would be – if they were simply gone.
Staring at the afterimage of the bonsai fig tree, I had to physically shake myself loose from my thoughts. Maybe crafting a tree from the water hadn't been all that good of an idea. I raised my wand once more, pointed it towards the bowl and, focusing on Rose's suggestion, cast once more.
The droplets still struggled to tear loose from the greater mass of water, but I thought it went a little more smoothly this time. I built an overdressed snowman out of the solidified end product this time.
"There, that's probably a better idea," Rose commented, nodding approvingly at my snowman. "I like his hat."
"Why, thank you. I modelled it on Grandad's golfing visor."
Rose smirked. "A very accurate depiction. Grandad would be proud."
A knock to the door of the dining room announced Mum before she cracked it open. Poking her head through the doorway, she scanned the room, stopping only when her gaze fell upon Rose. "Rosie, it's nearly four. You'd best head back to school."
Slipping to her feet, Rose bowed her head in acknowledgment. "'Kay, Auntie Gin. We're just about finished up anyway."
Mum's gaze flickered momentarily to the dining table. She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Water shaping charms? They still have them in the curriculum?"
"Clearly," I supplied, idly tapping the snowman's head with my wand as I leant back against the table. "I have no idea why."
"They were thinking of taking them out of the examinable material when I was going through," Mum continued with a sigh.
Rose, gathering her books from where they lay pushed to the other end of the table, pouted objectionably. "It could be useful."
"How, exactly?" I spoke both for mum and myself, I felt. "Other than making pretty sculptures, there's not much use for them."
Rose shrugged. "Whatever the reason, it hardly matters. You know it's a must-pass mark, Auntie Gin?"
Mum shook her head with mock solemnity. "How cruel."
"That's the duty of the examiners, I believe. To inflict as much pain upon poor potential-graduates as possible."
At the sound of Scor's voice, Mum glanced over her shoulder, edging sideways to make room for him to step into the dining room. He'd been making use of the admittedly limited library of the Potter house for the past half an hour or so. I thought he'd probably spent most of his time flicking through the books in Lily's room; she was the studious one, after all. I suspected she saw it as an obligation to have the most books of anyone in the house.
Scor had been accompanying Rose the past few Sunday's for the practical study session she afforded me. He'd insisted, Rose said, and Rhali and Ozzy had been similarly adamant. However, unlike Rhali and Ozzy, Scor had actually kept it up after one session; my two oldest friends unanimously declared that between Rose and Scor the air was far too thick with buzzing minds for their continued attendance. They instead Flooed from Hogwarts on Saturday – with the express permission of Tyril, of course, and, more importantly, of Weatherwell – and we spent our days very successfully procrastinating from study. Well, we procrastinated. Scor studied.
Because of course, Scor came on Saturday too.
And Tuesday afternoon. And Thursday morning too, because he had a single period free before his classes started at ten. And on that Thursday morning, he would stay until the last possibly moment before Flooing back to school. He said it was to help me study, and we did study, but… it was strange. For someone who was so adamant about dedication to academia, he had certainly slowed down his feverish pace somewhat over the past few weeks. Sometimes he simply sat next to me while I scratched out an essay. And some of those times – just some of them – he didn't even have a quill in his own hand.
It was shocking. Obviously there was something unhinged with the world, but when I'd asked him about it he'd only shrugged. Adopting a worryingly sad little smile, he would say, "I'll get it done. It doesn't really matter."
I got the impression there was something a lot deeper going on there, but I wasn't quite sure what. I could only assume that the same dedication Rose had assumed was similarly reflected in Scor, that he just expressed it differently. Questioningly, too, if his relative neglect of his studies was anything to go by. That couldn't be good, could it?
Still, for all of his apparent 'neglect', I couldn't help but be thankful to Scor. Over the past weeks, something had very definitely changed between the two of us, and it wasn't only on his end. I found that I wanted, almost needed, to be around him. It had nothing – or at least very little – to do with the fact that he'd said he loved me. Not really. I just… I wanted him around. He was reassuring in a way that was entirely different to the support I got from my other friends, from my family. He held me up. He helped me breathe. And the funniest part of it was that he didn't even realise he did it. When I'd attempted to tell him as much time and time again with so much awkwardness it had sounded more like a mangled compilation of words than an actual sentence, he'd simply tilted his head towards me curiously, a smile playing across his lips, and slipped an arm around my waist if, for whatever reason, it hadn't already there.
