A/N: Somehow this chapter also ended up to be mildly philosophically preachy. And fluffy. Sorry for that but not really :)

Chapter 21: Finding My Sea Legs

~Scorpius~

School changed for me after that. Not in any overt way, no, but my mindset made it seem somehow… different.

I'd always studied with passion, but by the same token it always studying for something. I hadn't lied to Father when I told him I could not truly comprehend the goal and function of LeFay connected; it was a networking company, one that sold shares to minor businesses, actively seeking to integrate the purebloods, the nobility, and their wealth into the economy. I knew this, but I didn't truly understand it. It didn't resound with me. And so, when I studied, I studied broadly and thoroughly, sucking up every iota of knowledge I could discern for the possibility that it would be, even in some small way, useful.

Now, my studying was different. I still studied with passion – I knew I would always feast on knowledge in such a way – but it had no purpose. And that made everything different.

I wasn't going to pretend I was alright with that. At first, it seemed that my resolution to cast myself adrift from the future my father had set for me would be liberating. That though I would be perhaps ashamed of discounting him and his life's work, I would know for certain that I had made the right decision.

I didn't know that for certain. I'd never been further from certainty in my entire life.

Regret was something that I wasn't unfamiliar with. Regret that leads to what Al would most likely call brooding. The regret and horror clinging to my memory, to the reality of what I'd done, certainly drew me into a brooding state. It was only niggling at first, but within days of confronting my father and effectively resigning from the future I'd believed set for me for over half of my life, that itch became a scratch, which grew and manifested to a consuming degree. It was so pervasive that it began to affect even my readiness to study. Where but a week before I had been distracted by simply staring at Al, my distraction was now just as likely to be triggered by melancholic mulling and my new mantra of what did I do, what do I do, what have I done that ran on constant repeat as a sort of background music.

Ozzy asked me what was wrong. Even Rhali looked marginally worried by what she too called my 'brooding'.

I blamed the occupation of my thoughts by such negativity that it didn't occur to me that Al would notice. More than simply noticing, he objected to it. The following Tuesday, seated at the dining table in Al's house with the distant clatter of Ginny in the living room breaking the silence, I was forcibly drawn from my thoughts by an almost painful jab of a bony elbow in my ribs.

Frowning, I blinked up from my parchment and unwritten essay and turned to Al. "Yes? Is something wrong?"

Al stared at me with a thoughtful frown on his own face. No, not just thoughtful. Worried. It took me a moment to realise he was concerned, and that such concern was for me. I blamed the now constant distraction running rings through my mind. "You tell me."

"Excuse me?"

Folding his arms across his own parchment – which I noticed guiltily had significantly more of his slanted scrawl across its surface than my own sheet did – he raised a pointed eyebrow at me. "You're thinking about what happened with your Dad."

"Please don't call him Dad," I corrected mechanically. It still sounded absurd, no matter how many times Al called my father that.

Al, predictably, ignored me. "And I think I know why."

"How very perceptive of you." No, I was not in a very forgiving mood that evening. The day had been far too long.

Al's eyebrow only rose slightly further. "Shut up for a minute, Scor. I'm helping you."

"Is that what you're doing," I muttered, dropping my eyes to my parchment. 'Polar Temperature Regulation Charms and Their Comparisons'. A title; that was the only thing that I'd written for the last twenty minutes. "I hadn't noticed."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Scor."

My gaze drew sideways towards Al at that. "What are you talking about?"

Though his words had been jibing and condescending, Al's gaze was intense and touched with concern. "With your Dad. You're allowed to choose what you want to do with your life, you know. You shouldn't have to follow in his footsteps just because he's went in a particular direction."

"On the contrary, I believe that's what is expected of me."

Al shrugged. "Why should you have to do exactly what's expected of you? You know I haven't."

I did know that. Knew and marvelled still at the sheer decisiveness of what Al had chosen to pursue with his life. It had been one of the things that had driven me into finally realising that being the heir to LeFay Connected was not, in fact, what I wanted. Not at all. Still, such knowledge didn't make it any easier to come to terms with the sheer loss of structure and incentive. What did I work towards if not that? Potioneering was all well and good to pursue, but where did I even start? As a brewer? An experimenter? Should I go to college and further learn or attempt to apprentice myself to someone? Did I even have to? Would the very fact that I'd achieved a N.E.W.T in potions qualify me to work in the industry?

Or was it not enough?

There was no firm, solid direction, and that worried me more than anything I had ever considered. Cast adrift was indeed a very apt description of how I felt at the moment.

Lost in my thoughts, it was to the feel of Al patting my hand in a consolatory manner that drew me back to the present. Replacing his concern was an expression of understanding, Al's small smile was a little sad but somehow seemed to express confidence at the same time. "Sorry. I don't think I did actually understand what was bothering you. I just assumed. I think… no, I've got it now."

I frowned, shaking my head at him. "What are you talking about? Are you actually even talking to me?"

"Well, I'm not talking to myself, funnily enough." He flapped a shushing hand at me as I opened my mouth to speak. "Just hold on a second and let me finish. I think I get it. You don't know what you want to do with yourself now, is that it?"