And he'd say. "Me too." Whatever that meant. Was that tied in with his perceived love?
As Scor stepped past Mum, he fell to my side immediately. As though it was the most natural thing to do in the world, his arm settled around my shoulders. I supposed it was natural now. Whenever we were in the same room together we were always touching nowadays. Oddly enough, I found I didn't mind. I'd never really objected exactly, only that now I didn't mind at all. The room could have been filled with family members, Hogwarts students, or members of the press for all I cared. This was one thing that had changed and I couldn't bring myself to regret. Scor's simple touch was… it was comforting.
"Oh, Scorpius, I didn't know you were still here," Mum said with mild surprise.
"I highly doubt he'd leave early by any will of his own," Rose said, smiling. "Every last second counts, right Scorpius?"
Scor shrugged, completely disregarding the suggestive and almost sappy expression Rose had adopted. "Of course."
"You'd best be off, you two," Mum urged, stepping forwards to help Rose gather her books together. Really, she had far too many for just a day of study. It was a veritable library. I doubted she'd even gotten the chance to open half of them, what with helping me and all. I was by no means complaining, of course; how could I? It was only that it seemed a little pointless to lug so many along with her when she didn't use them.
Slinging her schoolbag over her shoulder, Rose paused mid turn as she made to leave. She cast me a final warm smile, the same smile I'd known and loved since we were kids. "See you next week, Al. Message me if you need help with anything."
"With Hogwarts' reception, I don't think messaging would do much good."
Rose shrugged. "I'll swing past a hotspot every couple of hours or so –"
"No, don't." I held up a placating hand. "Thank you, it's very appreciated, but I don't want you hanging outdoors waiting for a message that might come. If I need to, I'll write you."
"That'd probably take longer," she pointed out.
"Then I'll wait till Sunday. Or I'll pass a message on through Scor." A glance towards Scor and his responding nod of acceptance confirmed the suggestion.
Rose quirked her lips as though she were about to argue further, but I could see the slight flush of smugness not quite hidden by a thoughtful frown. Rose loved the fact that, for all of his smarts, Scor didn't quite have the knack for teaching. I meant, at all. He just couldn't convey concepts in alternative ways and just ends up getting exasperated with his confounded student. I knew this because I'd experienced it first hand. We'd tried a lot of times, and not just over the past weeks. Our initial friendship was definitely not founded upon Scor's altruistic tendencies to assist in my studies. Crack the whip and order studiousness, maybe, but certainly not mentoring.
Rose, though, she was good. More than that, she revelled in being so distinctly better than Scor at something. There had always been a rivalry between the two smartest students of our year, and it had not always been so benign. Although, for his part and in this particular instance, Scor didn't really seem to mind. He told me he was just happy that I had the help. I actually believed him at that; he sounded so sincere.
"Alright, then." Rose nodded decisively. "You do that. I'll bring your homework next weekend." With a farewell tilt of her head, she hefted the books in her arms once more and set off from the room.
Mum paused in the doorway in the act of following her. "Scorpius, you should probably head back to school too. It's…" She paused, casting me a wary, questioning glance. "It's getting late."
Which was bullshit. It wasn't getting late at all. Scor stayed every Sunday and Tuesday for dinner, actually. But Mum was being tactful in an awkward situation. As tactful as Rose had been in deliberately not questioning why it had been suggested she leave at four in the afternoon. She usually stayed for dinner too.
Mum needn't have worried. She didn't have to tiptoe around the subject of this afternoon's program that had been hanging over my head the whole day and dragging my down like a leaden chain around the ankle. Scor knew what was going on, and so did Rose. Rhali and Ozzy, too. I wouldn't keep that particular secret from any of them, no matter how embarrassing it is.
"It's alright, Mum. He already knows."
The wariness faded from Mum's eyes and she turned a smile onto Scor. "Well then, that makes things easier. Al's got to be there by four-thirty, Scorpius. Sorry to hustle you from the house, but –"
"If it's alright with you, Ginny, I'd like to accompany him."
I blinked, startled. My shoulders tensed for a moment until a light tapping of Scor's fingers on the side of my neck urged them to ease. Glancing at him sidelong, I raised an eyebrow. "You want to come?"
Scor was staring directly at me, his head tilted slightly in that strange way it had adopted over the past few weeks. He nodded in a short, decisive dip of his chin as though there was no question in the matter. "Yes. I would. So long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable."
It wasn't a question. Not really. I knew Scor well enough to know that when he'd made up his mind it was like trying to drag a mule through thick mud to get him to budge. And Scor had very definitely made up his mind. He was coming, and it would only be if I was absolutely desperate enough to forbid his accompaniment that he would cede that decision.
Was I desperate enough? No, I didn't think so. I didn't particularly want Mum to come, though probably not for the reasons she was thinking. Mum knew that I turned into a tightly wound ball of guilt and humiliation whenever the subject of my illness was brought up. Even more so when the history leading up that illness was raised. She did me the blessed courtesy of doing so only when it was absolutely necessary. Generally, unless Mendez was in the room and driving the conversation, we let sleeping dogs lie.
This afternoon would be tough. Guilt and humiliation were certainly on the cards with the prospect of the potential conversation topics set to arise. And though I knew Mum felt worried and overprotective, longing to come along, she respected my needs enough to let me go on my own. She wouldn't have two weeks ago, I knew. I'd barely been allowed out of her sight for a minute that first day I'd come home. And though I felt an almost overwhelming warmth at the love that simply radiated from her, there was a certain amount of embarrassment entailed too. It was horribly awkward.
So no, when Mendez had suggested – in more of a demand than a suggestion – that I attend an Addiction Recovery Group tailored specifically for witches and wizards, Mum had wanted to come. Initially, at least. That initial assertion had remained for a time and I hadn't said anything to sway her from her resolution. But Mum was more perceptive than I give her credit for. She'd seen right through me. With what was obviously a Herculean effort, she had taken a deep breath and informed me that I could go by myself.
I'd never felt such a complex tangle of emotions: relief, embarrassment, sadness, regret, guilt, nervousness… it was enough to nearly send me mad. I didn't want Mum to come along. I didn't want Dad to either, and he'd been awkward enough about the support group, walking on egg shells around the topic, that it had been easy enough for me to tell him it was okay if he didn't want to come. He'd looked both ashamed and relieved at my offer, even though I'd assured him it was fine. I didn't want him coming along for exactly the same reason that I didn't want Mum coming.
Quite simply, they didn't know the whole story. To be honest, I didn't want them to know. I didn't withhold the story with malicious intent, it was just… I felt like my privacy had been violated enough over the past few weeks. I didn't think I'd manage even with family.
Scor, though. I stared up at him silently. Scor actually knew just about the whole story. He knew how long I'd been using for, knew what had driven me into it, and if he didn't know the depth of my 'anxiety disorder' before my illness, I'd bet my bottom dollar he did now. Scor was like that; even on top of his study load, he's the sort of person that would take to familiarising himself with every aspect of an issue relevant to his life that he possibly could. Whether that was through books or through Rhali, Ozzy and Rose remained to be seen, but I would hazard that it was probably a mixture of the two.
Some of the things he said, that he mentioned just in passing… yes, he certainly knew what he was talking about now. Hell, he probably knew more about anxiety disorders than I did and I was living with it.
Finally, I nodded. A small nod, hesitant – I wasn't entirely sure of my own conviction. But Scor's answering smile, touched faintly by relief and gratitude as though he were thankful that I'd 'let him' come along, laid such hesitancy to rest. I turned back to Mum. "Would it be alright if Scor came along?"
I hoped I hadn't offended her, wanting Scor along more than I did her or Dad. I honestly couldn't tell if I had or not. Her expression was unreadable, a little thoughtful perhaps but there something deeper there too. But it wasn't resentful, or even the slightest bit negative. If anything she looked relieved. The small look of approval she sent Scor's way was horribly embarrassing. "Yes, I think that would be alright. When I spoke to the director on the phone she said that you could bring up to two people along for support."