Was that it? That was bloody well it exactly. I could almost swear Al had used Legilimens on me had it not been for the fact that my eyes had been downcast. That, and that Al was truly appalling at any sort of mind-magic. I quirked my lips, hiding the foreboding that arose as my thoughts, my current mental status, was so plainly splayed before me. I wanted to deny it to Al – I didn't much feel inclined to confess such a weakness of character in myself – but at the openness of his face cocked towards me I simply couldn't.

I nodded slowly, resignedly. "I suppose."

Al flashed me a beaming smile that irrationally made me feel distinctly better just for the sight of it. "That's your main problem, Scor. You're overthinking this."

"You're telling me I'm overthinking things?" I widened my eyes dubiously at him. It was a little cruel, perhaps, to point out one of the main features of his anxiety disorder – a feature that he'd been hesitant enough to explain to me – but I couldn't help myself.

Thankfully – retrospectively – Al didn't seem offended by it in the slightest. "Yes, you are. Stop thinking, Scor. Just go with the flow."

It was on the tip of my tongue to repeat myself but I somehow managed to cut the urge off before it could escape. I could only shake my head instead.

Al didn't seem to need a reply. He shuffled slightly towards me on his seat until he must have been perched on the very edge of his own and tilted his head more fully to catch my eye. I begrudgingly allowed him to, and couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips at his open expression. He could always make me smile.

"You know, Scor, you don't have to have a plan all the time."

What? I blinked, slowly turned towards Al once more. "What?"

Pursing his lips, Al dropping his own gaze to his paper. The small smile he directed towards it held the understanding of experience. Wisdom, I think it's called. Huh. Love him though I did, I'd never seen Al as particularly wise. "I know I might not be exactly the right person to offer advice –"

"Of course you are."

"- but still." He overrode me. "Have you ever thought about just letting it happen? Letting everything fall into place as it will? You never know, it might just sort itself out."

Slowly, I shook my head. "I don't know if I can do that." I truly didn't. I'd never been without a plan before. I didn't know how to be without a plan. "It just seems all so…"

"Unplanned?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, Al. Unplanned."

Al widened his smile once more. "How about just living in the moment a little bit? You love studying, and you love learning, so why don't you just try to enjoy it?"

"I do enjoy it. But how can you just not think about the future and everything that is undetermined?"

"Well, I don't," Al raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "I told you, I'm probably not the best person to offer advice with this. I always worry about what's going to happen. But that doesn't mean I don't try to live in the now."

I cringed internally. Yes, I knew that too. Anxiety. Right. It was often easy to overlook, given how more and more Al simply appeared to be normal. No, 'normal' was a poor term. He seemed to be almost back to how he had been before his illness. I knew he would never be the same – he couldn't be, not after that. Not after such a life-changing experience – but he seemed the same. Even with the support group I accompanied him to as a constant reminder, even with his paleness that hadn't fully shaken, even with the signs of stress and anxiousness that arose every so often and of which I had now compiled into an inventory of expressions and triggers.

I knew that. In the same way that I knew that his words, his suggestion and the positivity of such an approach, would maybe be a possibility. Live in the moment – I'd heard that phrase so often. It was cliché and as such usually overlooked, but that didn't mean it wasn't a good idea.

So I tried. Over the next weeks – months – I tried. And it worked, to a degree. I immersed myself in knowledge gathering. It was difficult to become distracted, to shake off the brooding thoughts and worries, the regrets and mental reprimands of my own stupidity. But for the most part… I thought I enjoyed it. I thought, because I'd never experienced that sort of tentative delight and fascination before, fascination for the knowledge itself rather than for what it could be used for. It was like how I always felt in Potions, except that I'd always considered Potions as being something 'other'. It was strange to feel that same satisfaction, the same delight, for so many of my other subjects as I did for that which I felt truly passionate about.

Al was there to urge me from my melancholy when it descended as often as he could be. He couldn't come back to school, though; he told me that he and his parents had decided to keep him at home and simply home school with the assistance of a tutor. A tutor, and Rose and I. Well, mostly Rose; I'd admit that much.

I still came over every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday. Every instance possible, and for as long as I possibly could. Sleeping over on Tuesday became something of a habit, and Weatherwell was surprisingly lenient on the matter. I was grateful for it not only because it meant I could spend more time with Al, to support him in his work and his recovery. I needed him too, though, for his urging and his the support he offered in return, because otherwise I doubt I would have lasted throughout the rest of the year. Not only did Al draw me from my thoughts, but he enticed proactivity on my part. Strange; I'd always seen myself – perhaps a little assumingly – as the more proactive of the two of us.

Al became a career advisor of sorts, evidently drawing upon knowledge he'd deliberately acquired, and presented me with a plethora of possibilities involving Potioneering upon one instance when I'd listlessly pondered aloud what I could do with my knowledge and, as Rhali always called it, my 'passion'. He'd written out a list of colleges and Potions masters that I could study under, too, should I wish to further my studies. When I mentioned – so briefly I forgot I'd said anything – that I regretted I no longer took extra lessons with Yeong because I missed simply experimenting, we spent an entire Sunday morning under Rose's exasperated monitoring brewing in Al's garden with the collection of potions ingredients he'd gathered just for that purpose.