I cringed slightly at the word 'support', accurate though I knew it was. Running a hand through my hair – and likely ripping half of it loose from its tie in doing so – I nodded. "Right. Then… right."
Mum stepped towards me and patted my cheek. "Are you sure you're alright going alone?" She paused, glancing towards Scor. "Or I suppose just the two of you, more correctly."
I nodded once more. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm… it'll be fine. If anything, you should be worried about Scor." I cast him a falsely exasperated glance. "You're going to be bored out of your mind, you realise that."
Scor smirked at me. "Oh, I'm sure I could find something to amuse myself with."
"Please tell me you aren't going to pick shit at everybody else there?"
"Would I do that?" At my raised eyebrow, Scor's smirk deepened. "It pains me that you think so little of me. Surely you know that if I was going to tease anyone it would just be the other long-suffering family members. I know my boundaries."
"Scorpius," Mum sighed, shaking her head with an exasperated grin of her own. There you go, she actually knew him well enough to know when he was joking. How far my Mum had come.
"I'm serious, Scor. I won't be offended if you don't want to come."
I reached a hand up to tug at his fingers still draped over the side of my neck. Those fingers flicked my cheek gently in reprimand. When I cast another glance towards him, his expression was intense and uncomfortably sincere. "Al, I was the one who asked to come along."
"There wasn't much asking involved," I muttered.
Scor snorted. "Well, this is me we're talking about," he pointed out, which was fair enough. "But honestly, you don't have to worry. I'll bring spare parchment and get started on the Salem Treaty essay for History if I get bored enough."
"Why are you starting that already? It's not due till the end of next week. Surely you have something else to be doing. Please tell me you haven't finished all of your other homework."
Scor shrugged. "Maybe not all of it."
"I hate you."
Grinning, Scor squeezed me in a half-hug once more. The warmth of his presence and his comforting embrace was enough that I nearly forgot my Mum still stood in the doorway at all. "No you don't."
"You're right. I don't."
"Alright, love birds," Mum finally interrupted, taking a step back into the hallway with a smile stretching across his face. "You'd better be off or you'll be late."
"Mum," I sighed. "We'll be Apparating nearly half an hour early. I don't think it's possible to be late."
"Well, it's better to be safe than sorry," she quipped astutely, turning from the room. Shaking my head, I locked my hands into Scor's fingers still resting on my shoulder and tugged him after her. It probably was better to get it over with. The first would surely be the worst.
Right?
The building for Jensen Mackie's Support Group was small, nondescript and oddly enough located in the middle of Muggle suburban London. If I were to sum it up in a phrase, I would say it looked like a cross between a high-class medical practitioners and a modern, small-family estate. A single level structure, if was built of white plaster walls broken by grey-framed windows and a matching tiled roof that sloped down to the roadside. A neat little garden of flowerless bushes and newly sprouting grass lined the paved footpath up to the door and a sign on the little white picket fence proclaimed the name of the establishment beneath a logo that looked suspiciously like an abstract unicorn.
The building didn't even try to hide its name. I wondered at that. Did Muggles simply not go to support groups?
We waited outside for an indeterminate time before Scor led the way inside. His hand was still threaded loosely through mine so that I was tugged along rather than following completely of my own desire. A good thing, too. I thought I probably would have backed out of it if he hadn't. My familiar, sickening nervousness rose up time and time again, only to be cut off at the knees each time by that constant cap of the medication. It made me feel a little dizzy, like I was caught in the persistent throughs of a whirlpool. Even with that assist, though, I was still finding it difficult to take steady breaths.
The interior of the building was exactly as one would expect from the sight of the outside, though it lacked the casualness of a residential home. Spartan furnishings, neat, modest upholstery on a single neat, modest couch beside an artificial pot plant, and a wide desk of some polished, grey material that wasn't wood took up most of the room. A young man sat behind the desk, flipping through papers and tapping away at an Inscribed computer at his side. It still unhinged me a little bit to see technology pervading public establishments and services sometimes. The drift towards embracing some of the most useful inventions in Muggle history was slow in entering the Wizarding world. Many families utilised phones and computers, televisions and kitchen appliances, but until recent years it had remained solely in private use.
It actually made me feel oddly comforted to see it. I'd almost expected an old-fashioned, stick-up-the-arse mental institution from how Mendez had described it. A way with words, that man had not.
The receptionist glanced up at us when we entered. He had an affable countenance, a ready smile and slightly down-turned eyes that gave him an easy-going impression. That helped to stem some of my regularly rising nervousness too.
"Good afternoon. Are you here for Sahra's group?"
Scor glanced towards me questioningly and I nodded. That simple glance did more to ease my breathing difficulties than anything else. Immediately, I knew that the concern that had been steadily growing, of facing these people and – oh, the horror – actually talking to them had been eased somewhat. That Scor was more than prepared to take the reigns and the lead in this situation. I thought I should have been a bit guilty for that relief, but all I could feel was an overwhelming sense of gratitude, so profound it nearly drowned my nervousness.
Turning back towards the receptionist – his nametag called him "Jazber" – Scor nodded. "Yes, that's correct."
Jazber smiled that affable smile once more. "Righto. You're a little early, but that's probably a good thing if it's your first time?" His words were a question more than a statement, and at Scor's nod, and my own less pronounced reply, he pushed his wheelie chair out from the table and ducked down behind the desk. The sound of a draw opening and papers flipping was followed moments later by his reappearance. He handed over a single sheet to the both of us. "If you'd just fill out these for me, then you can head right on in."
"It's not anonymous?" Scor asked, leaning over the desk and pilfering a quill from the colourful assortment on offer. I followed his example.
"No, it is," Jazber assured us. "This is just a confidentiality thing. We only exchange first names in the group session, but we ask that you keep what we talk about to yourselves concerning other people's stories. It's hard enough to speak as it is, right?"
I nodded in agreement, eyes trained on the bleached paper before me. I didn't really even read the finely printed words – from a computer, I noted distractedly. My mind had fastened on Jazber's words: anonymous. Privacy and confidentiality. And it was enforced. I couldn't focus my attention enough to deduce the consequences of a breach in that confidentiality, but it actually served to ease my nerves a little.
So far, this wasn't looking to be quite as horrendous as I'd feared.
We handed our signed papers back to Jazber who, predictably, received them with another smile. He directed through the only door in the room, to his right, and without another word we filed out of the entry.
The second room carried a hint of the residential feel that the first had lacked. A wide, tidy space, it was large enough that I thought it likely consumed the entire rest of the building. Assuming magic wasn't involved, of course, which it likely was from the doorway embedded in the adjacent wall.
It was simple. Pale blue walls offset darker blue carpet, a ring of grey couches circling a low coffee table – there must have been enough to seat at least two dozen people – and a fire crackled in a neat little hearth on the distant wall. Other than that, it appeared largely bare; another pot plant in the corner to the left of the door, a couple of picture frames of ambiguous scenery, a window covered by simplistic blue curtains. There was no clutter, but then there was not quite such an absence of content that it appeared stark.
Simple and comfortable. Yes, it was that exactly.
There were already about eight people in the room. Five men and three women. They were a mixture of ages, but it didn't take much of a leap to suppose that the older ones were the 'supporters' while those younger were the actual clients. None of them looked to be much past their teens, though only two appeared younger than Scor and I.
Several glanced up at our entry – a girl with frizzy hair pulled into a messy bun, a boy with heavy, square glasses slumped casually back in his seat, another boy so painfully thin I could make out his collarbone through his shirt even at a distance. Their gazes were curious in a nonchalant sort of way, brief and superficial before they refocused back upon what had previously occupied them, a book and conversation partners respectively.
I hadn't noticed I'd actually stopped breathing until it stuttered back into action once more. God, I was a nervous wreck today. Even more than usual. And the most annoying part about it was that I could see how nervous I was, how largely irrational that feeling was, and yet could do nothing about it. Absolutely nothing. It was very infuriating. I found myself frowning down at my shoes.