Each little thing, each small, thoughtful detail, made me love him even more. If that was even possible.

"How can you even think about my needs with everything you have to occupy your thoughts with?" I shook my head as he offered me a magazine he'd found – and reportedly read, though I was sceptical from the overly innocent expression on his face – that detailed a number of new and returning fields of Potions experimentation that had surfaced in the past few years. It was called 'Cauldron Craft', and I'd never even heard of the magazines series before.

Al shrugged and flapped a disregarding hand at me. "Of course I'm thinking about you. You help the people you love, right?"

An instant later he flushed, looking mortally embarrassed to have uttered the words, but they just made my heart swell even more. How unforeseen, that I would fall so utterly for someone. Whipped didn't even begin to cover it and I felt absolutely no shame in admitting to it.

I think his efforts worked, though. It was difficult to perceive personal changes, especially with our N.E. approaching and encompassing the horizon, but I noticed because others noticed. Ozzy was the one who first said something aloud; far be it from falling out after Al had taken time from school, I found myself just naturally seeking out my old new friends' company. For it was natural. We no longer visited the Niche – I didn't think any of us could have, not after everything – but we still gathered in the library to study or on warmer days even outside. It was usually me and one or the other of them, though occasion found us all together every so often. Even with Rose from time to time, though she tended to prefer to study with her own friends.

Yes, even Rhali chose to study with me. I was honestly still of half a mind most of the time about whether she actually liked me or not given that when she appeared beside me in the library for the first time and dumped her books and then herself at my table, she glared hard enough to puncture me with her projected daggers when I spared her a questioning glance. We didn't speak about it, though, and I never asked her for clarification of our relationship.

It was Ozzy who offered me the advice I didn't realise I needed. Somehow, Rhali had come up in the brief conversations we shared during our mutual study time – Ozzy and I had never been particularly comfortable with one another, not after Christmas, but the stilted awkwardness had eased a little with time. Ozzy had smirked at me when I pondered why Rhali would feel the need to spend time with me if she disliked me so much.

"Perhaps she thinks she has to keep a watch out for me when Al isn't here?" I suggested.

Ozzy snorted. "Yeah, I can definitely see her doing that. I don't doubt Rhali keeps Al updated on your every move. But no, she doesn't hate you. No entirely, anyway."

I paused in my writing to glance at Ozzy sidelong. I couldn't tell if he was teasing me or not. "And you know that how?"

Ozzy wasn't studying. He was in the doodling stage of writing his essay which was both a brief respite and something of a procrastination technique I'd come to realise he frequently utilised. It looked to be a small goblin of sorts that he was drawing this time but I couldn't be sure. He too lacked Al's sketching skills. He smirked again at my question, however.

"Well, obviously it's because she did exactly the same thing to me."

I felt my eyebrows rise incredulously. "What, she hated you?"

"She seemed like she hated me, yeah," Ozzy nodded, dotting a pronounced wart on the goblin's nose. "But that's just Rhali's way. She's testing the waters to hash out her boundaries with you."

I shook my head. "I don't think that's the case, Ozzy. She's been like this for months. Since I first begun spending time with you all she's hardly changed."

Ozzy shrugged indifferently. "You know she didn't actually directly speak to me until we were in second year."

"What?" I stuttered an incredulous laugh. "How does that even work?"

Ozzy grinned widely. "She just mostly ignored me. We were more forced comrades in our friendship with Al. I don't know why, but she took to him immediately. He never had the probation period."

"Perhaps people in general just tend to like him?" I suggested, my mind turning more fully towards what occupied a permanent seat in my thoughts once more. It was more unusual to find myself not thinking of Al, actually.

Whipped. Yes, I was very whipped. In love I think they call it.

"They do at that," Ozzy agreed, leaning back from his goblin slightly to peer at it critically. "He'd probably have tons of friends if he just let himself."

"I'm not arguing with you on that one," I murmured. We remained in pondering silence for a moment before, with a shake of my head, I turned back to my essay. Call it the power of positive suggestion, but Ozzy actually followed suit.

Perhaps one of the most profound change not of my own making, however, truly manifested in an entirely different way.

My mail stopped coming.

Yes, that might have sounded peculiar when taken out of context, but to my own situation it was very, very relevant. And very relieving. I'd come to dread the arrival of the morning post for the unavoidable deliveries it entailed. Almost every day since I'd returned to Hogwarts from the Christmas break I'd received at least one from some person I barely knew, if I knew them at all. All of the letters followed a form and template, or one of several, and I'd grown so familiar with them that they hardly needed reading anymore.

Suddenly, they stopped. Two days after I visited my father the Daily Prophet spewed forth a new article: MALFOY SCION ABANDONS FATHER'S COMPANY: DISINHERITED OR TEEN REBELLION?