At Scor's urging, we settled ourselves in our own seats. Not distinctly apart from the other occupants of the room, but not quite close enough to make conversation. I was grateful for that small consideration on Scor's part. I didn't feel up to talking at the moment. Which, I realised, would probably make this first of potentially many sessions largely redundant. What good would it do if I didn't actually 'share my thoughts and feelings' like those exaggerated dramas on TV suggested? Would Mendez suggest I just give them up?
"Are you okay?"
I glanced up at Scor as he nudged my knee with his own, drawing my attention. His face was carefully blank, but I could detect a note of concern from the slight quirk to his eyebrow. Attempting – and failing – a feeble smile, I nodded. Then, because he didn't look convinced in the slightest, I shrugged and shook my head. Only a small shake, barely perceptible, but the slight shift towards me in his seat suggested that Scor saw it nonetheless. He didn't say anything else, simply sitting beside me in quiet contemplation and conducting a detached study of the rest of the people in the room. The sort of staring that was somehow not intrusive or too intense and generally elicited smiles of acknowledgement rather than scowls.
He didn't ask me questions. He didn't push for conversation. Scor simply accepted that I wasn't in a mood for talking right now. That I couldn't. He accepted and accommodated. I studied him for a moment before dropping my eyes to my fingers curled in my lap. Scor was…
What did I ever do to deserve such an incredible boyfriend? How had I never realised the incredible fortune that had urged him to fancy me before now? Scor was smart, he was driven, he was kind when he wanted to be and funny often, when he didn't mean to be at all. I'd always known that – that and more – and it was that which drew me to him.
That and the world-weary, almost-lost shadow to his face that I had glimpsed in the dungeons outside Yeong's rooms so many months ago. How times have changed. How much has happened since. Glancing at him sidelong again, I couldn't see even a glimmer of that person that I had first felt the need to befriend. The person who had needed to be drawn from the vicious cycle of weighing himself down beneath duties and responsibilities. I wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or if I missed it, but whichever it hardly mattered. What couldn't be denied was that Scor, to me… he was strong. And supportive. And kind, and caring and understanding without being pushy and demanding and excessively protective to the point of clinginess.
I mean, if anything, I sort of felt like the clingy one at the moment. The fact that the very feel of his knee still lightly touching my own was like an anchor for me in a chopping sea was indicative enough.
The room slowly filled over the next quarter of an hour. People entered generally in pairs, sometimes alone and occasionally in threes, and settled themselves onto the couches with an ease that suggested they had something of an informally reserved seating arrangement. That worried me for a moment – God, it was like the Firsties on the train all over again; would Scor and I be asked to get up and move? – but like so many of my niggling worries it amounted to nothing. By the time four thirty ticked by, the room was almost full save for a quartet of seats scattered amongst us.
Almost on the half hour exactly, a single woman entered the room and closed the door behind her. She was smiling even before she turned, but not in a demanding way. It was the sort of smile that suggested her face just naturally sat that way. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a pair of glasses sitting on her nose that were much more refined than the boy's across the room. In one hand was a pad of paper and – how revolutionary – a pen that labelled her as the director of the session more adeptly than the nametag bearing the name 'Sahra' on her breast. She couldn't have been far into her thirties and appeared younger from the cut of her curly hair and the causal jeans and blouse.
Super casual. I mean, I sort of expected a therapist or whatever she was to be all tightly wound, prim and proper and attempting to breath pompous superiority, leaving her clients nodding eagerly and ignorantly in the face of her rapid-fire jargon. This Sahra didn't look like that; if anything she was probably one of the most underdressed in the room. Her friendly approachability was enforced by the welcoming nods of familiarity she offered to several of the boys and girls seated around us. They exchanged brief pleasantries, a chuckle and smile, as though they were more friends than 'clients'.
Seating herself into one of the free seats with a sigh and propping the pad of paper and pen on her lap, Sahra took a moment to meet the eyes of everyone in the room. She paused for a moment longer on Scor and I, her smile widening slightly more for a moment before passing on. Surprisingly, that didn't actually worry me that much. Although, the promise of an encroaching introduction was evident enough from the recognition of our newness.