I didn't read the article. I didn't have to and certainly didn't want to. Since the last major fiasco with Al, and those following on the subject with increasingly ridiculous speculations, I was informally protesting by ignoring the very existence of the pathetic excuse for a news provider. I was more likely forcing myself into blissful ignorance, and it just as likely wouldn't last for long because, despite the trash, there were occasional plots of gold hidden amidst the rubble. Still, I strove to maintain my resolution for as long as feasibly possible. It was only by chance that I caught the headline at all as I walked behind a fellow Ravenclaw buried beneath black and white print.

Well, even if I hadn't seen it I would have suspected something was afoot. It was a little difficult to ignore the sidelong glances and speculative whispering. Honestly, I wept for some members of our generation; their stupidity was mind-boggling.

But in spite of the unwanted attention, apparently it gifted me with the reprieve from my owlish assaulters. The very next day not a single letter arrived. Nor the day after. Nor the day after that. Following a trio of almost identical missives from far-flung nobles and high class family heads, it was starkly unhinging to receive simply nothing.

It took me almost half a week to realise I liked the feeling it unearthed.

When a letter did finally arrive, I was almost more surprised to see it than when they'd stopped. Even more so when I recognised it as the mighty and self-important eagle owl of my father's. The beast landed with more grace and precision than should have been possible for such a large creature and put the stumbling efforts of those around him to shame. It glared at me with molten orange eyes that appeared nearly red and disappeared in a flurry of feathers the moment I relieved it of its letter.

It was vellum. That more than the cursive script etched across the front in rust-coloured ink told me who it was from. I sat for a long time at breakfast, my housemates arriving and departing around me and the babble of chatter easing as they gradually retreated to class. The bell chimed distantly before I'd broken the seal and I had to hasten to my feet and start in the direction of Defence Against the Dark Arts or risk being late.

I couldn't wait, though. In uncharacteristic haste and slovenly manner, I abruptly felt the need to know what my father had said and ripped the letter open. My steps slowed as I scanned the words, heartbeat throbbing in my temples and blinking rapidly to clear their fuzziness.

I didn't know what I'd expected. Anger? Cold disapproval? Disdain? Would Father disown me as the papers had suspected he already had? I had certainly not expected the short, simple words that were relayed.

Scorpius,

I write to you after extensive contemplation. Have it known, my son, that I am disappointed in you. Disappointed not because you have chosen a different path than that I had always assumed you would follow, but because you have felt the need to hide your true desires from me for so long.

Yes, I am angered. I am angered that you have waited until now to tell me because, as you know, I have long been establishing a place for you at LeFay Connected. My business associates that have already expressed their disapproval of your placement will be rubbing their hands together in glee and silently mocking me. I do not favour being on the tail end of such mockery, Scorpius. I want you to be aware of the fact that these are the consequences of your actions.

However, I do not entirely disapprove of your decision. Never think that. And if you for an instant consider that disownment would be a form of punishment I would resort to as the trolls that write that pathetic excuse for a paper presume, then I shall perhaps even consider doing so myself. I should hope you do not think so little of me. You are my son, and following a career and future that you have chosen for yourself will never make me think otherwise. It will perhaps interest you to know that Potioneering was a love of my in my younger years; had I my time over again, perhaps I would pursue it myself.

Have it known, however, that even with this decision of yours, I will expect no less of you than your absolute best in your N.E. . A simple matter of changing your direction is no excuse for laxness. I will not have a member of my family follow the path of a hapless NEET – I believe that is the term used for such people these days?

Should you feel the need to converse with me further upon the subject of your pursuit of Potioneering, or in any other direction, do so promptly. With the parchment I sent you, if you will. I won't forgive hesitancy for cowardice on your part. I am angered, Scorpius, but I am still your father.

And just like that the letter was finished. No regards or words of love were included because they weren't needed. Father had never been one to express his affections openly anyway. What he had said was far more profound for me.

I didn't realise I'd stopped walking until I'd read the letter once over for the third time. When I eventually did hasten back along the path towards Killian's classroom, I would not say that I bounced in my step but it was surely a near thing. Perhaps it was a good that I was a little late; at least there was no one around to see.

~Albus~

I wasn't saying that I was ever all that good a student; I'd never been anything exceptional and 'average' was a pretty perfect word to describe my schooling abilities. Perhaps it was all those years of study guilt piling up on me, or the combined forces of Scor and Rose, but for whatever reason, in my final months of seventh year I spent more time with my head bowed over textbooks than I had my entire educational experience.

I didn't regret that. I didn't think it was a bad thing necessarily, only that it was very uncharacteristic of me. Very. I suppose dScor was probably rubbing off on me a little bit. There was something about watching someone study so feverishly – someone who so obviously didn't need to do so with such intensity – that sort of compelled onlookers to act similarly. I'd experienced it before, and I knew that even Rhali and Ozzy had felt the powerful effects of Scor's particular brand of magic, but such knowledge didn't make it any less effective.

I didn't return to school to finish the year. Not even after my suspension was lifted and the Deputy Headmistress herself visited to inform me of the new rules and guidelines that would be instilled 'should I wish to return I would be allowed to under scrutiny'. I felt like a criminal.

Or wait, maybe I sort of was. Wow. I'd never thought of it like that before.

Mum, Dad and I had discussed it at length, though. Over the weeks of my physical recovery, I'd spent pretty much my entire time at home; at least 'recovering' was the word Mum used for it, but I wasn't actively doing anything and I thought if I took any more cat naps throughout the day they I would literally turn into a cat. I was still tired a lot of the time, but I suspected that constant weariness was lessening slightly. I still looked like a bloody Inferi and not only when I woke up in the mornings in my zombie semblance; the Healers told me at one of my many check-ups at St. Mungo's that it was more than likely I would stay as pale as a cave-worm for the rest of my life.

Oh, the joy.

Mum had taken time off work. It was touch and go whether it would be her or Dad that asked for leave, and oddly enough it sounded to my ears as I overheard them conversing in low, strained voices late into the night, as though they actually wanted the time off. Or at least the time at home. There wasn't even anything begrudging in their tones, which I found both surprising and pathetically touching. Yeah, I'd developed something of a guilt complex over what happened – I knew this mostly because everyone had told me very deliberately – and it didn't look like it would be abating any time soon. I believed it is an entirely warranted feeling, though, considering the circumstances, and regardless of what Mum said on the matter concerning my supposed innocence.

And yet Mum and Dad didn't sound resentful. When Mum sat down to breakfast with me the following Monday morning with a smile, I'd known something was up and that it probably had to do with the absence of low, heartfelt discussions that reverberated in muffled tones through the walls at night. They'd stopped two nights before and I was waiting for the verdict.

She waited until I'd taken my Maintenance Potion – the effects are still strong, but I like to think it's easing slightly from its debilitating inducement. I could actually respond when someone said something to me now, though embarrassingly enough speech was still beyond me. But even with such effects, was glad for the brew. It did help with my tendency to freak out, and I though that was probably the reason Mum waited until after I'd drunk it.

"Al, I wanted to talk to you about school."

I paused in the act of taking a sip of juice – the potion still tasted like crap, no matter what it was mixed with – and turned slowly towards her. Behind me, I heard the tell tale shuffle of Dad in the kitchen as he went about pouring himself a cup of tea.

I slowly lowered my glass down to the table. "What about it?"

Mum folded her hands on the table in front of her, leaning forward slightly in her seat. Dad's shuffling drew closer and I didn't need to glance towards him to know he was standing behind me. "Your dad and I have been talking and we think it might be best if you stay at home for the rest of the term."

It was indeed a good thing that I'd taken my medication. I felt an upwelling of gut-swirling nausea attempt to disgorge my half-eaten breakfast before it was clamped down again. I'd considered such a possibility; of course I had, even speculated it aloud. But the reality of it made me feel physically unwell. "I can't… I can't do that."

"It's alright, Al." Dad placed a hand on my shoulder and I raised my gaze towards him instead. His face was sympathetic, eyes crinkling sadly behind his glasses. "We've had a talk to some of the professors and I've even contacted a friend of mine with the Department of Education. You're able to finish your seventh year at home if you have extenuating circumstances."

A disgruntled voice in the back of my head grumbled at the fact that my parents had gone behind my back without even consulting me first. A selfish and ungrateful part, I had to accuse it as being, because the larger part of me suspected they were right. That maybe it would be better for me to finish of the school year at home, not only with the support of my family but away from the questioning eyes of both the public and my fellow students. I didn't know how much had been said on the matter and held hopes that I'd just slipped into unobtrusiveness once more, but they weren't high hopes. Besides that, I was a little nervous to face anyone from Hogwarts again. Or anyone from the entire Wizarding world, actually.

So I slowly nodded my head, eyes dropping from my dad's to fix on the half-full glass of juice. I swallowed down the tightness in my throat and forced to quell the roiling in my stomach. "Yeah, that… might be best."

From the ensuing silence that followed, I knew my answer wasn't what my parents had anticipated. I could almost feel the startled glances Mum and Dad exchanged over my head. Mum finally spoke into the lull. "We aren't suggesting this to be cruel, Al –"

"I know." I nodded jerkily and lifted my eyes towards hers, offering a feeble smile. I don't think even feeble was an apt description of my attempt. "I don't think I'm well enough to go back. Or… maybe – maybe I'm just too scared to."

I offered a slightly strangled laugh that held not an ounce of amusement. It obviously didn't fool either of them, for mm reached across the table to pat my hand and Dad's grasp on my shoulder squeezed slightly in an attempt at comfort. I shrugged slightly beneath his fingers in acknowledgement.

"Your mum's decided to take some time off work for the next couple of months," he informed me. "Just until you can get your sea legs back."

"I don't need to be babysat," I said. I hoped I didn't sound as petulant because I didn't truly feel that way.

"We know you don't," Mum replied with an expression that didn't quite hide the fact that she felt otherwise. "Its just what Healer Mendez suggested. People who have been through your, ah… illness, or similar, need someone with them in their recovery period."

"To make sure I don't act like an idiot and do it all again?"