"Alright, then, shall we get started?"
There was a murmur of unintelligible affirmations from everyone in the room. Sahra smirked. "I'll take that as a yes, then. How are we all? Here and accounted for? How's the head count, Sammy?"
A boy who looked to be perhaps nineteen but was certainly short for his age gave her a crooked smile. "Yeah, perfect, Sahra."
"Perfect," Sahra parroted with a grin. I got the impression there was some history behind their exchange but it left me a little stumped. "Then should we just dive in?"
There was another wave of unintelligible muttering that Sahra seemed to take for assent. "Right, then. I thought maybe we could have a bit of a talk about coping mechanisms today. I'm talking anything from chewing gum to going on a shopping binge to picking your nose here, people." That was met with a smattering of chuckles. "I don't care what works for you so long as it's not damaging."
"Baring our credit card debts," the frizzy-haired bun girl said with a smile of her own.
"Well, some of us will just have to steer clear of malls then, won't we, Jules?" The boy at her side nudged her with an elbow and they shared a knowing glance.
"Yeah, there is that," Sahra agreed. "Know your limits and what works for you. But don't feel the need to hold back please, guys. I want the conversation rolling today. We're looking for suggestions, sharing what you've tried and anything that has helped you specifically. Even share anything that hasn't been so helpful. If you've got an idea, let us know. Judgment free zone."
"Judgment free zone," a few of the others in the room echoed her. I guessed it was a bit of a mantra for Sahra, a foible that was realised and favoured by those in the room if the fond smiles that arose were anything to go by.
"Wonderful." Sahra shifted slightly, crossing her legs. "First off, though, we've got some new members today." Her gaze settled upon Scor and I in turn, that ever-present smile widening once more. "Would you both like to take a moment to introduce yourselves?"
This was not what I'd been expecting. At all. Where was the drilling, the twenty questions and the sombre atmosphere? Where was the nervous twitching, the uncomfortable, fidgeting glancing towards the door of the unwilling attendants? This wasn't what I'd anticipated from a support group; sure, attendance was technically voluntary, but I had been under the impression that everyone would be in a similar situation that I'd been cornered into by Mendez: it was suggested, but suggested strongly, that I attend for my mental health and to assist my recovery with strong insinuations that if I didn't try this then something else would have to be attempted.
I had felt very much like a mouse caught by a cat.
These people in the room, though, from the boys and girls close in age to me to what were obviously family or friends and avid supporters – they didn't seem reluctant. They didn't seem resentful and they certainly didn't appear uneasy by any stretch if I ignored the girl that sat twitching sporadically across the circle from me. I don't think her state was induced by discomfort in the context, however. No, instead they all seemed at ease, positive in a way that I hadn't expected from recovering addicts.
In short, they just seemed like people. It wasn't until that moment that I realised I'd been unconsciously prejudiced towards them. Jeez, what an arse I was.
Confusion and, admittedly, a fair share of curiosity had served to stem the gently roiling pool of nervousness that had been sloshing in my gut all afternoon. No, this was not what I'd expected at all, and I didn't quite know what to do with this newfound knowledge. At Sahra's words, however, that roiling pool became once more subjected to the might and fury of a storm of rising panic.
Introduce myself? God, I didn't even think I could speak, let alone communication to any intelligible degree. I was pretty sure my tongue had receded down the back of my throat. I thanked whatever healer had first assigned the Maintenance Draught to people with anxiety disorders, because I was fairly certain I would have up and fled the room had it not kept a wavering hold on my upwelling of panic. I felt my eyes widen as I met Sahra's gaze and had to drop them back to my lap to avoid embarrassing myself. Or at least embarrassing myself more.
Scor saved me. As I'd come to experience several times over the past weeks, when he realised I was falling prey to irrationality he would step in like a bloody knight in shining armour and rescue me. I'd never seen myself as the damsel in distress kind of person – I actively strove to avoid such labelling, thank you very much – but I couldn't deny it. Scor did save me.