"No one's calling you an idiot, Al," Dad muttered, and he sounded a little angry at the suggestion. I immediately felt guilty for that too, and mumbled a faint "sorry" that was instantly brushed aside.

"It will only be for a little while," Mum continued. "Just until school finishes up. I doubt I'd be able to take off much more time than that anyway."

"Yeah, well, you can hardly claim the title of manager if you don't really manage," I pointed out, which drew a smile from her.

"Very true." Her smile faded as she patted my hand once more. "It's just going to be the two of us for a little while, sweetie – well, us and James; he seems to have gotten it in his head that he'll be over here every other day – so we may as well make the most of it, yes?"

I nodded and didn't move to avoid her as she slid around the table to wrap me in a hug. Mum and I had always been close – a 'Mummy's boy' James used to tease me as being in our childhood, although he said it with a bit more wistful affection nowadays – and I'd always stoically endured Dad's own awkward attempts. Good with physical displays of affection my dad was not. Still, I appreciated his sentiment.

So when Weatherwell came to inform me of my option to return to school, I respectfully declined. She didn't seem surprised, so I assumed she'd gotten wind of what my parents and I were considering. Probably from Neville, I guessed. And over the course of the following months, I settled myself into a routine.

I got a tutor. He was a guy from the year above James and was an amiable enough fellow. Benji Haroldson was his name, and I thought I actually remembered him from when he was at school; he was a Hufflepuff too I was pretty sure.

Benji was wholly a mop of mousy blond hair, a small but constant and very genuine smile and a strange way of speaking that was sort of undulating. It had me staring at him dubiously on several instances when he spoke for the first day he came around – his voice sounded like it descended a slide, only to catch itself and jump back up at the end of each sentence. I got used to it pretty soon, though, and our transition towards reasonably comfortable passed easily enough. I put it down to his own fondness for Herbology, which was undoubtedly why Dad had asked him in the first place.

Rose seemed a bit affronted at first that her position as primary mentor was being usurped, but she got over it quickly enough when she met Benji. I thought she seemed a bit taken with the guy, actually. It was a good thing, too, because I didn't much fancy the idea of having to choose between favouring my cousin and the weirdly-spoken twenty-year old who liked to talk to me about plants. He was a pretty solid bloke, actually; I doubted anyone would have found much to object to about him. I liked him even more because he didn't push for backbreaking studying regimes. That and because he really actually helped me. I knew I'd been falling behind a bit simply because I didn't have the structure and direction of a teacher. Benji remedied that.

But there was one extra element about Benji's approach that I appreciated more than anything else. He liked plants a lot, if not quite to the degree that I did. But even so, even lacking in quite the same enthusiasm, he recognised my passion and worked with it. I thought Mum was a bit dubious as to the sheer amount of time we spent on Herbology, with every hour of other subjects we'd spend another solely discussing plants, but she let it slide when I supplied evidence of my adequate homework completion. She didn't even object when we started up a little project of our own; quite the contrary, actually. When Benji and I first started cultivating a little garden out the back of Godric's Hollow, within a week Mum was on her knees and digging in the dirt alongside us.

Even James – who had kept to his word to spend as much time at home as possible, despite the fact that we quickly descended to the laid-back and often disregarding attitude of brothers within a week – chipped in to help. Or at least he did until I turfed him out of my growing sanctuary. He had about as much of a green thumb as a coal mine and I suspected was solely responsible for squashing the first of the Gardengem sprouts. He withdrew to sit on the back veranda or soar his broom around lazily overhead, calling out very unhelpful suggestions like "you should grow an apple tree so I can eat them" or "put in a Devil's Snare; it'll be a bout of nostalgia for Dad". The loveable idiot.

I'd attempted over the years to start such a garden – exotics, natives, edible herbs, the whole kit and caboodle – but my attempts had always fallen through when the plants became neglected upon my return to school. It wasn't really Mum or Dad's fault. They shouldn't have to be responsible for them and usually just forgot to keep an eye on things when I was away.

Now, though, in what Benji called 'a brief break from rigorous studies', I was able to work on the little crop and actually maintain it. It was the perfect time of year for it, with spring just creeping into an early summer, and the three of us made use of the sunshine. Within weeks, the soil had been churned, seeds planted and sprouts and saplings translocated, and the beginnings of my own little paradise sprung to life.

From Dittany to Flutterby Bush, Puffapod and Leaping Toadstools, the backyard of our house became a Garden of Eden for magical plants, many offered by Neville when he heard of and expressed delight for the entire endeavour. Not only that, though, but I suggested the addition of a number of other useful and beautiful – or simply interesting – leafy residents. Ground Ivy that was still used to cure persistent coughs and fevers. A little bit of primrose because it's pretty. Foxglove – even though Mum worried about its potentially poisonous properties – and rosemary. Chamomile for the tea that Lily likes, and a whole sea of vivid geraniums interspersed with dill, clover, violets and silverleaf. Even a good hunk of nettle to make some medicinal soups. Mum also suggested spearmint, but I vehemently expressed my dissention over the thought; I suspected I'd been scarred from anything even vaguely minty these days. Toothpaste almost made me puke.

None of it would have naturally grown together of course. But to me, unnatural as it was, I revelled in the simple art of urging the growth of that which I adored. For the most part, whether it was my care or some element of unseen magic involved, they flourished.

Scor said it was beautiful. Not at first, of course – it looked kind of flat, brown and boring before anything actually sprouted and flowered – but it didn't take long for the blossoms and greenery to splatter across the yard like water colours streaking canvas. I thought it was beautiful, but I didn't expect to hear that coming from him. He'd always appreciated plants, at first from the perspective of their usefulness in Potions and later because he said he liked that I liked them, whatever that meant. I'd never really anticipated that he would look upon them and genuinely consider them beautiful, but his sincerity was clear upon his face. He wasn't just saying it for my sake.

Scor – often accompanied by Rhali, Ozzy, Rose and Lily – visited home at least every other day. I never could quite manage to say how much I appreciated that. Even with their own concerns regarding school, with Scor's own situation with his father of which I'd blessedly managed to help him through with the struggle of pulling unyielding teeth, they always came. We actually did study, strange as that may seem considering that Rhali, Ozzy and I were all primary members of our makeshift classes. Yes, we did actually study, although I thought the lesson we all learned the most from it all was how little Rhali and Rose liked each other and how lacking in artistic flair Ozzy's doodles are.

Scor visited on Tuesdays and Thursdays by himself, though, as well as accompanying me to Sahra's support group. After the first few times, I felt the need to tell him that he didn't have to come – I didn't want him to feel like he had to, after all.

Scor just stared at me. His face was blank, completely expressionless, and he just stared. He didn't even blink.

I fidgeted under his gaze, shifting in my seat so that it scraped slightly on the veranda's floorboards. "What?"

Very slowly, Scor leant towards me so that he was nearly more in my chair than his own. "Al. Do you not want me to come with you?"

I bit back a snort. Did I not –? Of course I wanted him to come. Maybe I'd been nervous about it at first, but the fact that Scor accompanied me was one of the main reasons I returned for that second meeting at all. He'd bent the truth a little regarding our circumstances, yes, and the support group likely assumed that he had as much of a problem as I did. Or as much of a problem as any witch or wizard could get from drugs as there was a pretty easy and widely used Anti-Addiction Charm that could be cast upon anything bought or self-produced that everyone but the most stupid would use.

I shook my head, dropping my gaze. "No, it's not that I don't want you to come. It's just that I figure you've got more than enough on your plate…"

I trailed off, my thoughts turning towards Scor's cyclical melancholy that had only just begun to lift after weeks of brooding. I could entirely understand why he was veering towards a slight depression; Scor had always been one to take his time to consider a decision, and the impulsiveness of his actions with his dad were likely weighing heavily upon his shoulders. He didn't say as much – I'd basically had to trick the admission out of him – but I suspected he was on the verge of regretting his words to his dad if he didn't already. He was getting a bit better, coming to terms with it a little, and I thought he'd probably be happy that he made the decision when the regret faded a little. I'd never been one to push him into doing anything when he felt absolutely committed to following another direction, but I knew he was passionate about Potions and that in general I assumed life would be a lot for anyone to work in a field they thoroughly enjoyed. But I knew Scor had to come to that realisation for himself. I could only help him where possible, offer support my often threadbare support, and remain as positive about the entire situation as humanely possible.

And bake. We'd baked a lot of muffins over the last few weeks. Scor certainly had a knack for it, though his measuring was still a little bit obsessively precise.

I felt sort of guilty that Scor was spending time coming to a support group that he didn't need to attend when he could be studying. I knew he was actually falling into the pleasure of studying for the love of it – or reading up on Potions – because, hell, he should know about as much about it as possible if he's going to work in the field, right? He could even spend his time baking since he seemed to find it somewhat therapeutic. But no; instead he spent a solid two hours with me every support group afternoon discussing how to handle compulsive behaviours, how to deal with anxiety and depression, and how to learn to use and rely upon a support network to ensure that the road to recovery would remain firmly underfoot.

"Albus."

The use of my full name drew my full attention back to Scor. I blinked at him in surprise. I couldn't remember the last time he'd called me anything but Al. The note of exasperated reprimand in his voice told me where he'd gotten the notion from, though. It was exactly the same tone Mum had spoken to me last Tuesday when I'd forgotten to tell her that Scor loathed anything with seafood in it with a passion – I don't know why, he just did. Suffice it to say that her curried fish stew was wasted on him, despite the fact that he made a valiant attempt at not throwing it up all over the dinner table. Even the slightly hooded cast to his expression mirrored Mum's.

"Are you by any chance thinking I shouldn't come because I have something better to be doing?"

Forcing my own exasperated and definitely not guiltily cringing expression onto my face, I folded my arms across my chest and leant back in my chair. "Well, don't you?"

Scor stared at me with a flat expression for a moment longer. Then he sighed and shifted further in his seat until he was close enough to wrap an arm around my shoulders and draw me into him. He pressed a kiss to the side of my forehead in that way that he did – a way I absolutely loved but would never openly admit because that was just a little pathetic – then swept his lips to my ear. "You know, I don't think there could be anything more important to me than coming with you. And unless you truly don't want me to come then I fully intent to tag along to every single one of those groups."