Clearing his throat, Scor nudged my knee gently once more in silent communication before speaking. "My name is Scorpius and this is Albus. We were recommended to come here by a healer to work through our issues together. I'm not going to lie, neither one of us is exactly eager to seek treatment or support, but after recent occurrences we've come to realise that we need to take action to change something." He paused to glance towards me. "I think that's probably about it."
At the mention of our names, I saw a couple of eyebrows raise. Almost everyone responded in some way, though nothing particularly overt. Well, except for the twitching girl who I noticed when peering up nervously from under my eyelashes was staring owlishly right at me. She didn't speak though and she only held my attention for a moment because after that Scor's words registered.
I turned my attention slowly towards him. What? What did he just say? Us? As in the both of us needed 'treatment'? What was… did he just…?
I was the disaster. I was the one that didn't have the self-control to but a lid on my urges well enough to stem my self-destructive tendencies. Scor, he was strong. I wholeheartedly believed that he would never cave to such urges. Such a desperate action would just simply not compute in his repertoire of responses. I fully understood that the primary reason he had still continued to use Happy Gum – because he was more of a Happy Gum guy than a Harproot user – was because Ozzy, Rhali and I did. After that initial support when he'd been sinking under the weight of his responsibilities, Scor hadn't needed it. Recreational use was a term never more suited to anyone than Scor.
So why had he said the both of us? He didn't truly think he needed it, did he? Or did he need actually the support? Was I completely missing something and didn't realise? Did Scor need help too? What if –
The flood of questions slammed into a solid wall as I met Scor's eyes, as I studied his expression with almost frantic eyes. Then it all made sense, as it should have from the moment he spoke.
Oh.
He was doing it for me. Entirely for me.
He was talking about 'both of us' so that I didn't seem so alone. So that I wasn't put up on a pedestal by anyone in this room who seemed so completely devoid of people who would do such a thing. Because he knew I was nervous – which was about the understatement of the century. He knew I couldn't do it by myself.
Fighting back an upwelling of trembling tears, I reached for his hand and grasped it firmly. For the first time, I had exactly zero care for what anyone in the room would think of our holding hands. I didn't care. I just wanted to touch Scor, to convey in some small, inadequate way how much what he'd said and done meant to me. It was a little pathetic how choked up I became, but I didn't much care about that either. Scor's hand in mine, his pale eyes fixed softly upon me, were the centre of my world.
It took me a moment to realise that Sahra had begun talking again. "Thank you, Scorpius. And yes, that's more than enough. You should both feel free to share with us all as little or as much as you want to. We have only three rules and guidelines in here. One: your recovery is up to you; while I'm here to help, you should only move as fast as you feel is possible.
"Two: it's not wrong to feel urges or to experience intrusive thoughts, and if you experience any then it is integral that you understand that this is not wrong. You are not at fault. If you didn't have them at least a little bit, then you wouldn't need to be here in the first place.
"And three: this is a judgment free zone." Her words were echoed by smiling faces around the room who had evidently been waiting for her to reach that point in her introductory spiel. Sahra rolled her eyes but the motion didn't hide her own amusement in the slightest. "This is a safe area, and everyone here should feel that they can speak of their experiences without judgement. Nothing leaves this room."
Those final words were deliberate and low, not unkind or demanding but intense nonetheless. I got the impression that Sahra was talking as much to the rest of the room as to myself and Scor.
I appreciated that. Really, I did. But to be honest, I didn't think I'd be participating much in this session. Maybe in the future, but not this one. And it wasn't because I was frozen with nervousness or too ashamed to say anything. It was solely because I had locked my attention firmly upon the gorgeous blonde at my side who stared back at me with such compassion and affection that it would have caused Rhali to puke.
I didn't care. For the first time ever, I didn't care about PDAs. It took all of my control not to wrap my arms around Scor and simply hold him, attempting to convey my gratitude where words failed me. I didn't, but it was a near thing.
Instead, I simply held his hand. I felt ever contour of his long, slender fingers, the slight twitches of muscle as he shifted his grip to sit more comfortably. It might have been clingy of me to hold on so tightly, so unwaveringly, but I didn't care.
Scor held onto me just as tightly.