I was glad he didn't turn from the side of my head, because had he done so he surely would have noticed the dopey, foolish smile threatening to spread across my face.

The support groups were actually great. After the first few sessions – okay, more than a few – where I had a distinct difficulty speaking, they smoothed out a little. But even before that I found them beneficial; simply the idea that I wasn't alone in my situation was oddly comforting. And the atmosphere… it was weird, yet fantastically so. Everyone, parents, supporter and recovering alike, were all relaxed and largely comfortable with one another. They were actually really friendly.

We kept it strictly anonymous and contained to the group session. Or at least that was the intention. Apparently some of the other young people – Jules and the boy who always sat next to her, Sean – had met one another at Sahra's groups and had become fast friends. Possibly more than friends, I suspected, but that's just simple speculation. Yet they weren't the only ones that appeared solid friends with one another; everyone spoke on a companionable level and despite the supposed anonymity were largely open towards one another.

Which was how I came to realise that I actually recognised a few of them.

Wizarding Britain wasn't all that large. More than that, just about every kid in the UK undergoes their formal education at Hogwarts. Well, at Hogwarts or Mennymex in southern Ireland, but that's barely more than a home study educational system that meets on a non-compulsory basis three times a week. It wasn't really even a school, despite being acknowledged as such. So, truth be told, I should have expected to meet at least some fellow students.

Most of them were older than me, so those that I did recognise had already graduated. Paolo had been a Slytherin three years ago, and Francesca a Ravenclaw. The squat, quiet boy, Jimmy – whose resemblance to James ended with the name – graduated from Gryffindor two years ago, and Hart was a Hufflepuff that I vaguely remembered as being about five years older than me. Everyone else that was older were largely unrecognisable save for the occasional flash of distant memory that slipped through my fingers when I tried to grasp it. As for the three who were younger… well, I didn't recognise the other boy, Tyler, that was about my age, and sixteen year old Grayson was one of those from Mennymex. The girl, though, the one I'd recognised as being twitchy and silent in my first session, I vaguely recalled. Evie, her name was, and she looked and acted like a rabbit amidst a pack of wolves.

Far be it from that acknowledgment and recognition driving a wedge between myself and my fellows, I actually found it sort of soothing. More so for the fact that they obviously all saw it in me too, and that they didn't say anything or seem deterred by that recognition was comforting. It made my own situation, with the knock-on fame of my dad's renown, that much less of an issue.

Sahra was fantastic. That easy-going nature of hers, the gentle familiarity and coaxing but not pressuring to speak and be included, was a very definite point in her favour. Jazber was like her little prodigy and sat in on the sessions more often than not; he mostly just listened, but when he spoke up it was with the same gentle kindness of Sahra, who it turned out was actually his aunt. They bounced off each other quite well, actually. It made me wonder how long they'd been running the support group for together.

Yes, I learned a lot. I learnt that it was okay to be anxious as long as I strove not to let it consume me. I learnt that even if it did overwhelm me at times that it was okay, that I hadn't failed and that it just meant I had to pick myself up and try again next time. I learnt coping mechanisms other than the simple act of concentrating on my breathing, and was encouraged to voice my difficulties to those I trusted and who could offer me support.

Because those chosen few, the blessed family and friends who stood by me, they were the ones who would truly aid my recovery.

I did feel like I was recovering. There was no active change, not that I could deduce, but I felt better. When the unnerving effects of the Maintenance Draught became familiar, when my tendency to drop out of conversations with a yawn and drooping eyes faded, I felt… better. Yes, there was still an urge to use Harproot; not a compulsive urge, but sometimes, when the muffled feelings of stress and nervousness lingered enduringly and exhaustingly, I longed for the musky scent that would wash it all away. It just seemed so much easier than trying to battle it myself, to gain a hold of it.

But I didn't. Not only because I couldn't – I didn't even have what remained of my Harproot in my possession and despite Scor's confession, his beautiful, wonderful revelation, I didn't have access to it – but because I wouldn't. Even in the midst of my regretful pondering, the memory of the years prior when I'd simply plucked a leaf from the mottled plant and sparked it alight with Icefyre, I wouldn't start it again. I wouldn't.

I was getting better. Or I would get better. That much I knew. Even if it took me years. I'd learned a hard lesson from my foolish mistake, even though mistake it was and that it used a drug that wasn't mine – not to mention involving the fool-hardy mixing of drugs of unknown properties. I wouldn't be doing so again. I couldn't. I couldn't do that to my family, to my friends. To Scor.

So I worked through it.

And when the final weeks of the year drifted around the corner, when the looming, ominous presence of the N.E.W.T exams scaled the horizon, I felt prepared. Nervous, certainly, and to an almost debilitating degree, but I was ready.

Or at least as ready as I would ever be.

A/N: Thanks for reading again! And once again, thank you LittleBrawley and BuzzyBeeForever for commenting. Both of your reviews are so eloquent and absolutely lovely! Thank you so much!